Gospel Story Finder

When Lindo and Annabelle decided to get married, he was making enough to support only himself. At first her parents, also members of the Church, were hesitant to permit the marriage, he says. “But I promised them that we would do our best to obey the commandments and that the Lord would bless us. They decided to trust me.”

Annabelle had a good job at a medical center. “But the prophet had said that, if possible, the mother should not work outside the home,” he says. “We trusted the counsel of our leaders for her not to work.” They were blessed with a baby boy, Kahivhan—and now Lindo has a good job, and they have a nice apartment.

It sometimes gets really cold and snowy where we live. Sometimes we even get to stay home from school and ride our sleds down a big hill next to our home. One day, when we were getting ready to put on our snowsuits, hats, and gloves, my mother said it was too cold and windy to go outside. I felt grumpy because we had to stay inside. I started complaining, and my mother said, “You need to go up to your room and find something good to do with your time.”
When I got to my room, I thought about what the Savior would want me to do. I decided to memorize the Articles of Faith. When I came downstairs after a few hours, I told my mother, brother, and sisters that I was sorry for being grumpy and that I had memorized each of the Articles of Faith. They were so surprised! I recited each one for them and felt very good that I had put my time to good use.
I think the Savior was happy that I decided to learn more about Him with the extra time I had that morning. I am grateful that He has given me a family and the scriptures to help us learn more about our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.

“You have flour on your nose, Jeffrey,” Mother teased.
Jeffrey looked down to see the white flour powdering his nose. They both began to laugh.
“I think I have flour on more than just my nose,” said Jeffrey as his eyes traveled farther down to his shirt and trousers. He dumped another cup of flour into the big batch of bread dough and mixed it thoroughly. His sister Barbara began wiping off the kitchen table so the dough could be kneaded and divided into loaves.
“You’re both doing such a good job helping to make the bread that there’s nothing left for me to do!” exclaimed Mother.
Jeffrey and Barbara beamed at each other, and Barbara said, “Look. Even Jason wants to help.”
Three-year-old Jason was sitting on the kitchen floor struggling to pull bread pans out of the cupboard.
“Welcoming our new neighbors across the street has really become a family affair,” Mother said. “Your dad’s out in the garden right now,” she added, “picking tomatoes and zucchini to take over to them.”
“Where’s Jenny?” asked Barbara.
Just then Jenny came bursting into the kitchen.
“Mother!” she wailed. “You simply have to help me decide what I’m going to do for the school variety show. I’m supposed to tell my teacher this week.”
“Maybe you could play that new piece you’ve been learning on the piano,” Mother calmly suggested.
“Oh, Mother!” Jenny replied impatiently. “I played the piano last year. I want to do something new and different.”
“Mmm,” said Mother, “I’ll have to think about it. Why don’t you help us finish making this bread for our new neighbors, and we’ll talk about what you might do.”
Jenny glanced scornfully at the powdery white trail across the kitchen floor and at the gooey globs of dough on Jeffrey’s hands. She retreated to her bedroom, mumbling something about having more important things to do than make bread.
“Jenny certainly isn’t much help today,” Barbara declared.
“She just doesn’t realize how much fun she’s missing,” Mother said, sighing with disappointment.
That afternoon, when the Anderson family was ready to take their gifts to welcome the new neighbors, Dad found Jenny watching television.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Dad. “We’re all anxious to meet the new people across the street.”
“Doesn’t sound like much fun to me,” replied Jenny, not taking her eyes off the show she was watching.
“Jenny,” said Dad firmly, “we really feel that the whole family should go over to welcome our new neighbors. Please come with us.”
“Oh, all right,” said Jenny, “but I’d much rather stay here and watch television.”
Dad rang their new neighbor’s doorbell, and a man with black hair and dark eyes opened the door and looked curiously at the family. Dad introduced himself and the rest of the family and explained that they were a welcoming committee. The man’s face broke into a big grin. Calling his wife and two daughters, he enthusiastically invited Dad, Mother, Jeffrey, Jenny, Barbara, and Jason into his home.
When Dad presented them with warm bread and freshly-picked vegetables, the new family exclaimed in unison, “Mahalo! Mahalo!”
The Andersons soon learned that Mr. and Mrs. Kanahele and their daughters, Leimomi and Lani, had moved to California from a small town in Hawaii and that mahalo means thanks in Hawaiian.
Looking around at the stacks of boxes, the Anderson family offered to help the Kanaheles unpack. Soon everyone was talking and laughing.
Leimomi was delighted to find that she would be in Jenny’s class at school. Lani was Barbara’s age.
As the four girls chattered away, Mother smiled because Jenny seemed to be enjoying herself most of all. She and Leimomi were busily rummaging through a box of Leimomi’s Hawaiian treasures, and Jenny was telling Leimomi that she would be glad to show her around school.
Jenny and Leimomi were gaily dancing around with the grass skirt Leimomi had dug out of the box when they heard Mrs. Kanahele exclaim to Lani, “Now you will be able to have a hauoli la hanau!”
“Hauoli la hanau means happy birthday in Hawaiian,” Lani explained to the Andersons. “My birthday is next week, and I was afraid I wouldn’t have any friends to invite to the party, but now Barbara and Jenny are here. Will you come?”
“That would be a lot of fun!” exclaimed Barbara. “I’ve never been to a Hawaiian birthday party.”
When the Andersons went home, Dad’s arms were loaded with pineapples, Jeffrey was lugging two coconuts, and Mother was wearing a lei. Jason toted two big bananas that had been grown in the Kanahele’s backyard in Hawaii.
“You know,” Mother said, smiling thoughtfully, “I think we’re taking more home with us than we took over to them.”
“Yes,” Dad said, “and we all seemed to enjoy our visit.”
Jenny tugged at Dad’s sleeve. “It certainly was more fun than watching television. And, Mom, now I know what I’m going to do for the variety show. Leimomi is going to teach me some hula steps and let me wear her grass skirt. Best of all, she’s my aikane (friend).”

