Gospel Story Finder

When Kate Hansen was 10 her father drove her to Slider Search, a local clinic being held for kids to try out for luge. “I tell people that luge is like bobsledding,” says Kate. “At the clinic, they set up hay bales and cones on the street and then let the kids ride a trainer sled with wheels down the course. I went through the cones without crashing. I remember it being really fun. Plus they wanted to see how well I took direction.”
As a result of the clinic, both Kate and her cousin were invited to come to Lake Placid, New York, where the national luge training facility is located. The first time Kate tried out a real sled on an ice course, she loved it. It was fast and fun. “It’s like a roller coaster but pretty relaxing. It’s very flowing.”
The whole idea that riding something going so fast, just inches from crashing into walls of ice, would hardly seem relaxing to most people. But this ability to relax while moving has been the secret to Kate’s success.
Her mother, Kathie, remembers seeing her go down a run for the first time. She says, “It’s nerve-racking when you watch your daughter go by, and she’s going so fast. I wondered, ‘What have we gotten into?’ The coaches don’t know how she does it. She can have a bad start, but as soon as she is through the first curve, she’s leading everyone because she’s settling in and relaxing and just feeling the curves.”
Her mother thinks the ability to relax might come from Kate’s skateboarding and surfing, two popular activities in La Cañada, California, where the Hansen family lives. “Kate used to lay down on her skateboard, going down the driveway with her ponytail dragging.”
While learning this new sport, Kate says, “I was just the girl from California who had her ukulele. Before races some people warm up by sitting in the corner, staying really focused. Others zone everyone out. Then there are those who listen to music and dance. I was one who danced and sang, trying to keep my mind off of what I was doing. That’s when I did well. I was just there for fun.”
Each year at the USA training facility, Kate is given a sled for the season. Last year she named her sled Ricardo—Ricky for short. “It’s your baby,” says Kate. “You take care of it.”
The sled is built to her size and can be adjusted slightly. “My sled is a lot different. I like it loose because it’s easier to steer. I did really well on it.” Kate does everything for her sled. She sands the steel runners. After races she puts oil on the steels so they won’t rust. She packs it carefully when traveling. “If you drop Ricky, you have to apologize,” she jokes.
Kate Hansen and her family haven’t had a real plan for her participation in luge. They seem to take and evaluate opportunities as they come. Heidi, Kate’s older sister, explains, “My brothers and I thought it was funny because she was luging, and no one really knows what that is. We thought she would only do it for a while, but then she would do well and get invited to train or to be on teams, so our family would say, ‘I guess she’ll move up.’”
Eventually Kate started to get noticed. In her first junior international competition at the junior level, she came in third, shocking everyone because she was so young and inexperienced. A few months later, at 15, she came in first at the Junior World Championship. She was only the third American to ever win. She now spends most of the winter months living with the team in Europe and competing on the Junior World Cup Tour. Her name has started rising to the top.
With the upcoming 2010 Winter Olympics, Kate will be invited to participate in the Olympic trials. There are only three slots on the team, and most of the competitors are much older. Kate finished sixth overall at the end of last season and looks forward to competing for a spot on the team. Whether she makes it or not, Kate has had fun participating and succeeding in luge, but it will not become the only focus in her life.
Kate’s mom and dad worry about their daughter’s keeping the right balance. “Mom didn’t want me to miss out on high school,” says Kate.
Kate is involved in school activities when she is home and maintains excellent grades. “Our goal is that she is going to college,” says her mother. “And her seminary teacher, Sister Frandsen, is kind enough to digitally record seminary every morning. We then e-mail the seminary recordings to Kate each week so she can listen to the classes. It is one of her spiritual foundations and a link to home when she is on the road.”
To help focus her goals, Kate has received her patriarchal blessing. In her blessing she was told that she would be watched by many people and would have missionary opportunities come to her.
Even so, Kate faces some hard situations when it comes to the party atmosphere that accompanies sports. It seems that drinking can become a stumbling point, especially when the team goes to Europe to compete. “After races, it’s party time. Everyone I met would drink. At first, I felt like the loner in the hotel. But I got over that feeling. My teammates knew better than to ask me to drink with them. After I won the worlds, my competitors would say, ‘Kate, you have to drink tonight.’ But I’d say no. My teammates would say, ‘No, she doesn’t drink. Don’t even ask.’”
Having a strong testimony is the bottom line for Kate. She is always excited to go to young women camp and youth conference with her stake. When asked about her favorite scripture, Kate mentions an experience she had while attending Especially for Youth. She hadn’t planned to bear her testimony, but then she had a feeling that someone there needed to hear what she had to say. She had been reading in her scriptures and had come upon Mosiah 8:18: “Thus God has provided a means that man, through faith, might work mighty miracles; therefore he becometh a great benefit to his fellow beings.”
Kate says, “I stood up and talked about my patriarchal blessing where it says I would be an example to others and people would be watching me. Now it’s my favorite scripture because it came as an answer to me.”
It seems that people are indeed watching Kate and what she chooses to do. At the end of the season, two of her teammates said they had stopped drinking because of her. “It was the biggest reward I have ever received,” says Kate.

