Gospel Story Finder

As I learned more about my duties[12] in the church, I was called to serve a mission. At first, I resisted the promptings to serve a mission because I thought I was too inexperienced to serve. One day as I was rationalizing my decision not to serve a mission to a friend of mine, J.C. Jackson, he merely said, "President Kimball has said that every worthy male member of the church should serve a mission." A short time later, I was called to serve in the Peru Lima North mission. When I opened my call, my mother asked me where that was, and I replied that I did not know. She said, "Well, you aren't going because I don't know where it is." So, a friend of mine who was there when I opened the letter found Peru on our globe, and then my Mom said, "Well, you still aren't going because that is too far away." I said, "Mom, this is from President Kimball." She said, "I know. But you still aren't going." At that point I started to wonder about serving a mission because things weren't starting off very well. So, I called my home teacher, Gil Greer. Come to find out, he had served in the exact same mission! I testify that the Lord is involved in the very details of our lives.[13] Brother Greer came over later that evening and reassured my mother that her son would be okay as he served the Lord as a full-time missionary.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for my brother who saved my life. I can remember that terrible day as if it were yesterday. I love my brother and would do anything to pay him back. I was quite young at the time, but the impact that this experience had on my life will be eternal.
It was a bright, sunny Saturday early in June. We lived in the city in a neighborhood that was very typical—a lot of kids and a lot of cars. That morning while my brother was mowing the lawn, I was playing in the driveway with my friend Jeff, who lived two houses down. Jeff was my best friend, and we were having a great time seeing who could hit the baseball past the other person. Jay, my older brother, was like no other brother in the whole world. He watched after me and was always willing to help me, even with little problems that seemed important to me. He was my example of true brotherly love. He took me everywhere; we were inseparable. Even though he was many years older than I was, I could tell he was as proud of me as I was of him. I loved my big brother, and I know he loved me.
Jeff and I were still playing hard as Jay finished mowing the lawn directly in front of the house and began to mow the small patch of grass that separated the sidewalk from the street. I admired the way Jay worked, especially when he worked hard. He was my example of what I wanted to be. Suddenly the lawn mower stopped. I guessed he hit a rock with the blade and it caused the motor to stall. I turned to see if he needed help to restart it. As I turned to Jay, Jeff let go with a throw that made me look silly. The ball zoomed out into the street, and I sped after it, not noticing the speeding truck that was coming right for me. Evidently Jay saw the truck and came running into the street after me. I never did see the truck but felt a powerful push causing me to be hurled to the other side of the street. As I fell to the ground, I could hear the sound of screeching brakes and a thud accompanied by a painful groan. My heart sank into my stomach as I picked myself up off the ground and ran over to Jay, who was lying halfway under the truck that had hit him. With tears in my eyes I sat down next to him and put my arms tightly around him in a way that only a little brother can.
“Jay, please wake up! Jay, please wake up!” I pleaded with all my heart through the tears. “Jay, please wake up!” I loved my big brother.
Soon Mom came running out of the house to see what had happened. Seeing her son on the ground, she burst into tears. She slowly bent down and put her arms around Jay, and together in the middle of the street we shared tears over the one we loved. I could hear sirens in the distance; they were going to take my big brother away. That only made me tighten my arms and cry harder. Jay was limp and becoming cold. I was scared and didn’t want to leave my brother. Dad got home from work just as the ambulance arrived, and Mom got up and ran to him. Dad came running over to Jay with tears in his eyes. He motioned me to let go so that they could lift Jay into the ambulance. As I got up, I leaned over and whispered in Jay’s ear, “I love you, Jay. Please come home.”
The drivers closed the back doors of the ambulance after Dad got in with Jay, and they began to drive off down the street. The siren was so loud and seemed to hurt as Mom picked me up in her arms. Crying together we went into the house. Mom set me down and went up to her room to be alone. She was crying harder than I’d ever seen her cry before. I, too, cried and cried hard. Even as I went to my room and kneeled down to pray, the tears still streamed down my face. I took a deep breath and began to pray through the gasps of tears, “Father in Heaven, please help Jay be well. Don’t let him die. I love Jay. Please don’t let him die!”
My tears still flowed as Mom came downstairs and slowly opened my door. She was trying hard not to cry. There was a moment of silence while she looked at me with greater love and greater sorrow than ever before. A moment passed, and then she ran over to me, picked me up in her arms, and through newly formed tears she whispered in my ear, “Kirk, I love you.” We cried together for hours.
Dad didn’t come home that night; neither did Jay. I never saw my big brother again after I held him in my arms as he lay cold and limp on the street. I was alive and Jay was dead. What had I done to deserve to live? His life was so much better than mine. My brother died for me! He died so that I could live. He saved my life.
Many years have passed since Jay pushed me out of the way of that truck. My life was changed in a matter of minutes, and I have taken it upon myself to tell the world what my brother did to save my life. I have tried to live my life in a way that will in part pay my older brother back for his sacrifice. My life was saved because someone loved me enough to suffer his life to be taken.