On his way to serve in England, the second youngest man to be called as prophet of the Church wore a hat made by his wife from an old pair of pantaloons. He bought a new hat with the little money he had left over when he reached his destination. On his mission he worked so hard that he said he poured blood out of his boots many nights after laboring in the “field of white.”

The last part of the hike was the hardest. The sun beat down on us, and my feet hurt. But I continued to run ahead and look for the place that marked the end of our hike—St. George’s Monastery.
At last I saw the great monastery, built on the side of the cliff. It sure looked neat, but I was just as interested in getting to the top, where a stand with cold drinks and ice cream was waiting.
I wanted to run ahead, but my little brother, Joseph, was having a hard time going up the last steep hillside, so I stayed behind and helped him.
I’m proud to be a Cub Scout, and I always try to live the Cub Scout promise to help other people.

With the Wind River peaks to the north, the pioneer trail crossed South Pass—the only major break between mountain ranges and the most direct route to the Great Basin. Entering northeastern Utah, they worked their way slowly through Echo Canyon, a narrow passageway flanked by red, overhanging cliffs.
This final stretch would try what little strength was left. Ahead loomed a broken succession of hills piled on hills, and mountains in every direction. Hearts full of enthusiasm to be so near their journey’s end often sank as they knew there was only one way to go: up and over.
On this high summit they named Big Mountain, the pioneers gazed for the first time on their new home: a glistening mountain valley on the far horizon. What joy they must have felt! The countless sacrifices and struggles along the way were nearly over. The Salt Lake Valley was in sight. Although much hardship still lay ahead, they had endured. With feet worn and weary with fatigue, they had kept step with their faith.
President Young arrived in the valley on a Saturday, July 24th. These pioneers had come so far and given so much, and they paused on the Sabbath to worship and give thanks for their safe arrival.
They came “one of a city, and two of a family” (Jer. 3:14) across a continent to a new life in the desert. What else but a divine restoration would prompt such an endeavor and require such a sacrifice? They had walked with faith, knowing that God lives and He knew where those steps would take them.

Jeffrey Holland, president of Brigham Young University, while working on his Ph.D. at a prominent eastern American university, got to know well one of the reference librarians who had helped him with some research.
One day he said, “Ilene, I need to know how many books we have in the university library which claim to have been delivered by an angel.”
As you can imagine, the librarian gave him a peculiar look and said, “I don’t know of any books that have been delivered by angels. Swords maybe, or chariots, but I don’t know of any books.”
“Well, just run a check for me would you? It may take a little doing, but I really would like to know.”
The librarian dutifully did some checking of the nine million books in the library. For several days she had nothing to report, but then one day she smilingly said, “Mr. Holland, I have a book for you. I found one book which, it is claimed, was delivered by an angel,” and she held up a paperback copy of the Book of Mormon. “I’m told you can get them for a dollar. My goodness,” she continued, “an angel’s book for a dollar! You would think angels would charge more, but then again,” she said, “where would they spend it?” (See Pat Holland, President’s Welcome Assembly, Brigham Young University, 9 Sept. 1986).