Arthur Parker walked and walked and walked. Even though he was only six years old, he sometimes helped his mother and father pull their loaded handcart. When everybody stopped to rest, he liked to explore. He wandered around to see other people, the prairie grass, a stream, or a grove of trees.
Arthur had one brother and two sisters: Max, 12; Martha Ann, 10; and Ada, 1. The Parkers had sailed from England to America that spring. Now they were traveling west with the McArthur Handcart Company. As Max helped his parents pull the handcart, Martha Ann walked behind, taking care of Arthur and Ada.
But one day Arthur’s father became ill. Martha Ann took his place helping to pull the handcart and sent Arthur to walk with a group of other children in the company. When Arthur sat down to rest beside the trail and fell asleep, the other children didn’t notice. The company moved on without him.
By the time Arthur’s family discovered that he was missing, it was too late and too dark to go looking for him. That night, the cloudy sky burst open. Thunder and lightning raged, and many tents blew over. Water ran across the ground in streams as people huddled in wet clothes. All night long, the Parkers worried about Arthur, lost out in the stormy darkness. They hoped somebody would bring him to their tent, but no one did.
The next morning, search parties went back along the trail to look for Arthur. The handcarts stayed camped all day so the searchers could continue looking. Where was the little boy? Was he hurt in the thunderstorm?
After searching for two days, the company could not wait any longer. They had more than a thousand miles left to go.
Arthur’s parents didn’t give up hope. They decided that Brother Parker would go farther back along the trail to look for Arthur, while Sister Parker and the other children would stay with the company and pull the handcart.
Before Brother Parker left, his wife pinned a bright red shawl around his shoulders. If he found Arthur dead, he would wrap him in the shawl. But if he found Arthur alive, he would wear the shawl on his shoulders or hold it in his hand to signal that Arthur was all right.
The worried father retraced the trail—calling Arthur’s name, searching everywhere he could, and praying. He walked and searched for 10 miles, determined not to leave without finding his son.
Meanwhile, the handcart company moved ahead. Two days went by. Sister Parker kept looking back anxiously, hoping to see her husband and son catching up with them.
At last, Brother Parker came to a mail-and-trading station. He asked if anyone had seen a lost six-year-old boy. Someone said that a boy had been found! He was being cared for by a farmer and his wife. Arthur’s father went to the farmhouse and found his son. How glad they were to see each other!
Arthur told his father that he had spent the first night under some trees, which protected him from the rainstorm. Then he had wandered until he came to the farmhouse. Brother Parker figured out that Arthur had walked about nine miles!
The handcart company was now 60 miles past where Arthur had disappeared. Arthur had been missing for four days, and his mother had hardly slept at all since then. She kept watching the trail behind her, looking for her husband, hoping he would be waving the red shawl.
A few days later, as the sun was setting, she suddenly spotted the red shawl waving in the distance. Arthur was alive! Captain McArthur sent a wagon back to meet the father and son. Everyone in the company rejoiced to see Arthur, but no one felt as happy as his mother. Completely exhausted, she slept soundly for the first time in days.
The Parkers continued on their journey. Arthur kept walking, singing, and exploring—but he stayed a little closer to his parents. Each night, they hugged him a little tighter.

Elder Michael A. Dunn’s parents divorced when he was a small child, but as his mother raised him, she instilled in him strong faith and values. After attending a private Episcopal school in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, he transferred to a public high school, where he met members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
As his new friends and their parents welcomed him with open arms, Michael desired to learn about the Church. Eventually he decided to meet with the missionaries. Their teachings about the Godhead and Joseph Smith’s First Vision “landed in me with real power,” he said.
Through prayer he knew the gospel was true and was baptized during his senior year of high school. Since then, Elder Dunn has been “nurtured by a string of incredible leaders.”