One day we had a special devotional about the Savior as part of our early-morning seminary class. The girl who was conducting bore her testimony of Christ, then asked each of us to share our feelings. Our teacher, Brother Pratt, added his testimony and said we each needed to know that Christ died for us individually.

As I listened to the others bear their testimonies, it occurred to me that I wasn’t really sure I had a testimony of the Savior. I had always attended church and seminary classes. And I thought that Jesus Christ was Heavenly Father’s Son and an example to follow. But I didn’t really know him to be my Savior—someone essential to my salvation.

I managed to say a few words in seminary that morning. And then I spent the next several days pondering over the experience and praying to know for myself. I received a warm feeling that the Church was true and that I should live its teachings. I felt good about that answer and decided that having a basic testimony of the gospel and living the standards of the Church would be enough. But I still didn’t understand the need for a Savior.

Then, several years later, after I had moved from home, I faced a serious crisis that left me with deep emotional and spiritual pain. Without the necessary faith in Christ to guide me, I felt lost and alone. I had stopped praying sometime earlier and had just recently decided that I would no longer go to church.

Just at that point in my life, my home teachers, Dan and Terry, came by. I was a little embarrassed because I hadn’t been to church that day and had no good excuse for my absence. The Spirit told them that something was seriously wrong, so they persisted in presenting a lesson that seemed to be especially for me. They visited with me for a while, and when it was time for them to go, they offered a powerful prayer. The Spirit lingered after them for a short time, and I felt more hopeful than I had in a long time.

I wanted that Spirit to remain. I gathered up the remnants of my faith and offered a prayer. Because I hadn’t been praying for a while, I had no real hope or expectation of an answer. But as I knelt and prayed, a black cloud lifted, and I felt an overpowering warmth come into my heart. Complete love and understanding filled the room. I was surprised at the depth and strength of the Savior’s love—how well he knew me!

There was no room for misunderstanding or doubt as he lovingly empathized with my challenges. All of a sudden, words came into my mind, telling me where I could improve. And the Savior promised me all the help I would need. I learned that there is indeed a loving Heavenly Father and a Savior, Jesus Christ, and that they know each of us as individuals. I also learned that they will give us the help we need as we extend our faith in them. And I knew that, no matter what, we must always pray.

Although I still had problems to overcome, I knew the Savior was there, ready to help. I have never felt completely alone with my problems since. I can now say, along with the hymn, “I know that my Redeemer lives.” And I am grateful.

Your “Scavengers Welcome” article in the March issue was so impressive that we just had to try it. And try it we did, with about 500 youth at our regional Mia Maid and teacher conference. It was great!
We used between 80 and 90 cooperative adults as team leaders and divided the youth up into teams of unsuspecting strangers. We then sent them out to impress an apprehensive city. Our youth gave piggyback rides to children, pulled weeds, washed cars, and along with several other things, sang Primary songs to a new type of audience!
Our feedback included the comment from one team leader that “Actually doing it was a lot better than reading about it in the New Era.” This is an activity we would like to encourage others to participate in as it is a fulfilling and rewarding experience for both the participant and the recipient.
Deanna ElisonRichland, Washington

I love going to the library to check out books. I especially like to check out books about my favorite superheroes. One time I brought a book home that I was really excited to read, but when I opened it, one of the drawings was a girl who wasn’t dressed very modestly. I brought the book to my mom, and she asked what I thought we should do about it. I said I thought we should take it back to the library and not look at it. I felt happy inside after I made the right choice.
Caleb O., age 4, Utah, USA

Twenty-one years later in the spring of 1876 Dr. Maeser, who had immigrated to the United States, was teaching school in the 20th Ward schoolhouse in Salt Lake City when a blast destroyed the building. Reporting the explosion to President Brigham Young, Karl said the school would have to be closed.
“That is exactly right, Brother Maeser,” President Young replied, “for I have another mission for you.” And that is how Karl G. Maeser was told of his call to establish the Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah.