Carol Lyman of the Cedar 13th Ward, Cedar City Utah West Stake, told of an event that occurred when the family went to watch the oldest son, Jason, at the Cub Scout Olympics. Two-year-old Sam had been playing near an irrigation ditch, had slipped, and had fallen into the water. His six-year-old sister, Angela, immediately screamed for her mother, then grabbed her little brother, whose head was still above the water, and pulled him to safety. The rescue saved Sam from being trapped in a covered culvert extending more than 100 yards.

I remember when I was young, there was an older boy who was physically and mentally disabled. He had a speech impediment and walked with difficulty. The boys used to make fun of him. They teased and taunted him until sometimes he would cry.
I can still hear his voice: “You’re not kind to me,” he said. And still they would ridicule him, push him, and make jokes about him.
One day I could bear it no longer. Although I was only seven years old, the Lord gave me the courage to stand up to my friends.
“Don’t touch him,” I said to them. “Stop teasing him. Be kind. He is a child of God!”
My friends stepped back and turned away.
I wondered at the time if my boldness would jeopardize my relationship with them. But the opposite happened. From that day onward, my friends and I became closer. They showed increased compassion for the boy. They became better human beings. To my knowledge, they never taunted him again.

As we consider how we receive blessings from God, let us liken heavenly blessings to a massive pile of wood. Imagine at the center a small mound of kindling, topped by a layer of wood chips. Sticks come next, then small logs, and finally huge logs. This woodpile contains an enormous amount of fuel, capable of producing light and heat for days. Envision next to the woodpile a single match, the kind with a phosphorus tip.

For the energy in the woodpile to be released, the match needs to be struck and the kindling lit. The kindling will quickly catch fire and cause the larger pieces of wood to burn. Once this combustion reaction starts, it continues until all the wood is burned or the fire is deprived of oxygen.

Striking the match and lighting the kindling are small actions that enable the potential energy of the wood to be released. Until the match is struck, nothing happens, regardless of the size of the woodpile. If the match is struck but not applied to the kindling, the amount of light and heat released from the match alone is miniscule and the combustion energy in the wood remains unreleased. If oxygen is unavailable at any point, the combustion reaction stops.

My husband, Cyrus, and I were married in the temple on May 23, 2006. Before we were married, his work in a laboratory required Cyrus to work on Sundays. He had a shifting schedule, but he usually worked from midnight to 8:00 a.m. After work he would go home to change from his uniform to Sunday dress and then go straight to church, which started at 9:00 a.m. He continued this schedule after we were married.
Sometimes I went to church alone because he was delayed at work. We always wished he didn’t have to work on the Sabbath. On the first Sunday of June 2006, we had our first fast as a married couple. We prayed in faith that Cyrus would be blessed with a job that would not require him to work on Sundays.
A few days later at about 10:00 a.m., I wondered where Cyrus was because he usually came home between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m. Suddenly a thought came to me: “He might be promoted.” Cyrus finally arrived around 11:00 a.m. As he entered our home, he said he had good news and bad news.
I told him to tell me the bad news first. He said we would soon leave Iligan, Philippines, and move to Panay, Philippines. I did not like the news at first because we loved the people in our stake. They were kind to us and treated us as their own, knowing that Cyrus and I had no family nearby.
When I asked him why we needed to move to Panay, he said it was because of the good news. His boss had interviewed him for another job located in Panay. I immediately asked him not about his salary but whether the job would require him to work on Sundays. When he answered, “No!” I was very happy. I hugged him and told him that his new job was the answer to our prayers and fasting. Two months later, Cyrus started his work in Panay.
Heavenly Father is mindful of us, and He blesses us when we exercise faith and obey His commandments. I am grateful for the principles of prayer and fasting. My husband’s job is a blessing to us. Now he has time to magnify his calling in our ward, and the only work he does on Sunday is the Lord’s work.

Little did we know what the Lord had in store for us. Exactly 30 years to the month after my baptism (and also on my birthday), I returned with my wife to the very location of my baptism to preside as mission president of the Hong Kong Mission.

Teenagers in Taiwan have to get up at 5:00 a.m. to go to seminary at 5:30. This is a very big challenge for me because I have a lot of exams and homework. So I have often been late for seminary. Originally, I blamed the Church for making me get up so early. But my parents advised me to pray and ask Heavenly Father for help.
At first, I thought Heavenly Father couldn’t help me. But one night I knelt down by the bed and prayed, asking God to help me find the reason I couldn’t sleep enough. After that, I reviewed my routine. I saw that I wasted a lot of time before bed.
Now I try to go to bed earlier. I pray before bed, thanking God for giving me happiness and peace and for the guidance of the Holy Spirit.
I pray before bed, thanking God for giving me happiness and peace and for the guidance of the Holy Spirit.

