Gospel Story Finder

Finally, after years of being patient, I was baptized just two days after my 18th birthday. And soon I will share with my mother the happiness I felt that day, because I will be baptized for her. I know she will be proud of the life I have chosen.

I feel blessed by Heavenly Father because He was with me during my entire journey in so many ways. I just had to wait and be patient because He had a plan for me. He’s the one who gave me strength to go through all the challenges I faced. He was always there, helping me be happier.

I was 16 years old then. I had a girlfriend I loved very much, but she left me. That was hard for me. I suffered a lot for almost a year. Because of that experience, I wanted to understand where I came from, why I was on earth, what the purpose of life is, and what happens after death. I wanted to find the answer to these questions on my own. But after thinking about them a long time, I turned to God again and said to myself, “The Creator of life knows life better than I do. I should find answers from Him.”
Reading the Bible, I learned that Jesus called twelve Apostles. “If God had a church today,” I thought, “it should have Apostles.” I became more and more attracted to religion, and I wanted to be baptized.
When I talked about God with my father, he told me that God is just. He said either you are baptized to be saved, or you are damned to hell forever. I didn’t want to believe that a loving Father in Heaven would take pleasure in sending His children to hell forever just because they hadn’t been baptized. What about those who didn’t have a chance to be baptized?
In France, there are few believers. I had friends who were nice, but they weren’t baptized. I concluded that it was not right to think they would all go to hell.
So, I decided to form my own beliefs. I believed in a God whose love is perfect and who would do everything in His power to save His children. If His children don’t want to receive His glory, that would be up to them. But He would give them a chance.
One day two full-time missionaries who were working in my village felt prompted to take a detour to go home. On their way home, they met my mother. She stopped them and made an appointment for me to meet them. I wasn’t happy about that. I didn’t want to talk to them. I thought they would say, “You must listen to us. You must believe what we are going to tell you.”
When the missionaries arrived for our meeting, I told them, “Don’t waste your time. I have my own beliefs. What you are doing is good, but I believe that family is very important. I believe that church leaders should be married. I believe that a church should have twelve Apostles. I believe that God will save as many of His children as He can. And I don’t believe in smoking and drinking.”
I was surprised to learn that their teachings matched my beliefs. They gave me a Book of Mormon and asked me to pray about it. I felt the Spirit when I read the book, and I felt the Spirit with the missionaries. But I thought, “Maybe I’m just creating these positive feelings.”
I prayed and got an answer in a dream. In my dream, I opened the Bible. Inside the Bible were tabs with the different books of the Bible. The last tab said “Mormon.” This message helped me understand that the Bible and the Book of Mormon contained the same gospel (see Ezekiel 37:15–19).
My testimony was further strengthened through other experiences reading and studying the Book of Mormon. When the missionaries invited me to be baptized, I accepted with joy. I was baptized exactly one year after my girlfriend left me. My baptism marked a big change in my life. I lost some friends when I joined the Church, but I found new ones in the branch I attended.
“The gospel brought me a lot of light and happiness,” says Nicolas. “God blessed me. I met a good woman, and we have three good daughters.”
The gospel brought me a lot of light and happiness. I was filled with the Spirit and with joy. I thought, “All that I have suffered before has brought me here.”
God blessed me. I met a good woman, and we have three good daughters. Two of them have served missions, helping others understand what I came to understand years ago: “The family is central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children,” “the dead who repent will be redeemed, through obedience to the ordinances of the house of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 138:58), and the Lord calls apostles and prophets in our day to lead His Church (see Ephesians 2:20).

When I started my freshman year of college, I quickly formed friendships with two other freshmen, one a rancher and the other a farmer. We made an unlikely threesome—two down-to-earth western US country boys and one fast-talking East Coast city slicker. After graduating from college, they returned home to ranch and farm, and I entered the corporate business world.
Annual Christmas cards and occasional phone calls kept us up to date as our lives advanced. By the time I was in my mid-30s, I had served twice as Scoutmaster. Later, as I finished my second “tour” as an assistant nursery leader, my two friends were serving in bishoprics. As time progressed, I fell into the trap of comparing my callings to my friends’ callings, and I began to feel unwanted and ignored.
By the time I was in my mid-40s, leadership callings extended to others would trouble my thoughts for days. Each time someone was called to a ward or stake leadership position, Satan would whisper to me that I was unworthy or lacked the faith necessary for such callings. I could intellectually fight off such thoughts through prayer and study, but I still struggled with my self-worth. Being “just an elder” and refereeing youth basketball games at age 50 while my friends were serving in stake presidencies was not what I had envisioned I would be doing at that age.
Then came an experience that changed my understanding of the gospel. I was assisting my wife one Sunday with her Primary class full of energetic seven-year-olds. As Primary sharing time started, I noticed one of the class members huddled on her chair and obviously not feeling well. The Spirit whispered to me that she needed comfort, so I sat by her and quietly asked what was wrong. She didn’t answer but seemed to be in real distress, so I began to sing softly to her.
The Primary was learning a new song, and when we sang, “If I listen with my heart I hear the Savior’s voice,”1 I began to feel the most incredible light and warmth fill my soul. I felt wrapped in eternal arms of love. I understood that Heavenly Father had heard this young girl’s prayer and that I was there to provide the comfort He wanted to give her. My spiritual understanding was opened, and I received a personal testimony of our Savior’s love for her, for each of His children, and for me. I knew He trusted me to serve someone in need, and I was where He wanted me to be. I learned that we are His hands when we serve the one.