I had another choice experience with impelling revelation a few months after I began my service at BYU. As a new and inexperienced president, I had many problems to analyze and many decisions to reach. I was very dependent on the Lord. One day in October, I drove up Provo Canyon to ponder a particular problem. Although alone and without any interruption, I found myself unable to think of the problem at hand. Another pending issue I was not yet ready to consider kept thrusting itself into my mind: Should we modify BYU’s academic calendar to complete the Fall Semester before Christmas? After ten or fifteen minutes of unsuccessful efforts to exclude thoughts of this subject, I finally realized what was happening. The issue of the calendar did not seem timely to me, and I was certainly not seeking any guidance on it, but the Spirit was trying to communicate with me on that subject. I immediately turned my full attention to that question and began to record my thoughts on a piece of paper. Within a few minutes, I had recorded the details of a three-semester calendar, with all of its powerful advantages. Hurrying back to the campus, I reviewed it with my colleagues and found them enthusiastic. A few days later the Board of Trustees approved our proposed new calendar, and we published its dates, barely in time to make them effective in the fall of 1972. Since that time, I have reread these words of the Prophet Joseph Smith and realized that I had the experience he described:

A person may profit by noticing the first intimation of the spirit of revelation; for instance, when you feel pure intelligence flowing into you, it may give you sudden strokes of ideas . . . and thus by learning the Spirit of God and understanding it, you may grow into the principle of revelation. [Teachings, p. 151]

Thomas B. Marsh ran away from home in New Hampshire at age 14. He worked as a farm laborer in Vermont; as a waiter in Albany, New York; at a hotel in New York City; then as a servant on Long Island. His circumstances were unstable until he met and married Elizabeth Godkin.
He and Elizabeth were eventually led by the Spirit to western New York. There, they heard about the Book of Mormon. Thomas saw copies of the first 16 pages as they came off the press, and the printer allowed him to read the proof sheet. Believing the book to be of God, Thomas chose to join the Church. He was baptized on September 3, 1830.3
Thomas preached the gospel in various areas. He endured tribulation when the Saints were ejected from Jackson County, Missouri, in November 1833. He was an original member of the Missouri high council when it was organized in July 1834. After his calling as an Apostle at age 34, he served as President of the Quorum of the Twelve. Though he had earnestly defended Joseph Smith against dissenters in the past, Thomas himself eventually became disillusioned. In 1838 he chose to leave the Church.4
From Thomas Marsh we can learn that unstable circumstances don’t need to keep us from the blessings of the gospel—or from blessing the lives of others.

My name is Matilda, and I am from Chile. Ever since moving to another country, other kids have made me notice that I am different from them. They have laughed at my curly hair, the color of my eyes, my eyebrows, and even the color of my skin. They have called me ugly and weird and even told me that I am poor because I look different than everyone else.
My mom has taught me to respond to bullying with a smile. She says many times that people who bully are sad or are living with something that hurts them. She has also taught me that it’s not my fault, and being different is something good and wonderful. God created different kinds of things in the world like different plants, places, and people. It doesn’t matter how we look as long as we have a good heart.
Since my mom taught me that, every time I get bullied, I think about it and talk to the person who is saying bad things. I try to stop the situation. Once I told a classmate that saying bad things about others can hurt a lot. I said that he doesn’t know what happens to others in their hearts when they hear bad things about themselves for being different. Since that day, that classmate hasn’t made fun of me anymore, and now we are friends.
I think the way my mom taught me to fight bullying is the best way. She taught me to fight bullying with love, as God would do it. I try to always ask myself, “What would Jesus Christ do in this situation?” This has helped me come closer to our Heavenly Father.

A while back I became so focused on what others thought of me, I began to do things I knew I shouldn’t to show that I could be cool. I even considered leaving the Church—not because I had stopped believing in the gospel of Jesus Christ, but because I had such a guilty conscience. Fortunately, I realized I would be giving away my eternal, spiritual joy for a shorter, make-believe joy.
Because of support and lots of love from my friends in the Church, I got my thoughts in order and began a hard and painful period of repentance. I am so grateful my friends never left my side. This experience helped me realize Heavenly Father loves me and will help me.

Before each game at BYU the captains of the two teams meet at the center circle with the referees and go through a meaningless ritual where nothing of real significance is said. But on the day we played Notre Dame, a referee friend of mine said something during that meeting that really hit home with me. He said, “Men, we referees are going to work hard tonight. We’re going to make some mistakes, but you work hard too.”
I remembered his words, and the game began. During the last few minutes, I went up for a rebound, and a bigger Notre Dame player knocked me to the floor. As I lay there, I looked up, and the referee pointed down and indicated that the foul was on me. Surprised at his decision. I got up off the floor. I smiled at the referee and said, “You know, you were right in what you said before the game.”
He looked at me with a puzzled expression. I continued, “You said you were going to make some mistakes tonight, and you just made a big one.” We looked at each other, and we both had a good laugh and continued to play.