Now for some more good news: Not only can your integrity of heart be maintained, it can actually become strengthened. A testimony of the gospel is one of the most important fortifiers we know. So taught Elder Orson Pratt, who faced the burden of leadership imposed upon him. He knew that “it required a witness independent of the testimony of others” (JD 12:85). So Brother Pratt once confided:

I sought for this witness. I did not receive it immediately, but when the Lord saw the integrity of my heart and the anxiety of my mind—when He saw that I was willing to travel hundreds of miles for the sake of learning the principles of the truth, He gave me a testimony for myself, which conferred upon me the most perfect knowledge that Joseph Smith was a true prophet, and that this book, called the Book of Mormon, was in reality a Divine revelation, and that God had once more, in reality, spoken to the human family. What joy this knowledge gave me! No language that I am acquainted with could describe the sensations I experienced when I received a knowledge from Heaven of the truth of this work. [JD 12:85]

Just as Orson Pratt’s unshakable testimony fortified him for great trials ahead, your personal testimony will strengthen you for challenges that are yet to come.

We started our marriage with an eternal perspective, and we felt that meant we should not postpone or limit the children waiting to come to our family. My husband continued his tertiary (undergraduate) studies as our family grew. By the time he entered the workforce full-time, we had five children. I continued my studies part-time so I could care for our children at home. I look back fondly on those early years. They were awesome! We were in a little apartment with two children under 15 months, living on our meager student allowance and eating a lot of mince (hamburger).
I think of those early years as our pioneer years—we were crossing the “plains” of tertiary study, starting our family, and living on limited financial resources. I feel akin—but only to a small degree—to what one of the survivors of the Martin handcart company said of their journey: “Everyone of us came through with the absolute knowledge that God lives for we became acquainted with him in our extremities.”1
In the eyes of the world, what we chose to do in those initial years of marriage did not make sense. Postponing my graduation to have children, living on one income, and sacrificing some luxuries may have seemed foolish. But the Lord told Isaiah:
“My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.
“For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts” (Isaiah 55:8–9).
Sacrificing worldly goals to follow Heavenly Father’s will for our family has been a humbling blessing in our lives.
We read in the Doctrine and Covenants that those who “are willing to observe their covenants by sacrifice … are accepted of [the Lord].
“For I, the Lord, will cause them to bring forth as a very fruitful tree which is planted in a goodly land, by a pure stream, that yieldeth much precious fruit” (D&C 97:8–9). Our five children are our precious fruit. They are undoubtedly our greatest blessings.

Emily Partridge, daughter of the first bishop of the Church in this dispensation, remembered leaving their comfortable home in Painesville, Ohio, to move to Jackson County, Missouri, in 1831 when she was just seven years old.3 Not long after, her family was driven from their home by the mob and had to relocate in Clay County. She described how they eventually found an “old log cabin that had been used for a stable. … There was one large room, and a leanto, but that was not of much use, as the floor was nearly all torn up, and the rats and rattlesnakes were too thick for comfort. There was a large fireplace in the one habitable room, and blankets were hung up a few feet back from the fire and the two families, fifteen or sixteen in number, were gathered inside of those blankets to keep from freezing for the weather was extremely cold, so cold that the ink would freeze in the pen as father sat writing close to the fire.”4

The family later moved to Illinois. Emily summarized their experience: “Times were hard and we were very destitute, having been robbed and driven from our homes and possessions so many times, and having had much sickness.”5