Emily Good was one of the guides on that blustery Saturday. It was her “Set a Date” night—she had made the goal to teach a nonmember about the gospel, and that night was her deadline. At first, she thought the monsoon was going to thwart her efforts.
In the gardens, she saw a man and asked him if he would like to go on a tour. She got to the last stop, where the guides talk about the Book of Mormon, and bore her testimony. “The words just came out. I felt like I was pouring out my whole soul to him.” The man checked the box on the referral card indicating that he wanted the missionaries to teach him more about the gospel.
After the man left, Emily talked to the other guides, excited about sharing the gospel and meeting her goal. The other guides mirrored her enthusiasm.

In the first city where I served during my mission, I had a native companion. Because she was helping the Church to grow in her homeland, Hermana Arriaga radiated a special intensity for the work. Together we had great success; we taught several people who were baptized and had many investigators. One night the President called--rather late--and instructed us to be on the first train to Salamanca the next morning. He was sending us to open a new city for work by sister missionaries. While that may sound quite thrilling, my companion and I were actually quite bothered by the mid-month transfer. Since we were both leaving, neither of us would be around to follow up with our investigators. Therefore, we had to leave copious notes explaining about the progress of each and every one. We also had to pack, which took hours. Then we had to decide what to do with the groceries we had just bought to see us through the month. We opted to take them with us, so we loaded everything into plastic bags.
After a couple of hours of sleep, we went to the train station, climbed aboard, had the other passengers help us find room for our suitcases and 10 (yes, ten) bags of groceries, and then collapsed in our seats. As we pulled out of the station, we noticed the train schedule on the wall and saw that a train left each hour--on the hour--for Salamanca. What was the big deal about being on the first one??? We hadn't even had time to tell any of the members or our investigators that we were leaving. We were frustrated, tired, and in a grumbling mood.
After a few minutes of complaining, my companion suggested that we hold our companionship study session. We had packed our scriptures near the surface, so we grabbed them. We then realized that our study guide and reference books were in cases under other people's seats, and we weren't about to inconvenience all of the other passengers (again) to dig them out. Hermana Arriaga suggested that we just read aloud. So, we flipped open our scriptures at random--no, they fell open--and we began to read--I'm not kidding--Section 111 of the Doctrine and Covenants, which says:

"I, the Lord your God, am not displeased with your coming this journey, notwithstanding your follies."

"I have much treasure in this city for you, for the benefit of Zion, and many people in this city whom I will gather out in due time for the benefit of Zion, through your instrumentality. . . ."

It goes on and on, but we'll skip to verse 10:

"For there are more treasures than one for you in this city."

"Therefore, be ye as wise as serpents and yet without sin; and I will order all things for your good, as fast as ye are able to receive them. Amen."

Well, that impressed us. Deeply. We knew the Lord was speaking directly to us through the scriptures. We immediately stopped our complaining.

In just a few years, the efforts of the Simarrón family bore great fruit. May 30, 1999, became a day of celebration in Guayacana when a large baptismal service was held. President Intriago recalls, “We arrived with Roberto Garcia, the mission president, and both participated in that glorious day, where on the beaches of the Canandé River, two missionaries baptized 60 people. Then, President Garcia on one side and I on another confirmed as members of the Church all who were baptized. It was a privilege that will never be erased from my life.”

In fact, a few years after that eventful day, the same boss visited our office in Rome. He was still the same man, full of power and authority. Again, he looked intimidating to all of us.
This time, after all the meetings, he approached me in a different way. He was surprisingly kind. He told me that he still remembered the day when I stood for my beliefs. Then, to my surprise, he asked if I would accept to become the manager of the agency for all of Europe, which was a huge opportunity for my career. As he tried to convince me that the new job would be appealing in terms of salary, travel, and benefits, what really made the difference was when he said: “We look not only at good qualifications. We need people with integrity, who stand for their principles. We need people like you.”
I was surprised to hear those words, to see that my small decision to stand for my beliefs years before eventually had such a big impact on him. My small decision ultimately resulted in a great blessing for me, both temporally and spiritually. Ironically, as part of my new assignment, I also became the supervisor of most of the managers who had laughed at me years before.

For Kip Twitchell, a book of remembrance and a journal are a natural part of his life. In fact, for a group of seminary students attending Bonneville High School in Ogden, Utah, the whole concept of family histories has become an exciting project that they think about and work on often.
It all started when the seminary students invited a guest speaker to address an assembly of the seminary classes at Bonneville High School. While chauffeuring their speaker to and from the meeting, they began relating stories about their ancestors. The students became interested in doing something about their family histories when their guest challenged them to consider how the experiences of their ancestors have affected them individually. They reread copies of family histories, interviewed members of their families, sorted through and identified old photographs, and updated their own journals. They found that learning about their families helped them understand their own talents and attitudes.