Not far removed from the pioneer era, Joseph also learned early the value of working hard and paying his own way. As a child, he hired out to work in a tomato cannery in Roy during the fall months, spending much of the year herding cattle and staying up all night to irrigate the family farm. With his dog and horse, he became an expert cowboy at an early age, riding without a saddle and racing his friends on an old pony. Joseph survived many falls from his pony to graduate from a one-room school at thirteen. He learned his letters well and, when a young child, served as secretary of his ward Primary.

While Papa was getting his land ready, I was preparing a little plot close to the house to plant the seeds I had brought. I was digging with the spade one day when he came in from the field for dinner. “What are you making, Dora?” he asked.
“My garden,” I said.
“What are you going to plant?”
“Beans and watermelon. I brought the seeds from Utah in my box.”
“What a good thing to bring! That makes them very special seeds. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to them if they came clear from Salt Lake. I’ll help you build a fence around your garden to keep out the cows and chickens.”
After I had finished my garden, Ed and I decided to fix one for our Indian grandma. We kept it watered and weeded, and she enjoyed coming outside to watch it grow, as well as for the tasty addition of fresh vegetables to her diet.

The Lord is constantly dealing with his children in terms of their needs, not their wants. This is pretty hard doctrine for any of us, and it was especially hard for our teenage daughter. Being elected to a leadership position at her high school seemed to be the most important need of her life. She had worked and prepared for several months. “Oh, Mother, I’m praying so hard to win. The Lord says you can ask for any righteous desire of your heart and this is mine.” It seemed a reasonable request to us too. She had a testimony of the gospel and was socially popular in a large high school. We thought she would be a good influence for the Church.
When the voting time finally arrived, it seemed certain that she would be one of the winners. She was absolutely crushed when she lost! It was only by a few votes—but she lost!
The very next month she was asked to be one of the high school seminary officers. All of the seminary council had made personal sacrifices to serve. The seminary president had been asked to give up running for student body president; this was a hard decision for him. They said they really needed our daughter’s creativity and missionary talents to attract people, and this year was a very important one for the growth and development of the seminary program.
That year she had many spiritual experiences. She developed deep, meaningful friendships and was helpful in bringing several people into Church activity.
Later she told me that she gradually came to an understanding of herself through prayer and study of the scriptures. “I wanted to win that election more than anything else, but the Lord knew I needed this other experience more. I needed more spiritual growth. It was a hard experience, but I know in my heart it was right.”

Suellen (Su) Moraes is a member of the Church and a third-year student at Birmingham City University. She applied to the ParliaMentors programme after she followed a link sent to her by her stake president via a young adult group chat.
Su has been recognised as an outstanding ParliaMentors student, and Sister Tracey Prior and ParliaMentors Programme organiser, Ben Shapiro, wanted to show appreciation for her involvement.
Su, and three other students studying at Birmingham City University, knew that there were homeless people in the city. During the coronavirus pandemic, they recognised that homelessness would be a greater challenge.
At first, they wanted to collect supplies to give to the homeless, but this wasn’t possible with no one on campus. They kept looking for ways to help, however, and explored the matter through networking.
Su reconnected with a friend who worked with her a few years earlier. She discovered his passion for politics and was amazed at his desire to do meaningful work. That’s when she felt prompted to mention the homeless project. Her friend was able to link Su’s group to a company certified in construction-industry training. She was told that if the group had homeless people. they would train them free of charge.
Su then went back to her group to get their thoughts on the construction-industry training opportunity.
The construction-training opportunity is a huge success, and Su’s group are pleased with their efforts. They said that giving the homeless in their areas skills would help them in the long run.
Now Su’s group is working with homeless charities to refer individuals to them so they can liaise with the construction company to enrol the candidates into courses.
Ben is very impressed with their efforts, mostly because networking was in socially distanced ways, primarily online.
Sister Prior congratulated Su, saying she was “changing someone’s future, not just today.”
Su’s group is continuing its referral project, even after graduation, to help homeless people to be trained for careers. They started a society at their university, and they hope it will continue with other ParliaMentors participants.