Sarah Louisa Chamberlain held her skirts high as she waded into the swollen river, clutching the cup of yeast she had borrowed from a neighbor. She was a spunky little girl with dark eyes and a dogged fortitude, but momentary panic seized her as the chilly flood waters nearly swept her down. It had been raining for weeks, and the Virgin River was awash with muddy water. Across from her, but downstream, she saw part of the embankment break away, then melt quickly into the rushing waters. Grimly wading on, she clamored up the river bank to the small home she and her father had built when the new settlement was being founded. The flood and rain waters had already begun to dissolve the adobe foundation. She knew then that they must quickly move to higher ground.
Solomon Chamberlain lay ill, crippled by rheumatism. He was an old man, tired and worn from his struggle in the torrid desert. And now the endless rain! His strength was gone.
Stuffing a few possessions into a small trunk, Sarah pled with her father to get up and ready himself to leave. He begged to be left alone.Resolutely she pushed him out into the storm, dragging with her the little trunk and some loose bedding. A nearby tree seemed their only refuge. Rising waters and her reluctant father convinced her of this. By boosting and pushing she urged the ailing man up into the tree. She followed, clutching their few belongings.
Shivering with fear and cold, the young girl and her father clung to the tree’s sturdy limbs, and so sat out that January night in 1862, the year of the great storm in southern Utah.
Rescue came early the following morning, but my great-great-great-grandfather Solomon Chamberlain died a few days later. My great-great-grandmother Sarah Louisa took her meager belongings and went to work for settlers’ families. She later became the second wife of Lemuel Hardison Redd, and they had 14 children.