The flame in the kerosene oil lamp flickered and Mrs. Sheridan looked anxiously to see if all the oil was gone. She knew that the jug in the cupboard contained only enough kerosene to fill the lamp one more time.
As the flame settled, Mrs. Sheridan continued checking her supplies: the big sugar container was empty, the cornmeal was gone, there was perhaps enough flour in the barrel for one more batch of bread. As Mrs. Sheridan replaced the lid on the flour barrel, she gave a long, deep sigh.
Jed, who had just turned ten years old and who was supposed to be asleep, knew why his mother sighed. Just this afternoon he had brought in the last of the carrots and potatoes from their storage. He watched his mother as she turned the wick of the lamp lower and lower until the light was gone.
Jed waited for mother to get into bed. Instead, by the pale moonlight that shone into the room under the lower edge of the window curtains, he could see mother hunched over the table. He knew she was crying. It was not loud crying, because she wouldn’t want father to know she was crying. She always smiled for father and said funny things to make him laugh and think everything was going all right.
It hurt Jed to see his mother cry, although he knew she had many things to cry about. Father was too ill to get out of bed and needed a doctor, and the winter food supply was gone. Father had told mother not to worry when they had given a large supply of flour, sugar, bacon, and potatoes to a hungry Indian family. He had said he’d hitch up the horses and wagon and take a day or two to go to the store for more supplies. But then father had become ill, and though every day he said that in a day or two he’d be well enough to go for supplies, he seemed to be getting worse.
Carefully, so as not to disturb his two younger brothers, Jed slipped out of bed, crossed the room, and placed a hand gently on his mother’s shoulder. “Don’t cry, mother,” he said encouragingly. “It’ll be all right. We’ll manage somehow.”
“Oh, Jed!” mother whispered. “I didn’t know you were awake. Jed, maybe you and I could drive to the store for supplies. Do you think you could ride Bess at the head of the horse team and guide her across the river while I handle the reins?”
“Sure I could!” Jed replied bravely, though deep inside he was frightened. Even in the summer when the river was not so high—with father riding Bess and mother holding the reins for the team—it was scary. The river was wide and swift, and there were only a few places where it was safe to cross.
“Good,” said mother. “I knew I could depend on you. We must make it there and back in a day. We’ll leave before dawn tomorrow. Come, now, we must get some sleep.”
Mother quietly tucked the covers more snuggly around little Rachel as she slept in her cradle, then slipped into bed.
Just as quietly Jed crossed the room and climbed into bed beside his sleeping brother.
Although Jed knew the day ahead would be a long, tiresome one, he could not sleep. He thought of the river with its splashing, whirling eddies and its swift undercurrents. He remembered how firm father had to be with Bess as he directed her to lead the team to the opposite shore. Jed thought about how cold and icy the water would be as it splashed on his legs.
Then a different thought came into Jed’s mind: Why don’t I ask the Lord to help me? Why don’t I pray and ask for courage so that I won’t be afraid?
Once more Jed slid from the warmth of his bed and knelt on the cold floor to pray. He asked Heavenly Father to bless him that he would not be afraid of the river, that he could manage Bess as father did, that he and mother would have a safe trip to the crossroads and home again, and that father and his little brothers would be taken care of while he and mother were gone. With a feeling of quiet peace, he crawled back into bed and slept.
It was still dark when mother awakened Jed. He dressed quickly in the shivery cold, and he and mother went outside together to hitch the horses. And together, with teeth chattering, they returned to the cabin. Mother kissed father good-bye. Jed gathered up the bearskin robe for their feet, the quilts for their shoulders, and their meager lunch of bread and dried fruit.
It was midmorning when they came to the river crossing. Seeing the river again and listening to its angry rushing and splashing, Jed was afraid all over again.
Mother looked fondly at Jed. She knew the task ahead would be a hard one for him, but she knew of no other way to obtain the supplies. “Think we can get across?” she asked.
“Sure,” replied Jed, jumping from the wagon. “Sure we can.”
But as Jed stood on the sandy riverbank, the river noises suddenly became a mighty roar. His heart began to thud like a pounding hammer, and he had a difficult time climbing onto Bess’s back.
I can’t do it, he thought. I just can’t. But even as his courage seemed to fail, he remembered the sweet, peaceful feeling that had come to him in the night as he had prayed. And so, sitting on Bess at the edge of the river, he prayed again. “Please help me, Heavenly Father, to not be afraid. Please help us to cross the river safely.”
Again the fearful feeling left Jed, and his heart stopped pounding. The river no longer sounded like an angry beast. As the horses stepped into the river, it almost seemed that father was with him—helping him, guiding him, telling him what to say and do. Though at times the water splashed against his feet and legs, Jed did not seem to feel the cold. Sooner than Jed expected, the wagon was being pulled onto the sand of the opposite shore.
“Good boy!” exclaimed mother, as Jed climbed back onto the wagon seat. She tucked the bearskin robe around his feet and wrapped a quilt around him. “You did just as well as father! Just as well!”
In a short time they pulled up in front of the store at the crossroads. Mr. Callihan, the storekeeper, came to the door. “If it isn’t the Sheridans!” he called. “How nice it is to see you. Haven’t seen any of you since last fall. With the river as rough as it is now, I didn’t expect to see any of you until later in the spring. By the way, where is Mr. Sheridan?”
When mother explained, Mr. Callihan promised to let the doctor know about Jed’s father. Then he patted Jed on the back and said, “You’re a fine lad, Jed! I wouldn’t mind having six boys like you.”
“Nor would I,” replied mother with shining eyes. “I don’t know what I would do without him.”
“Come in now,” continued the friendly Mr. Callihan. “Let’s get your supplies. You’ll be wanting to hurry back to that sick husband of yours and the little children.”
When at last the wagon was loaded with flour, sugar, beans, bacon, dried prunes, cornmeal, potatoes, carrots, apples, kerosene, medicine for father, and a sackful of candy, the Sheridans headed for home. As they rode along, they talked about how good it was to have the wagon filled with good food and other necessities. How happy father would be!
Soon mother again stopped the wagon at the river crossing. For a moment she and Jed sat looking across the river, which seemed to be rushing along as though it were a racehorse urged on by an anxious rider.
Before mother could say a word, Jed jumped from the wagon. As he climbed onto Bess, his body trembled and cold chills raced up and down his spine. But his fear lasted only a moment. With the help of Heavenly Father, he and his mother had crossed the river once, and they would do it again. Turning his head, he smiled at his mother. Then shouting “Giddap!” and giving Bess a smart slap, Jed guided the wagon toward the opposite shore.