So that he could learn all the words by heart, Spencer W. Kimball practiced the hymns even while he milked cows. When a Church leader suggested that everyone read the scriptures, Spencer realized that he had never read the Bible. That very night he set a goal to read it from cover to cover. He lighted a little coal-oil lamp and began to read. He read a little every night. One year later, he had completed his goal.

“We’re finally here. There is the stone house by the wharf,” Hilda’s father called.
“At last,” her mother sighed. “How good it will be to set foot on dry land again.”
Slowly the ship moved toward the shore. How many days, wondered Hilda, have we traveled up the river from New Orleans?
Soon many people were bustling up and down the gangplank that the sailors had lowered as a bridge between the ship and the wharf.
“Look, Mother,” Hilda called. “There goes Father. He’s carrying our rocking chair down the gangplank.”
When all their belongings had been unloaded, Hilda and her mother walked off the ship and onto land. Father had their belongings piled on a wagon. He helped Hilda and Mother climb onto the wagon seat, and then the three of them rode down the main street of Nauvoo. They rode slowly past the brick homes already completed and other homes being built.
Soon the Larson family reached the outskirts of Nauvoo. Halfway down a narrow lane where weeds grew, Father stopped the horse. They were in front of a small log cabin.
“Is this the home Brother Cox said we could use?” Mother asked as if she could not believe it.
Father stepped from the wagon and reached up to help Hilda down. “Yes,” he answered. “Brother Cox will be in England on his mission through the winter. By next summer we’ll have a home of our own.”
Hilda slowly followed her mother across a dirt yard to the cabin. They stepped through the doorway.
The room was small, about twenty steps in each direction. There was a fireplace on one wall, and two walls had single windows.
Hilda wrinkled up her nose at the smell of the damp earth floor mingled with the odor of old rags used to stuff the cracks.
“Well,” Mother sighed as she took off her shawl, “we must get busy and move our things inside. At least it will be good to have a roof over our heads.”
But sometimes during the winter that followed Hilda thought they would be almost as well off without a roof at all. On wet days it leaked, and icy drops of water often fell on Hilda’s face while she lay sleeping. When she sat before the fireplace, drops sometimes trickled down her neck. The cabin was seldom warm. There were no cupboards; a wooden chest was their table. Hilda’s bed was made on a board placed on the floor.
Father found work in the stone quarry, but on every tenth day he helped build the temple.
Hilda and her mother twisted cotton in wicks to sell to a local candle factory, and Mother sometimes helped a milliner make hats. So the Larsons kept busy throughout the long winter.
Finally spring came. Birds sang in the locust trees. Hilda saw lilac bushes begin to bloom, and bright yellow daffodils dotted the fields.
One morning Hilda’s mother said, “We’ve finished a bundle of wicks. Will you please take it to the factory?”
Hilda was glad for a walk in the warm spring sunshine.
Mother gave her the bundle of wicks and another package pinned tightly together. “Give this package to Mr. Lindgren, the shoemaker, after you deliver the wicks,” Mother told Hilda. “His shop is on the corner of Mulholland Street.”
Hilda asked what was in the package. Mother only smiled. “Mr. Lindgren will know,” she said.
When Hilda reached the candle factory, a plump lady took the wicks and counted them. “You and your mother have earned seventy-four cents,” she said.
Hilda left the factory and walked to Mr. Lindgren’s shop. Inside the long narrow building Hilda could smell new lumber. On a board plank near the door were finished shoes, heavy boots for men, and sturdy shoes for children. A beautiful pair of soft kid shoes caught Hilda’s attention. What girl in Nauvoo will be lucky enough to own those beautiful shoes? she wondered.
“Is that package for me?” Mr. Lindgren asked.
Hilda nodded. “I have one for your mother too,” he said. Mr. Lindgren handed Hilda a plain square box. “Be careful with it,” he cautioned.
Mother was waiting when Hilda reached the cabin. Hilda gave her the money she had received for the wicks, and then she held out the box. But Mother shook her head and told Hilda to keep it.
“I made a hat for Mr. Lindgren’s wife,” she explained, “and in exchange he made me something to give to you, Hilda, because you’ve been such a great help to me.”
Quickly Hilda opened the box. Inside was a pair of beautiful kid shoes just like the ones she had seen in Mr. Lindgren’s shop!
Hilda carefully took the shoes from the box. She could hardly believe they were for her.
“Oh, thank you, Mother!” she exclaimed, her eyes bright with love and happiness.
Hilda knew that she would have other shoes in her life, but she was sure that she would never again have shoes that could make her as happy as this beautiful pair!