Do you ever wish that you could have a perfect friend? The kind of friend who is always caring, friendly, polite, and understanding? The kind of friend who brings out the best in you? Maybe it’s what you think about most when you feel like you don’t have any friends, much less perfect ones. Dreams of a perfect friend are great if you’re somehow not invited to go to the party that everyone else has been talking about all week, or if you’re sitting home alone while your best friend, your sister, and even your mom and dad are out on dates. With a perfect friend, you’d never be lonely, or bored, or left out.
Youth in Louisville, Kentucky, might feel that way sometimes, but not right now. Right now they’re at youth conference, and, instead of thinking about themselves, they’re thinking about other people. Lots of other people. Children who need their help, their love, and most of all their friendship.
These teens are doing a three-day service project providing most of the volunteer support for the Spina Bifida Association of America’s yearly children’s program being held at a hotel in downtown Louisville. The program is a sort of day camp for children with spina bifida—a birth defect that affects spinal cord development. Their siblings are also invited to attend while their parents attend workshops on spina bifida. Most of the kids have leg braces, crutches, or wheelchairs, so for the Latter-day Saint youth it means three days of hard work, patience, and, hopefully, fun.
Eighteen-year-old Annie Poulsen knows that the art of making new friends requires plenty of supplies—art supplies, that is. Several months before youth conference, Annie began to gather markers, scissors, and glue from local businesses as part of a Laurel project. When the conference began, Annie and all the other volunteers used the supplies she gathered to cut, color, and paste different projects.
“Here in the art room, everybody is sitting down,” says Annie. “We’re all coloring together and having a good time. You don’t even think about the fact that some of us are in wheelchairs.”
In another room, Natalee Norton is up to her elbows in shaving cream. The infants and toddlers she has been assigned to help are too young to do the art projects that Annie helped coordinate, but they’re plenty old enough to enjoy making a mess. After a few minutes of mucking shaving cream around a large table, Natalee and the other kids and volunteers hold up their foam-covered hands, stare for just a moment, and then laugh, some of the kids making faces and holding their hands up like monster claws.
“This is really fun,” says Natalee, as she heads for the sink to rinse off. “I didn’t think it would be this much fun.”
This is John Draper’s last youth conference. In the fall he heads to college at George Washington University. As a youth director for this very busy conference, he’s going out with a bang.
“The main goal of this conference is that the children and their parents will be able to feel the love of the Savior through us,” says John. “It’s a challenge, but I think we can accomplish it.”
And that feeling, that focus of sharing Christlike love, not only to the conference participants, but to each other as well, is evident in every group and at every activity.
“We sometimes give the boys in our ward a hard time,” says Mia Maid Rochelle Neal. “But today I got to see a little different side to them, playing with all the kids and having a great time. They were all really great.”
Austin Latchaw didn’t know much about spina bifida before this conference began. He still probably couldn’t tell you much scientific information about it, but he knows that it has made it difficult for his new friend, eight-year-old Jay, to use his legs.
“Jay has a really good attitude about everything,” says Austin. “He came all the way from Indiana with his family to be here, and he just makes friends with everyone. It’s hard for him to walk, and a lot of these kids have to use wheelchairs, but they are happy anyway—very happy. It makes you feel good just to be around them.”
Michael Draper, a teacher, found a buddy on the basketball court.
“I played a lot of ball with my new friend Chris today,” he says. “At first I think we both felt a little awkward since we didn’t really know each other. But by the end of the day, he was my friend.”
Since the youth of the Louisville stake go to several different schools and live fairly far from one another, youth conference is one of the few times all year that they get to spend a sustained amount of time with each other. Their time together is precious. When their volunteer work is done for the day, they gear up for evening sports, games, or dancing. There’s not a lot of sleeping (they can do that when youth conference ends), but no one seems tired. In fact, after a whole day of pushing wheelchairs, playing children’s games, and standing in the sun, these youth seem energized.
“I wasn’t sure I wanted to come to youth conference,” confides 15-year-old Rebecca Eve. “I thought the days would be long and boring, but now I don’t want it to end. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
There’s a good feeling at the conference, and it seems to be contagious. Even people assigned to less exciting jobs—like serving as runners for the nurses’ station or guarding a large staircase to ensure that no one goes tumbling down it in a wheelchair—seem to be having fun.
“I thought these kids would need a lot of help,” says Mia Maid Ashley Holmes. “But really, we are just here to talk to them and be their friends. Since we’re actively involved with what’s going on the whole time, it’s a lot of fun, just as much fun as a regular youth conference, if not more.”
Since the SBAA hosts its annual conference in a different city each year, it’s not likely that it will be held in Louisville again for a long time. Chances are, most of these participants and volunteers will never see each other again. With the activities winding down, the youth want to give their new friends one last memorable experience.
On the last day of the conference all the children and their parents gather in the hotel lobby for a special goodbye. The youth have prepared a song called “We Are the Hands of Heaven” to leave a final, spiritual message. The song has been carefully prepared and rehearsed, complete with two flute players and someone “singing” the words in American Sign Language. The piano begins and the voices start out strong. But then someone looks out into the crowd and sees the smiling face of a new friend, looking up intently from where she is seated in her tiny wheelchair. Tears begin to stream down a few cheeks, then a few more, and finally hardly anyone is left with dry eyes. The song, still beautiful, is sung more softly than in rehearsal. No one seems to mind.
When the song ends, one little girl rushes toward two of the volunteers and says, “You made my eyes water!” A little boy moves his crutches as fast as he can to catch up with two priests. “Here’s my address,” he says a little shyly. “Will you write me?”
As the youth leave the hotel for the last time, some smiling, some a little teary, the atmosphere is quiet. There are lots of things to think about.
There’s a dance tonight, a ’50s theme dance which everyone will dress up for. Later, there will be a devotional. Tomorrow morning, a testimony meeting. It’s all pretty much the same as any youth conference, but they feel just a little different. It’s been a unique three days.
And as they are thinking about all the new friends they’ve made and all the old friendships they’ve strengthened, they may briefly think about that perfect friend. The one who always knows just what to say, the one you can always count on.
Perhaps they’ll never find that perfect friend. But after the last three days maybe, just maybe, they’re a little closer to being one.