There is a better gift, but it will take effort now. My dad, when he was a boy, must have tackled the rowboat problem and lots of others. That was part of the equipment he needed to become a scientist who would make a difference to chemistry. But he also made a difference to me. Our family room didn’t look as elegant as some. It had one kind of furniture—chairs—and one wall decoration—a green chalkboard. I came to the age your boy or girl will reach. I didn’t wonder if I could work the math problems; I’d proved to my satisfaction that I couldn’t. And some of my teachers were satisfied that that was true, too.

But Dad wasn’t satisfied. He thought I could do it. So we took turns at that chalkboard. I can’t remember the gifts my dad wrapped and helped put under a tree. But I remember the chalkboard and his quiet voice. In fact, there were some times when his voice was not quiet at all—he did shout, I’ll have to admit in his presence—but he built up my mathematics, and he built up me. To do this took more than knowing what I needed and caring. It took more than being willing to give his time then, precious as it was. It took time he had spent earlier when he had the chances you have now. Because he had spent time then, he and I could have that time at the chalkboard and he could help me. And because he gave me that, I’ve got a boy who has let me sit down with him this year. We’ve rowed that same boat up and down. And his teacher wrote “much improved” on his report card. But I’ll tell you what’s improved most: the feelings of a fine boy about himself. Nothing I will put under the tree for Stuart this year has half the chance of becoming a family heirloom that his pride of accomplishment does.

I didn’t want to go.
It was that simple. I was 16, and everyone was talking about this “mini mission weekend” our stake was running. I didn’t see the point. I wasn’t planning on serving a mission—not then, not ever.
My mum really wanted me to go. My leaders were encouraging me. They said, “It’s just a weekend, Tyra!” The night before, I cried. I was like, “Why am I doing this to myself?”
I only said yes because I didn’t want to disappoint people. But in my heart, I was already counting down the hours until it was over.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. We did workshops, practiced teaching, got paired up with missionaries for study sessions. I remember thinking, “OK, I can survive this.” But I was still not emotionally invested. I told myself, “I’m just here so people will get off my back.”
Then came the second day.
My companion was Sister Fale. We went to the city, right around Town Hall Station, for some street contacting. I followed her lead as she stopped and talked to this guy about the plan of salvation. I stood next to her, awkward and quiet, thinking, “This is her thing, not mine.”
But something shifted.
She looked at me mid-conversation and nodded, like it was my turn. I opened my mouth . . . and my testimony just came out! I didn’t even think about what I was saying. I just spoke.
And the Spirit was so strong.
It hit me in that moment. I was 16, standing in the middle of a busy street, talking to a stranger about Jesus Christ, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be.
That feeling didn’t go away. It stayed with me all weekend. Every teaching moment, every group prayer, every gospel conversation with strangers—I felt like something inside me was waking up.
I came home from that weekend changed.
The moment it really sank in—what the mini mission meant for me—was when I was back home, alone, writing in my journal. I just started crying. I felt the Spirit so deeply. That’s when I realised the revelations I had received were real. He had spoken to me. And I had listened.
I didn’t tell everyone straight away, but in my heart, I knew. I started going out with the full-time sisters every week. I wanted to feel that Spirit again—that sense of purpose. Eventually, I began working on my mission papers.
Now I’m 19, turning 20 this year. I’m studying Construction Project Management at University of Technology Sydney and serving as a YSA rep in my ward. I also took part in the Australian Association of Pacific Studies Conference 2025, and I’m learning how to integrate my faith with my career and culture and hopefully help share His gospel even more.
I haven’t left on my mission yet—but I will. That decision is still a little scary, but it’s also sacred. And every day my testimony grows stronger.
I know that all I’ve been able to do—every achievement, every step forward—is because of His mercy and His love. I hope that I can be a pillar of hope to others, because He has touched my life. And that, more than anything, is why I want to serve.

A few months ago I had the opportunity of attending a ward fast and testimony meeting. One who stood to bear his testimony was an Aaronic Priesthood adviser. His testimony provided me with a new appreciation of what it means for an Aaronic Priesthood bearer to hold the keys of the ministering of angels.
This adviser described some of his experiences with the ward Aaronic Priesthood that morning. As he was walking to church he noticed two young deacons with fast-offering envelopes going to the homes of the members. He was impressed with the way they were dressed in their Sunday best and how they approached their assignment with quiet dignity. He then accompanied two priests to administer the sacrament in a residential home for physically and mentally disabled men. This was the first opportunity for these two young men to visit this home, and their adviser noted the respectful and caring way in which they approached their priesthood assignment.
Then the adviser shared a brief experience that deeply touched his heart, because one of the priests reminded him of what it really means to be a true minister of Jesus Christ—literally, a ministering angel. The young priest who was passing the water to the congregation came to a man who appeared to have Down syndrome. The man’s condition prevented him from taking the cup from the tray to drink from it. This young priest immediately assessed the situation. He placed his left hand behind the man’s head so he would be in a position to drink, and with the right hand he took a cup from the tray and gently and slowly lifted it to the man’s lips. An expression of appreciation came to the man’s face—the expression of someone to whom someone else has ministered. This wonderful young priest then continued his assignment to pass the blessed water to the other members of the congregation.
The adviser expressed in his testimony the feelings he had at that tender moment. He said he wept silently with joy, and he knew the Church was in good hands with these young, caring, obedient bearers of the Aaronic Priesthood.