Oh, no! That word jumped off the page at me, and the awareness of everything else in the classroom setting faded away. Our excellent, but no-nonsense, speech teacher had just assigned reading parts to the class and handed out the script. Quickly scanning the first page, I screeched to a stop when I hit that word!
You see, I knew that Connie had been assigned to read that line. With few exceptions, almost any one in the class could have read that profane word without any personal concern. But I knew Connie. I knew of her high standards in every area of her life and of her integrity in maintaining those standards with no compromise. She just exemplified purity and freshness and happiness. Clean thoughts and language were carefully guarded. Now suddenly she was expected to violate that standard by a teacher who saw nothing wrong at all with such language. The script was already being read aloud, and I wondered what she would do. Then it was time for Connie’s part.
“Oh, PUMPKIN!” she thundered! The startled class suddenly broke out in good-natured laughter. Our teacher looked up quickly from her paper with a surprised expression and momentarily studied Connie. Slowly a smile was born and then grew into full bloom as she realized that Connie wasn’t after attention or just trying to be funny. But Connie simply continued reading her part as though nothing unusual had happened.

When Robert L. Backman was 12 years old, his father was called to be president of the South African Mission. Young Robert soon found himself living in Capetown and attending Rondebosch High School, a very strict English prep school. “The first weeks of school were a difficult time for me. I was strictly a minority and felt like a curiosity. I cried myself to sleep at night more than once, particularly when missionaries I had come to love went home. I wanted to go home with them.”
At school, Robert was indeed something of a curiosity. “Everybody wanted to hear me speak, so at recess they’d gather around me and try to provoke me into conversation, and then they’d try to mimic my accent.” Appalled at his student’s barbarous American twang, one cultured British teacher undertook to reform Robert’s speech. “Martha came down the garden path carrying a large basket of tomatoes,” he would intone in his most cultured diction, each vowel floating heavenward like a balloon. Then the young American would deliberately repeat the phrase with a Yankee accent so heavy that the good professor would shake with anguish. “He’d slam his ruler down on the desk he was so angry. We had a contest. I was just as stubborn as he was and bound and determined he wasn’t going to break me of my accent. He never did.”
To make matters worse, many of the parents of students didn’t want their children becoming too friendly with this young foreigner who might not only corrupt their speech but, since he was a Mormon, might undermine their morals as well. To a boy that age, belonging is very important, and so all this was difficult to accept.
There was another problem. After the easygoing pace of schoolwork in the United States, Rondebosch was academically tough. Robert studied English, French, Latin, math, chemistry, physics, and a couple of history courses all in the same term, attending school from 8:00 till 4:00 five days a week and till 1:00 on Saturday. And every night there was a crushing load of homework.
Discipline was also strict. Once a young school fellow made a remark that Robert took exception to, and a fight ensued. The two antagonists were ushered into the office of the headmaster, who politely asked them to please touch their toes. “He then pulled out a bamboo rod with a little steel tube right up the middle of it and gave us six good ones across our bottoms to teach us not to fight.”
But while the first weeks went badly at school, Robert turned more to the Lord and his religious faith for support, performing his duties as a deacon with great pride. His young faith grew strong. “I don’t think I’ve ever doubted. I’ve questioned. I’ve been exposed to a lot of other philosophies in my schooling, but I’ve never really had any doubt. I have always believed that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I’ve never had any question about the Savior and his mission, his death and resurrection. I suppose that part of that is due to my exposure to the missionaries quite early in my life. They buttressed me during those traumatic years when one ordinarily might be having some of those real doubts.”
And so, gradually, an unhappy situation became a happy one. “I got used to it and won my way, as youngsters usually do, and I ended up playing some rugby on the junior squads and made friends at the school and began enjoying myself.” Even the heavy academic demands turned out to be a blessing. “It was really a good discipline to my life and set me in some study patterns that have been of great benefit to me ever since.” And though it must have seemed merely a question of survival to young Robert at the time, it was a battle won, and his spiritual strength increased.

Then, suddenly, Pedrito became ill again. His temperature was dangerously high, and his parents took him back to Guayaquil. The doctors told them that he would have to remain in the hospital at least five days. They also told the Cantos that if Pedrito were to live, he would have to undergo open-heart surgery right away.

But to everyone’s surprise, Pedrito was well enough to leave the hospital the next day.

Back in Quevedo, the welfare services missionaries helped the Cantos apply for help with the cost of the surgery. The doctors told the Cantos that they would have to go to the United States or Brazil for the surgery. But a member of the Church, who had recently had a family member operated on for a similar problem, told them about another doctor—Dr. Oswald Bonilla, a heart specialist in nearby Quito.