One of my haunting childhood memories begins with the howl of distant air-raid sirens that awaken me from sleep. Before long, another sound, the rattle and hum of propellers, gradually increases until it shakes the very air. Trained well by our mother, we children each grab our bag and run up the hill to a bomb shelter. As we hurry through the pitch-dark night, green and white flares drop from the sky to mark the targets for the bombers. Strangely enough, everyone calls these flares Christmas trees.
I am four years old, and I am a witness to a world at war.
Not far from where my family lived was the city of Dresden. Those who lived there witnessed perhaps a thousand times what I had seen. Massive firestorms, caused by thousands of tons of explosives, swept through Dresden, destroying more than 90 percent of the city and leaving little but rubble and ash in their wake.
In a very short time, the city once nicknamed the “Jewel Box” was no more. Erich Kästner, a German author, wrote of the destruction, “In a thousand years was her beauty built, in one night was it utterly destroyed.” During my childhood I could not imagine how the destruction of a war our own people had started could ever be overcome. The world around us appeared totally hopeless and without any future.
Last year I had the opportunity to return to Dresden. Seventy years after the war, it is, once again, a “Jewel Box” of a city. The ruins have been cleared, and the city is restored and even improved.
During my visit I saw the beautiful Lutheran church Frauenkirche, the Church of Our Lady. Originally built in the 1700s, it had been one of Dresden’s shining jewels, but the war reduced it to a pile of rubble. For many years it remained that way, until finally it was determined that the Frauenkirche would be rebuilt.
Stones from the destroyed church had been stored and cataloged and, when possible, were used in the reconstruction. Today you can see these fire-blackened stones pockmarking the outer walls. These “scars” are not only a reminder of the war history of this building but also a monument to hope—a magnificent symbol of man’s ability to create new life from ashes.
As I pondered the history of Dresden and marveled at the ingenuity and resolve of those who restored what had been so completely destroyed, I felt the sweet influence of the Holy Spirit. Surely, I thought, if man can take the ruins, rubble, and remains of a broken city and rebuild an awe-inspiring structure that rises toward the heavens, how much more capable is our Almighty Father to restore His children who have fallen, struggled, or become lost?

These clothes are sure dirty!
You should know, my dear. You wore them.
Will they ever get clean?
According to the TV commercial, they’ll soon be “snowy white” and “rainbow bright.”
Daddy said in family home evening last night that people need to repent to get clean. Is doing the wash like repenting?
Yes, in a way. When we’re baptized, our sins are washed away, and then we stay clean by repenting each time we make a mistake.
But all the repenting in the world wouldn’t make us clean without another very special ingredient.
What’s that, Mom?
The Atonement. Jesus paid the price for our sins so that we could repent and be forgiven. Without Him, our spirits would just have to stay dirty.
Later …
Thanks, Mom. I’ll try my best to keep it clean this time, but I might goof up.
I know.