Charlotte and her sisters were huddled around the dining room table with paper and pen, each absorbed in a world of her own. Although the wind and snow were blowing through the moors outside, the girls were comfortable sitting by the fireplace in their long woolen dresses.
Born in the early 1800s, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë grew up in a bleak parsonage on the Yorkshire moors of England. After their mother’s death when they were small children, Aunt Branwell, kind but proper, came to look after the family. Their father was good and loving but kept very much to his study.
Once a friend named Ellen Nussey, whom Charlotte had known at school, came to visit for a few days. After walking through the moors with Charlotte and realizing how isolated her friend’s parish home was, Ellen asked, “What do you do with yourself around here?”
“Oh, we’ve plenty to keep us busy,” Charlotte answered. “We teach Sunday School and visit the sick to help father. During the day we help Tabby, our cook, with the food preparation and Aunt Branwell with the housework. The best part of each day is spent by ourselves in our own special part of the moors. In the evenings we … well, we write stories.”
“How exciting!” Ellen replied. “What kind of stories do you write?”
“One night a long time ago we were sitting by the fireplace waiting for it to get dark,” Charlotte said. “Aunt Branwell never let us waste candles until it was dark enough to really need them, so we began to tell stories. We made up some countries along with our favorite heroes, and we’ve been writing little stories about them ever since.”
So began the love of writing by three young sisters who were to be found each evening sitting in front of a candle with pens in hand.
Charlotte found it necessary to bend very low over her paper because of her nearsightedness, and the scarcity of paper didn’t help. The girls had to train themselves to write so small that even a tiny piece of paper might contain a complete story or a lengthy poem.
One night Anne and Emily were writing on a flyleaf that had been carefully torn from a book. Charlotte was finishing a tiny book she had made by sewing small bits of old paper together. She had already completed several little books like this that she kept locked in a writing desk—a small rosewood box.
For many years the girls were too shy about their writing to share it even with each other. It took a small accident by Charlotte to get them to share their work and their dreams of someday having their work published.
Charlotte was moving Emily’s notebook one day to set the table. She had done this many times in the past and had never neglected Emily’s privacy by reading her work. This day, however, the notebook fell open accidently to some poems, and before Charlotte could close it her eyes caught a few lines.
Having studied the best poets at her boarding schools, Charlotte was capable of recognizing good poetry when she saw it. Emily’s poems were good, very good, and Charlotte couldn’t put the notebook down. She knew her sister’s work must be published.
“Charlotte! How dare you!” Emily cried as she came into the dining room.
“It was an accident, Emily; really it was.” Charlotte realized what her sister must think. “Your poems are so good, though, I couldn’t quit reading them.”
Emily’s anger lasted for three days during which she didn’t speak to Charlotte. After all was forgiven, the door was open for the sisters to discuss their work with each other and make plans to try to publish it.
There was something more than their love of writing that made the sisters want to publish their work. It was a fear of having to go out in the world to make a living. It had been hard enough on them to leave home for some schooling, but it was unbearable to stay away after that.
Each served as a governess to wealthy families for a short time, but they could not stand the cold indifference shown them. They longed for the warmth and love of their own home and family. At different times each one of them gave a quick notice to either school or employer and returned to the family.
They finally decided to each contribute some poems into a collection to be sent to an editor. The poems were accepted for publication, but the girls had to pay the printing expense. Only two copies were bought at that time, but these same two copies would be worth a fortune today.
Before the poems were sent off, the girls had a decision to make—what names to attach to their work. Women’s writing was not regarded highly then, so they desired to choose names that were neither feminine nor masculine. Each chose a name using her first initial. Anne chose Acton, Emily, Ellis; and Charlotte, Currer. They wanted the last name to begin with B and finally decided upon Bell.
While they were waiting for the poems to be published, they began a new, larger project. Each was at work on a novel. Emily chose to write about some old ruins that could be seen on a hilltop near their home. She had been entranced by the place for several years as she had watched the wind wuther (blow) through the moors up to the old ruins. She planned to call her book Wuthering Heights.
Both Anne and Charlotte expressed some of their unhappy experiences and feelings when serving as young governesses to wealthy families. Through Agnes Grey Anne told of the selfishness and bad tempers shown her by the “respectable” people for whom she had worked. Charlotte wanted to write about a poor, plain girl like herself, and after much thought she chose the name of Jane Eyre for her heroine.
Anne’s book had very little success at the time it was published, but she ignored that and immediately began another. Emily’s book received more attention, but not all of it was favorable. Jane Eyre, however, was soon being read by people all over the world. In time all the books written by the Brontë sisters became classics in English literature.