Although his calendar was full for several months, Dr. Bonilla agreed to see Pedrito in two weeks. But complications kept Dr. Bonilla from seeing Pedrito immediately. Sister Cantos had been taking a tailoring class so that she could earn money to help pay some of their medical bills. As the day for the appointment with Dr. Bonilla approached, she learned that her final examination was scheduled for the same day.

Dr. Bonilla graciously postponed the appointment for another two weeks. This time, a bus strike kept them from meeting with him. Finally, after six weeks, they stood before Dr. Bonilla.

Electrocardiograms, x-rays, and many other tests revealed that Pedrito was too weak to endure surgery. “It will take at least eight or nine months to build him up sufficiently,” Dr. Bonilla told the worried parents. The doctor ordered another series of tests.

Three days later, just before Pedrito was taken in for the new tests, two young men in white shirts and dark suits told Dr. Bonilla, “We would like to give the child a blessing.” “You have five minutes,” the doctor said, and he left the room.

Later that afternoon he whistled in amazement. The test results showed such a remarkable improvement in Pedrito that Dr. Bonilla decided to schedule the surgery immediately.

“It was worse than we thought,” Dr. Bonilla told the parents and the elders and sisters who had waited with them during the five anguish-filled hours of the surgery. “You keep praying, though, and Pedrito will live.”

Pedrito did live. He recovered rapidly. Soon he was running and playing like any other little boy. And Pedrito’s struggle for life has wrought other miracles. Dr. Bonilla and his assistant, Dr. Lopez, were touched by this display of faith and by the miracle they saw when the elders administered to Pedrito. They decided not to charge for the surgery.

Many of Sister Cantos’s family have accepted the gospel, and members of Brother Cantos’s family are anxiously waiting for the missionaries to come to a remote area where they live so that they, too, can be taught the gospel.

A famous doctor once visited a dejected and despondent old woman. He found that she was alone and separated from the world but that she also had a beautiful greenhouse where she raised African violets. The doctor gave the woman a prescription. She was to subscribe to her church’s newsletter, and whenever there was a baptism, marriage, sickness, or death, she was to send an African violet. Following the doctor’s instructions, the old woman gave away hundreds of potted plants. At her death the newspaper headline read, “The Queen of African Violets Passes Away and Is Mourned by Thousands.” What turned this dejected old woman into someone loved by so many? It was giving to others, not keeping for herself.

Although born and raised in the Church, I went to a Catholic university at the age of seventeen—straight from BYU to Gonzaga University at Spokane, Washington. Every professor of mine was a Jesuit priest, wearing the long black, full-length cassock—every one a Ph.D., and every one a great Christian gentleman. I want it understood, I went there scared to death, the only Latter-day Saint boy on the entire campus. They knew that I was a Latter-day Saint. But they didn’t ridicule my church, or me, and they gave me great strength and support. I came to see them as great spiritual leaders—making tremendous sacrifices in their own lives.