In early 2004 we were devastated to learn that Juanita’s cancer had returned, this time in her lungs. In somber tones our doctor told us he would try to keep the cancer under control as long as possible, but there was now no possible cure. At first I felt betrayed and hopeless. Juanita and I had righteous desires and plans. What about the missions we were going to serve together? What about the grandchildren we were going to strengthen spiritually? How could this happen to us?
As I went through the proclamation again, this time it was as if someone turned a flashlight on to highlight the words “Children are entitled to birth within the bonds of matrimony, and to be reared by a father and a mother.” I recognized my children were entitled to be raised by a father and a mother. This statement filled me with hope that in the face of very large medical odds Juanita would be blessed with a miracle and be healed.
We lived a fairly normal and hopeful life for about six months, but then the cancer began to take its unmistakable toll. Juanita lost weight rapidly and acquired a nearly constant and uncomfortable cough. Even the smallest exertion left her struggling for breath. Things seemed always to get worse and never better. Soon it became apparent that it was not God’s will for Juanita to live very much longer. I was at a complete loss to explain why God had not stepped forward with the miracle we so badly needed and so sincerely hoped for. But then again the words of the proclamation provided inspiration and comfort: “Sacred ordinances and covenants available in holy temples make it possible for individuals to return to the presence of God and for families to be united eternally.” Through many tears my understanding was enlarged to see that Juanita would indeed receive a miraculous healing. Because of the plan of salvation, Juanita would pass from this life into a beautiful place to be greeted by her father, our daughter who had passed away, and the Savior. Because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, Juanita would be healed and at the Resurrection receive a perfect body, free from cancer and any other illness. I could also see that through all eternity our children would have access to her influence as their mother—another miracle.
I also felt impressed that there was much we could yet do in this life to give the children continued access to her wisdom. I received a clear impression that it was time for us to stop focusing our faith on a physical miracle that was not in keeping with God’s will and focus instead on learning as much as we could from Juanita in the short time we had left. We needed to be better prepared “to return to the presence of God and for [our family] to be united eternally.” In our family testimony meeting we expressed these feelings poignantly, and their truth washed over us all. Then we went to work.
Juanita wrote her testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, and I wrote mine as well. We printed and laminated them along with our pictures in a size that would fit in the children’s scriptures. Juanita then wrote long letters in her own hand to each of the children, expressing appreciation and offering words of encouragement and advice. We recorded Juanita’s sweet voice singing hymns, Primary songs, and childhood lullabies and made CDs for each of the children and for future grandchildren. We also recorded messages to be listened to on special occasions such as going to the temple, leaving on a mission, getting married, giving birth to a child. Juanita crocheted baby blankets and bibs for future grandchildren. Our lives now became focused, full of activity, and we received great comfort from the Spirit. All this came as a result of inspiration from the proclamation.
All of our children were at Juanita’s side when she died, and each had the opportunity to share tender communication with her. She was alert and talked to us until about 10 minutes before she passed away. That’s when I told her, “I love you,” and she responded in Spanish, “Lo mismo,” which means “Same to you.” Those were her last words. Her passing was sweet.

Most of the handcart Saints experienced hardship but avoided major adverse events. But two handcart companies, the Willie company and the Martin company, experienced starvation, exposure to freezing weather, and many deaths. …
President Brigham Young first became aware of the perilous situation of these companies on October 4, 1856. …
He asked the bishops to provide 60 mule teams, 12 or more wagons, and 12 tons (10,886 kg) of flour and proclaimed, “Go and bring in those people now on the plains.”
… Without the timely rescue, many more would have perished. …

The cold winter winds had blown drifts of snow into our tent that morning. We didn’t find out until later how lucky we were—the snow had piled up on the tops of several other tents that same night, causing their roofs to collapse on the people sleeping inside. But at the time, all Tamar and Maria, two of my sisters, and I knew was that we were terribly cold and hungry.
We were camped next to the Sweetwater River with our mother and other family members, on our way to the Salt Lake Valley. It had been snowing for four days straight, and until the blizzard let up, we were stuck. And what was worse, we were quickly running out of food. Everyone in our handcart company shared their supplies equally, which meant that everyone got equally small portions. We were only allowed a handful of flour each. The night before, Mama had taken a strip of rawhide off the frame of the cart and boiled it into a sort of broth. To my brother and sisters and me, it tasted wonderful, but it did little to fill our empty stomachs. And now here we were the next morning, lying buried under a layer of quilts and a layer of snow, knowing that there would be no more food today than there was yesterday. All that stood before us was another day of cold misery.
I shut my eyes and wished that I could go back to sleep. In my dreams, at least, I was comfortable and warm. I could pretend that I was back in our lovely England, in our beautiful little cottage. I remembered the day the missionaries had spoken at our town chapel, and how Mama’s and Papa’s eyes had begun to burn with a light I had never seen before.
That was why we were here. Ever since their baptisms a few years ago, Mama and Papa had dreamed of joining the Saints in America. We had skimped and saved and finally were able to afford the price of passage on a boat to the United States.
Not being able to afford a horse or wagon, we signed on with a handcart company led by Mr. Edward Martin. Papa passed away early in the journey, and Mama’s health was very delicate. We often had to let her rest in the handcart while we three older girls pulled and pushed. She was so determined to reach Salt Lake that there was never any thought of turning back. But now, after trudging across half the American continent, it didn’t look as if we were going to get much farther. I shuddered and tried pulling the quilt closer around me. I had never felt as weak or as miserable as I did that morning.
“Patience, are you awake?” Mama’s sleepy voice came from the other side of the tent.
I groaned.
“Come, Patience, get up and help me make a fire.” I could hear the rustlings as she climbed from beneath the quilt.
The thought of leaving the small warmth provided by the quilt and my slumbering sisters made me shiver even more. “Oh, Mama,” I said, “I can’t get up. It’s too cold. And I’m so hungry! I don’t think I have the strength.”
“Tamar? How about you, lass?”
Tamar barely stirred beside me as she mumbled, “I don’t feel well, Mama, not at all. I can’t possibly get out of bed.”
Mama came over and knelt next to our huddled bodies. She put a gloved hand on Maria’s shoulder and shook her gently, saying, “Come, Maria, you get up.”
Maria groaned. “I can’t, Mama.”
Mama stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Girls, this will not do!” She pursed her lips in thought for a moment, then her face brightened. “I believe I will have to dance for you. Will that make you feel better?”
And before we could react, Mama stood on her toes and began dancing a jig, a bright lively dance from home with lots of kicking and bouncing. She also began singing an old ballad we used to sing in our village on holidays. Mama jumped and spun around, her voice cheerful and bright in the muffled stillness of the winter morning. Tamar, Maria, and I all poked our noses out from beneath the quilt to watch her, too surprised to laugh.
Then all of a sudden, Mama’s foot slipped on the snow that had drifted in through the tent door. She let out a little yelp as her feet flew out beneath her and she landed on the cold ground with a thump.
“Mama!”
In seconds, all three of us girls were at her side. We were sure that she had twisted her ankle or broken her leg or worse. But as soon as we helped her sit up, we saw that she was shaking not with pain but with silent laughter.
“Mama!” I exclaimed. “What on earth did you think you were doing, dancing like that on the snow! You could have been hurt!”
Mama chuckled again as she held us all close. “Oh, girls, I knew I had to get you out of bed somehow! I couldn’t stand the thought that my girls were getting discouraged and were going to give up. I knew that that simply would not do. So I thought that I could make you all jump up if I danced for you—especially if I fell down!”
I looked at my sisters. They looked at me. I knew at that point that no matter how hard our journey got, Mama would never let us fail. We would make it to the Salt Lake Valley if she had to drag us all along behind her.
“That was a clever little trick, Mama,” Tamar said.
“Yes,” I said as I grabbed Maria’s hand, “and now that we’re out of bed, let’s get that fire going before we all freeze to death!”