New Era: Besides the change in your life, has the gospel had an influence on your baseball career?
Brother Killibrew: Yes, in many ways. One of the most dramatic was demonstrated when I ruptured the hamstring muscle in my left leg in an all-star game. There was a real question as to whether I would ever play again. I was using crutches. Two bearers of the priesthood administered to me. After that I no longer needed the crutches, and my leg healed up very nicely. The next year was the year I got the Most Valuable Player award.

“Robert Wood.” Robby frowned as he read his name aloud. All his friends called him Robby. His whole name looked strange and uncomfortable on the bright yellow Primary birthday calendar. It didn’t seem to belong with the names of the church kids. He wasn’t like them. He had only been to church about three times in his whole life. He wouldn’t have come today except that his new teacher, Sister Jensen, had sent him a special invitation and offered him a ride.
Robby liked singing the songs. Sharing Time was interesting, too. When his class was excused, he followed the other children to their classroom. They were way ahead of Sister Jensen. She was pretty old for a Primary teacher, and she stopped to talk with most of the class in the hallway.
Robby chose a seat at the very back of the room, but when he started to sit down, a boy kicked his chair out from under him. An ugly word popped out of Robby’s mouth. He was immediately sorry and blushed a deep red when he saw Sister Jensen standing in the doorway. She must have seen the whole thing.
The girls raised their hands and pointed at Robby. The boys snickered, and Robby wanted to run home. Sister Jensen closed the door and smiled at him. Then, turning to the girls, she said, “Oh, I just love to see so many volunteers for the prayer.”
The girls snatched back their hands, but Sister Jensen still assigned two of them to give prayers. During class, Robby watched Sister Jensen. She smiled a lot. She made Robby feel like he was just as important as the other children.
After class, Sister Jensen hugged each of the children as they left. When it was Robby’s turn, she quietly shut the door. Robby was alone with Sister Jensen, and he knew why. She was going to bawl him out for saying that angry word. Well, at least she hadn’t embarrassed him by doing it in front of everybody.
“I’m so glad you came today, Robert,” Sister Jensen said with a smile.
Robby looked down and traced a big X on the floor with his shoe.
When he didn’t answer, Sister Jensen continued, “I know that you’re embarrassed about what you said. If someone kicked a chair and made me fall, I would be pretty upset, too.”
“They wouldn’t do it to you,” Robby said. “They just do it to me because I’m not a church kid.”
Sister Jensen looked thoughtful as she bent to gather some of her things. When she straightened up, she was wearing her big smile again. “Sit down a minute, Robert,” she said, pointing to a chair.
Robby sat quietly while Sister Jensen pulled a chair up beside him.
“Do you like our bishop?”
Robby thought for a minute. He remembered the time the bishop came to his house when his mother was very sick and couldn’t care for the family. After that, some church ladies came by to help take care of them and his sick mother. The bishop seemed really nice. “Yeah, I think he’s OK.”
“Well, believe it or not, I used to be his Primary teacher.”
“Oh.” Robby nodded. “I guess you could have been; you are pretty old.” Robby blushed when he realized what he’d said.
Sister Jensen laughed heartily. “That’s true! He was a sweet little boy, just like you. You and he have a lot in common—his parents never brought him to church, either. I used to pick him up all the time. He even sat with me in sacrament meeting.
“When he was about your age,” Sister Jensen continued, “he decided to make choices that would help him the rest of his life. He had a little problem with angry words, and he decided that every time he became upset, he’d say ‘How exasperating!’ I told him that that was a good start, but that he also needed to fill his mind with good things. That way only good things would come out of his mouth.”
Robby traced another X on the floor with his other shoe. “Well, maybe when I’m a grown-up, I can do that, too,” he told her.
“But now’s the time to start to make important choices that will bless you throughout your life, including your choice of words.”
“How can words bless me?”
“When you are careful with the words you choose to say, you show others that you care enough about them not to offend them. It helps you gain more friends, and you’re also not offending your Heavenly Father. Besides, when you have good words inside, good actions often follow.”
Robby nodded that he understood, and he helped Sister Jensen gather up the rest of her materials.
The next Sunday, Sister Jensen picked Robby up in time for sacrament meeting. The bishop was conducting and seemed to be having a difficult time with some of the announcements. Finally he put down the paper he was reading, smiled at the ward members, and exclaimed, “How exasperating!”
Robby giggled as Sister Jensen nudged his arm. He leaned over and whispered, “That’s what I’m going to say when I’m mad, too.”
“Good for you, Robby,” Sister Jensen said with a wink.
In the Primary room, Robby again noticed his name on the yellow birthday board. “That’s funny,” he said.
“What’s that?” Sister Jensen asked.
“Last week my name seemed different.”
Sister Jensen looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, last week my name looked out of place up there by the names of the church kids. But today it looks like it belongs.”
Sister Jensen put her arm around Robby, and he noticed tears starting in her eyes. “That’s because you do belong here,” she said.