I was 13 years old, and Dad had just bought a new lawn mower. This wasn’t your typical push-from-behind lawn mower. It was one of those riding, three-forward-gears-and-two-backward-gears kind. It had electronic ignition and cut a swath about three feet wide. And it had headlights.
That was the problem. I wasn’t used to cutting our four-and-a-half-acre Pennsylvania lawn with a fancy riding mower. I’d been using an old, beat-up rider that Dad bought from one of our neighbors when we moved into our new house. It had only one forward speed and one backward speed. And no headlights. The headlights on our new mower jutted out a bit on either side. And that spelled trouble.
After I’d cut the lawn a couple of times, I was feeling quite confident with the new mower. I was amazed at how I could finish the job in only four hours. But as I was cutting around a group of pine trees that lined part of our driveway, I tried to get a little too close. I didn’t notice a branch that was in the way of the mower. As I went around a certain tree in second gear, I ran right into the branch. It bent the frame around the headlight, knocking the glass cover to the ground, where it lay broken in two.
Panicked, I turned the mower off and jumped down to inspect the damage. It was bad. It was ugly. But it was nothing compared to the tongue-lashing I imagined I’d get from Dad.
I tried and tried to fix the dent near the headlight. With the help of a hammer, I was finally able to pound the dent out and get it close to its original position. Although the metal was dented and the paint was cracked, it would do. But I still had a problem—the glass. The good thing, though, was that a clean break left two pieces that fit nicely together.
I ran into the house and found some tape. I put the pieces of glass together and held them to the headlight. Then I wrapped and wrapped the tape around the light. It wasn’t pretty, but from a distance—like about a hundred yards—you couldn’t tell the difference.
By this time it was getting dark outside, so I went into the house and tried my best to act like nothing had happened.
Weeks passed. And each week as I saw the broken headlight, guilt rode me like I rode the lawn mower. I tried to put the incident out of my mind, but I couldn’t. And because I didn’t dare tell my dad what had happened, the accident left an ugly scar on both the mower and my soul.
Near the end of the summer, the mower had to be serviced. Dad backed up the pickup and put some planks in place for a ramp. He asked me to drive the mower into the back of the pickup. I knew I had to confess. If I didn’t tell Dad what happened soon, he would see it for himself. But I couldn’t get up the nerve. Dad watched me drive the mower up. He said nothing.
All the way to the service center my stomach felt like twisted knots. We dropped off the mower and went home. I thought then that Dad hadn’t noticed the headlight. But I know now that he had.
A week later we went to pick up the mower. I had literally made myself sick over this headlight. The man at the service center drove the lawn mower onto the bed of Dad’s pickup. Dad still didn’t say a thing about the headlight. On the way home, I thought I was going to get sick right then and there. My face felt hot. My palms were sweaty. My mouth was dry. I had to confess.
But all I could get out was “Dad.” Then the tears came. Boy, did they come. I think Dad must have thought I was having an appendicitis attack. It sure felt like I was. He quickly pulled over as he exclaimed, “What’s wrong?”
I cried and cried. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. Dad put his hand on my shoulder and asked if I was okay.
“Dad,” I finally said through my tears and sniffles, “I broke the light on the lawn mower. I’m sorry.”
Dad put the parking brake on, slid next to me, and wrapped his arms around me. He just held me for a minute or two. Then the words I had hoped for—even prayed for—came.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.”
A wonderful peace came over me as I felt his arms around me and heard his voice say those words. I sobbed some more.
“I didn’t mean to do it. It happened a long time ago. I’m sorry!”
“I know,” he said. “It’s okay.”
A few minutes later, we were sipping strawberry shakes. Dad didn’t have to say anything more. His countenance said it all.
I’ve never forgotten the peace that came over me once I admitted everything. It was so hard to tell Dad I had broken the headlight. But once I confessed, my mind, my spirit, and even my knotted stomach were relieved. I was at peace with myself.
It’s hard to confess our sins to those we’ve offended. But once we get the words out, peace can come in.
There have been times since then that I’ve had to humble myself and confess to the Lord of far more serious wrecks I’ve caused in my life. It’s at these times that I think of a broken headlight, a loving earthly father, and a merciful Heavenly Father.