Things didn’t look too good for the first pioneers sent down by Brigham Young, either. Summer temperatures rose as high as 120 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade, and there wasn’t much shade except for mesquite trees and a few cottonwoods by the river. Rain fell seldom. And when it fell it often came as a cloudburst that brought raging floods down the dry washes.

But the settlers were not quitters. They harnessed the Muddy River for irrigation, built homes, and put down roots.

Drive through Moapa Valley today, and you will see the fruits of their labors. The valley is rich with alfalfa fields and shade trees. Deep red pomegranates ripen in the sun. Oleanders spread their fragrance, and lawns carpet the way.

Ever since he was a boy, Wilford Woodruff wanted to know which church was true. When he was 26 years old, he still had not joined any church. He lived with his brother Azmon on his farm.
Wilford: Heavenly Father, help me to know how to live my life.
On December 29, 1833, two Mormon missionaries stopped at Azmon’s house. He and Wilford were both away working, but Azmon’s wife was home.
Missionary: God has restored His Church upon the earth, and we would like to tell you more about it.
Woman: My husband and brother-in-law are not home right now, but we would definitely be interested in hearing more.
The missionaries rented the local schoolhouse that afternoon. They passed out notices inviting anybody who wanted to learn more about the gospel to come to a meeting that evening.
When Wilford got home from working, his sister-in-law told him about the meeting. He immediately turned his horses around and started to the schoolhouse, praying the whole way to know whether or not the missionaries were true followers of Christ.
Woman: But, Wilford, what about supper?
Wilford: These men could be the answer to my prayers! I must go.
Wilford arrived at the schoolhouse, which was packed with people. His brother Azmon was already there. Wilford couldn’t find an empty chair, so he sat on one of the writing desks where he could see and hear everything.
Missionary: I bear strong testimony of the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon. I also know that Joseph Smith is a prophet who has come to fulfill a great mission here on earth.
Wilford: I can feel the Spirit telling me that these are men of God.
After the missionaries were finished speaking, they asked members of the congregation if they would like to stand and say anything. Immediately, Wilford stood up and told everyone that he knew the missionaries were speaking the truth.
Wilford: The Lord urges me to bear testimony of the truth of this message. Do not oppose these men, for they are true servants of God. They have preached to us the pure gospel of Jesus Christ.
Two days later Wilford and his brother Azmon were baptized.