“She has only 24 hours to live, and even if she makes it, she will be paralyzed from the eyes down with no chance of recovery.” This was the bleak verdict doctors presented to my family in March 2004. At only 30 years of age, I had suffered a stroke that left me unable to speak or move. Yet in those dark, lonely hours, experiences from my previous calling as a Primary music leader gave me hope.
I have always loved music and felt strength in the words of the hymns. Yet prior to my stroke, when I was called to be the ward’s Primary music leader, I was very apprehensive. How was I supposed to make a difference in the children’s lives? My music education background had taught me to set goals in my teaching, so I decided to try to help the children feel the Spirit as we sang. When we sang songs such as “I Lived in Heaven,” I was astonished by the strong presence of the Holy Ghost in the room and by the children’s deep, thoughtful questions about the lyrics.
One of my favorite teaching methods was using American Sign Language (ASL). I found that the children understood the songs better when we discussed how the signs offered a visual representation of the words. I really enjoyed hearing the children sing and watching them sign “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.” The message rang true in my heart, and I often felt that I was the benefactor of the Spirit that the children invited. I could sense my testimony growing, and I truly felt blessed by the Lord.
The blessings of my calling as Primary music leader were not limited to the Primary room, though. With the calling came the need to practice and play the music at home so I would be prepared each Sunday. As a result, my own children’s love for Primary music increased. The words of these songs brought a peaceful, calm spirit, comforting our children when they were hurt and lulling them to sleep each night. They insisted on listening to the Children’s Songbook CDs in the car—even if the ride was just a short one—and consequently began to memorize many of the songs.
However, it was not until after my stroke that I was aware of the far-reaching effects of this music in my life. With so much recent experience singing Primary songs, I found they were what kept me going during my trials. During my darkest hours I would pray and sing “A Child’s Prayer” in my head. As I cried out like the child of the first verse, “Heavenly Father, are you really there?” He would mercifully answer by reassuring me that I was not alone and that He was there, as stated in the second verse of the song. What a strength and reassurance!
During the recovery process, my husband and children came to my hospital room to hold family home evenings and frequently sang “Love Is Spoken Here.” That was the last song I had taught in Primary, and it was wonderful to hear my children sing it, knowing that I had planted those seeds. As they sang, I could relate to the mother in the song, praying on her knees (how I wished that I too could kneel!). Her pleas to Heavenly Father were also mine. I also shared the same gratitude for priesthood authority in my home. While I could not voice these thoughts to my family, the Primary song voiced these feelings for me.
It has been nearly four years since I suffered my stroke, and I have been able to regain far more abilities than the doctors expected I ever would. I have a small amount of movement in my right arm, which allows me to type on my computer and operate a powered wheelchair. I use a modified form of ASL—which I first learned in my Primary calling—to communicate. Because of this, I can still “sing” Primary songs with my children and express my feelings to family and friends.
Before my stroke I had always planned on singing at my children’s baptisms. In August 2005 my oldest child, Zach, was baptized. I was able to use my right hand to plunk out “When I Am Baptized” while my husband supported me at the piano bench. It felt good to express my deepest feelings about baptism through music and in a way that Zach would understand.
When I began serving as a Primary music leader, I did not think the calling would benefit me. Yet it plainly has! The Primary songs have blessed me with a better understanding of gospel principles, a strengthened testimony, the ability to communicate with my family, and the strength to persevere. The words and melody of Primary songs may be simple, but the message and the power of each one are clear.
We may not always understand why the Lord has given us a particular assignment. Even so, we must trust the Lord and put our faith in Him and His promptings. I am so grateful I was a Primary music leader before my stroke! The songs I can no longer sing can still communicate my feelings of the gospel to others. Every time I hear my children sing Primary songs, I know that their testimonies are being strengthened and that they share my love for the Lord and His gospel.

A safer example may be my current colleague here at BYU, Chris Sorenson. When he was the principal of an elementary school here in Utah, a young man with a disability that confined him to a wheelchair appeared at his school with his parents to enroll. Chris wondered what class to assign him to. While the school secretary gave the boy and his parents a tour of the school, Chris privately knelt in his office and prayed about this student. He felt directed to assign him to the largest class, one already much larger than the other two sixth-grade classes. He didn’t know why; nevertheless, he took courage and trusted in the prompting he’d learned to recognize. He ignored the possible displeasure of a teacher with an already large class size. He ignored any other concerns, because he had learned not to fear when had received an answer in prayer.

To his surprise, when Chris walked this student to his new class, as soon as this new student wheeled into the class, he lit up and addressed the teacher by name, with evident relief and joy. Unknown to anyone at the school, the two knew each other well. That particular teacher had been a loved and trusted Scout leader in a previous ward, and the families had lost touch with each other. Taking the courage to seek and obey the Spirit’s prompting resulted in a successful start in a new school for a child who probably needed such a start.