As I walked up the dusty, junk-covered path to an old, decaying shack, I was literally overcome with the hopeless poverty that I saw. The roof of the little house was caved in on one side. The broken windows had been flimsily covered with old newspapers. Broken glass, nails, old cans, and other debris made a drab yard covering. Torn lace curtains hung loosely at the windows, and my eyes caught the sight of soot-covered walls and floors inside. About 15 to 20 cats scampered before me as I walked up the path. As I began knocking on the weather-beaten door, I thought fleetingly of the comfortable life I had grown accustomed to at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, longing momentarily for the security of the campus. But now here I was, a student nurse many kilometers from Provo, not quite sure if I was ready for the challenge that had been given me.
It had all begun several weeks earlier in my public health study class. As part of the course, we were all required to gain practical experience as student nurses. I had planned on working in Salt Lake City, but on our first day, my instructor stated that student nurses were needed to help staff a public health office in a small town. I felt a sudden prodding within myself to volunteer. I tried to stifle it but couldn’t and before long found myself on my way to a new home and new responsibilities.
The day after I arrived, I reported to two registered nurses in the public health office, the only two public health nurses in the entire county. To say that they were busy was an understatement. I saw the files that represented hundreds of cases, all in need of some kind of medical help. With a feeling of fear, I began to realize that there would be no time for detailed observation and learning. I would just have to start to work and hope for the best.
My supervisor assigned me three cases and then, looking at me thoughtfully, said, “I have one more case for you, but I am a little hesitant about it.” She held a thick, yellowed file in her hand.
“This old woman has a severe medical problem, and she refuses all help. She has done so for the past two years, and I am weary of trying to help her. If you feel you would like to try, and promise not to be disappointed if you fail, I will give you this case.” I felt great sympathy for this old woman I had never seen, and I knew I had to try.
Reading her file, I discovered that she was in her late 70’s and had injured her right leg in a crushing accident some years before. No bones had been broken, but vital vessels and muscles had been damaged and mangled. Although treatment had been obtained, circulation to her lower leg was left impaired. Periodically the blood would stagnate, collect waste products, put pressure on surrounding tissue, and thus suffocate or eat away the healthy tissue in the area, causing leg ulcers to form.
This condition had plagued her until she had finally gone to see a doctor. He was a good doctor but had been insensitive and rough. Because of this one unfortunate incident, she became very frightened and resolved never to see another doctor. The physician had not had a chance to complete his treatments, and as a result, her leg had become very painful, infected, and useless. It was covered with large, pus filled ulcers. It drained bright red blood and dead, yellow-black tissue, and the flesh was rotting in places.
The old woman was a recluse, and her only real contact with the rest of the world was through a neighbor girl who was paid to run errands and do shopping. Other people had tried to help, but the old woman was afraid and would not see anyone.
Still, when I went to meet her that first day, I was not really prepared for the ill, bent old woman with long, gray, disheveled hair who hobbled to the door. She barely gave me time to tell her who I was before she ordered me out, declaring that she wanted all the nurses to leave her alone. But I knew that I couldn’t. While at her home I had detected an odor that I had known only once before, but it is something I never forgot. She was developing gangrene.
The supervisor confirmed my diagnosis and wanted me off the case. She told me that the old woman might only live a few weeks, and if she died while a student was on the case, the county attorney might interrogate me, questioning my competency as a nurse. She said she would take over the responsibility now. Somehow I couldn’t accept that the old woman was going to have her life end in such a painful and lonely way. I pleaded with my supervisor for one more week to try, and miraculously she agreed.
The second day the old woman let me in, and we talked about everything but her problem. I went home and cried. I felt sure I would never be able to convince her of her need to seek help.
The third day I visited her again and confronted her with the fact that she was going to die if she did not receive treatment. She didn’t even seem to care, certain that she had nothing to live for.
I returned to my apartment, feeling very discouraged. What could I do when she refused to be helped? I had nowhere to turn except to prayer. I had prayed for her before, but this day my roommate knelt beside me in sincere concern, and together we fervently prayed to the Lord, pleading for wisdom and guidance.
The next few days passed uneventfully. I tried to have faith, and I prayed continually. On the fifth day the answer came. I suddenly knew what to do. No voices, no visions, no suggestions from within or without came to me. I just knew what to do.
I put my plan together and rushed over to the old woman’s home. Her eyes sparkled as I showed her the foaming hydrogen peroxide I had brought with me. She was completely impressed and asked if they would use painless medications and treatments like this one at the hospital. I assured her they would be very careful to make her stay as pleasant as possible. I made a quick visit to the hospital to tell them that this old woman, who had such a great fear of doctors, might soon be coming.
The next day I had to return to Provo for the weekend. I didn’t want to leave her, but it was made easier by a loving and concerned neighbor, the mother of the little girl who brought groceries for the old woman. She was delighted with the change that was beginning in the woman. She promised she would do all she could to help.
When I returned, I found that my elderly friend had had the courage to enter the hospital. The whole county health office was celebrating. I ran to the old woman’s hospital room. Her clean, shining face greeted me with a warm smile. “I came to the hospital. You convinced me,” she said. Then she asked me what church I belonged to. When I replied that I was a Latter-day Saint, she said, “I knew it. I knew you were sent to me from the first day that I saw you. There was a light in your face that I had noticed in others of your faith. I had to put my trust in you.”
Just try to imagine the joy that enveloped my soul! God had accomplished in one week what others had been trying to do for two years. I had never known such feelings of relief. Her leg was completely healed in three months’ time. The LDS ward in her area remodeled her house and fixed up her yard as a service project. The missionaries came to visit her, and she was baptized soon after.
She now attends Sunday meetings, including Relief Society, regularly, and her joy in living has returned. How grateful I am to have come to know and love this daughter of our Father in Heaven. Through my experiences with her, I have learned that with continued faith and effort, you can find great spiritual rewards. And when you do, you will never be the same again.