As a surgeon, I found that a significant portion of my professional time was taken up with the subject of pain. Of necessity I surgically inflicted it almost daily—and much of my effort was then spent trying to control and alleviate pain.
I have pondered about the purpose of pain. None of us is immune from experiencing pain. I have seen people cope with it very differently. Some turn away from God in anger, and others allow their suffering to bring them closer to God.
Like you, I have experienced pain myself. Pain is a gauge of the healing process. It often teaches us patience. Perhaps that is why we use the term patient in referring to the sick.
Elder Orson F. Whitney wrote: “No pain that we suffer, no trial that we experience is wasted. It ministers to our education, to the development of such qualities as patience, faith, fortitude, and humility. … It is through sorrow and suffering, toil and tribulation, that we gain the education that we come here to acquire.”1
Similarly, Elder Robert D. Hales has said:
“Pain brings you to a humility that allows you to ponder. It is an experience I am grateful to have endured. …
“I learned that the physical pain and the healing of the body after major surgery are remarkably similar to the spiritual pain and the healing of the soul in the process of repentance.”2
Much of our suffering is not necessarily our fault. Unexpected events, contradicting or disappointing circumstances, interrupting illness, and even death surround us and penetrate our mortal experience. Additionally, we may suffer afflictions because of the actions of others.3 Lehi noted that Jacob had “suffered … much sorrow, because of the rudeness of [his] brethren.”4 Opposition is part of Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness. We all encounter enough to bring us to an awareness of our Father’s love and of our need for the Savior’s help.
The Savior is not a silent observer. He Himself knows personally and infinitely the pain we face.
“He suffereth the pains of all men, yea, the pains of every living creature, both men, women, and children.”5
“Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.”6
Sometimes in the depth of pain, we are tempted to ask, “Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?”7 I testify the answer is yes, there is a physician. The Atonement of Jesus Christ covers all these conditions and purposes of mortality.
There is another kind of pain for which we are responsible. Spiritual pain lies deep within our souls and can feel unquenchable, even as being racked with an “inexpressible horror,” as Alma described.8 It comes from our sinful actions and lack of repentance. For this pain too there is a cure that is universal and absolute. It is from the Father, through the Son, and it is for each of us who is willing to do all that is necessary to repent. Christ said, “Will ye not now return unto me … and be converted, that I may heal you?”9
Christ Himself taught:
“And my Father sent me that I might be lifted up upon the cross; and after that I had been lifted up upon the cross, that I might draw all men unto me. …
“Therefore, according to the power of the Father I will draw all men unto me.”10
Perhaps His most significant work is in the ongoing labor with each of us individually to lift, to bless, to strengthen, to sustain, to guide, and to forgive us.
As Nephi saw in vision, much of Christ’s mortal ministry was devoted to blessing and healing the sick with all kinds of maladies—physical, emotional, and spiritual. “And I beheld multitudes of people who were sick, and who were afflicted with all manner of diseases. … And they were healed by the power of the Lamb of God.”11
Alma also prophesied that “he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and … he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people. …
“That his bowels may be filled with mercy, … that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.”12
Late one night lying in a hospital bed, this time as a patient and not as a physician, I read those verses over and over again. I pondered: “How is it done? For whom? What is required to qualify? Is it like forgiveness of sin? Do we have to earn His love and help?” As I pondered, I came to understand that during His mortal life Christ chose to experience pains and afflictions in order to understand us. Perhaps we also need to experience the depths of mortality in order to understand Him and our eternal purposes.13
President Henry B. Eyring taught: “It will comfort us when we must wait in distress for the Savior’s promised relief that He knows, from experience, how to heal and help us. … And faith in that power will give us patience as we pray and work and wait for help. He could have known how to succor us simply by revelation, but He chose to learn by His own personal experience.”14
I felt the encircling arms of His love that night.15 Tears watered my pillow in gratitude. Later, as I was reading in Matthew about Christ’s mortal ministry, I made another discovery: “When the even was come, they brought unto him many … and he … healed all that were sick.”16 He healed all that came to Him. None were turned away.

May we contrast that for a moment with Brother and Sister Joaquim Aires, a marvelous man and his wife who came to Portugal following the 1974 revolution of Portugal’s colonies in Angola and Mozambique. They had returned to Portugal unknown and with very few possessions. A great blessing occurred in their lives. They opened their door to two young missionaries, who taught them of the restoration of Christ’s church. They received the missionaries, accepted their message, and were baptized.
As is the opportunity for all worthy men in the Church, he received the priesthood—authority to act in the name of our Father in Heaven—and to become a leader in the Church. Brother Aires became President Aires, president of one of the mission districts.
One day I received a telephone call. President Aires was in the hospital in Coimbra, several hours’ travel away. He had suffered a very serious cerebral hemorrhage and was in very critical condition. Another priesthood holder and I made the trip as quickly as possible. As we walked quietly into the hospital room, we found him asleep. My first inclination was not to awaken him. And then I thought he would want to know that we had come. So I reached over and carefully touched his hand. He slowly opened his eyes and then looked at me for a moment, and then the tears came to both of our eyes. He then said in a very weak and soft voice, “I knew you would come. I knew you would come. Would you please give me a blessing.” In his dear, sweet faith, he was asking for a priesthood blessing, the same that is taught of and recorded in the Bible. We read in James 5:14–15: “Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord:
“And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up.”
As men of the priesthood, it was our privilege to pronounce a blessing on him with power and authority of our Father in Heaven.
As I would meet with the members of the Church from one end of Portugal to the other, the brothers and sisters would ask, “How is Brother Aires? Will you please tell him we love him and we’re praying for him?”
This good man and his wife, who had returned to Portugal almost unknown, now, because of their membership in the Church, had literally thousands who loved them and were concerned about them and remembered him in their prayers.
The prayers of faith were answered. He recovered completely, and he and Sister Aires went on to fulfill a full-time mission together.

When I was called to serve as a General Authority, I had an interview with President Faust. He noticed that I was concerned because I felt inadequate for such a call. In his tender way, President Faust told me, “Athos, be yourself. Be yourself.” That night I lay awake in bed, thinking of my new responsibilities and of President Faust’s words. And I prayed. I asked myself, Who am I? And the answer came as clear and bright as the dawn of that brand-new day. I am, like each one of you, a child of God who wants to obey the Lord and serve wherever He sends me and thus be a better child of our Heavenly Father and a faithful member of the true Church of Jesus Christ.