I had always considered myself to be a “good listener” until that night. Being raised in the middle of a large family had forced me to do my share of listening just to keep the decibel level to a low roar in my home. But I didn’t realize, until that night, that listening required more of me than just being quiet. I didn’t realize, until that night, how desperately someone could need to be listened to.
It had been a long day. In order for me to stay in school at Brigham Young University, I had to work part-time at night and go to school and study during the day. I was feeling tired and a little sorry for myself as I walked into the cafeteria late that night after a particularly hard day. The cafeteria was almost empty at that late hour.
I picked up my dinner tray and turned around to find a table. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a girl sitting alone at one of the tables. She was staring at her food with her head bowed. A large backpack, books, and papers were scattered all over the table where she was sitting. By all appearances, she obviously wanted to be left alone. There were plenty of empty tables and I started to walk toward one of them to sit down.
Suddenly I felt impressed to sit down next to the girl that I had noticed. Even though I was usually reserved, I found myself walking toward her table. I tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if I could sit next to her.
She silently and reluctantly agreed as she began to move her books and papers off the table. Her appearance and posture and manner all told me that she wanted to be left alone, and I wondered why I was being so intrusive.
Then we started to talk, slowly and cautiously at first. I felt strangely as if she were a lifetime friend of mine that I hadn’t seen for a long time, and I wanted to know all about her and what was happening to her. We both spoke freely, maybe even more freely than real friends because we had no images to maintain and no reputations to uphold.
The young girl told me about some extremely depressing things that were happening in her life at that time. We talked for hours. Then the tears came.
After several hours had gone by, she looked at me and said, “Tonight I was sitting here alone again, and I felt and really believed that I didn’t have a friend in this whole world. I couldn’t think of even one person that cared about me. I was sitting here thinking how I could do away with myself when you walked up and asked me if you could sit next to me. You’ll never know what you’ve done for me tonight. I’ve only known you for a few hours, but I know that you are my friend and that you care about me. There must still be a God that cares for me if you can care for me.”
Later we embraced and walked away in separate directions. I turned, suddenly remembering that I didn’t even know her name. But she had disappeared into the night.
As I walked toward home, I was feeling pretty good about myself knowing that I had heeded the impression to sit next to the girl. My problems seemed pretty small compared to hers.
Then suddenly it hit me like a brick. All the times I had been similarly impressed to speak to someone, to spend time with someone, to call someone, or to say an encouraging word to someone, flashed before my mind. I remembered the excuses of not wanting to be too forward, or being too tired or worried about my own problems, or all the millions of reasons I had used for not heeding the promptings that I often received.
I suddenly wondered how many of those people I had neglected had needs as desperate as those of the young girl that I had just talked to.
Never before had I realized that to truly be a “good listener” I had to first learn to listen to the whisperings of the Holy Spirit. Alone, without the Spirit, I was unable to discern the real needs of the people around me. With the Spirit, I could listen with my heart as well as my mind.
I will probably never see that girl again, but I hope I will never again fail to listen to the impressions that the Spirit gives me.

An elder in our mission has had some pretty serious health problems. He has a skin allergy, bronchial problems, and sinus problems. When I arrived in the mission, he was sleeping in for fear of coming to a weakened condition and catching the flu. Then when he came in for lunch, he was sleeping for a couple of hours to keep from catching a cold or the flu. His companion was frustrated and called me.

I called the elder’s doctor. He said, “Well, his condition is bad, but it’s better than it was when he came into the mission field. It’s not going to change much no matter how many hours he works.” I called the elder into the office and suggested that I would rather see him sick with the flu legitimately than always worrying about it. I discussed with him the principle of suffering in silence, of simply going to work and doing what the Lord had called him to do. I said, “The doctor says your condition isn’t going to change no matter how much or how little you do. We’ve done and are doing all we can do. Why don’t you learn to bear your health problems without mentioning them to anyone else or showing any signs of being ill.”

Bless his great heart, he took the counsel and put it into practice. He has become one of the top missionaries in the mission. He was made a training senior companion and then a district leader, all within about six weeks. What a great missionary he is now. He discovered how to suffer in silence and do the work. He is a great example of self-denial.

Two weeks ago we were riding a plane from San Francisco to Sydney, Australia. We noted a young man in a nearby seat reading the book Joseph Smith, an American Prophet. When opportunity presented itself, I spoke to him. I told him that I had read the book, that I had known the author, and asked him what his interest was. He said, among other things, that he had an interest in prophets and that this matter of a possible modern prophet had intrigued him. He had picked up the book at the library. We had a lengthy conversation in which I bore my witness that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet. Not only did he speak of things to come, but more importantly, he was a revealer of eternal truth and a testifier of the divine mission of the Lord Jesus Christ. I am hopeful that that young man, as he continues his studies, will have come into his heart a similar testimony. I feel confident that he will.

Illustration by Allen Garns
Our vacation was ending. Over waffles that morning, we planned how to make the most of our time at the hotel before enduring the five-hour drive home. My husband decided to take our three young daughters for a final escapade in the pool. I would take advantage of a treadmill in the workout room.
The treadmill I chose faced a wall-sized window overlooking the swimming pool. Shortly I saw a family, my family, make their way to the pool. Towels, shoes, and T-shirts flew everywhere as the girls excitedly prepared to jump into the water. Normally I would be following behind them, gathering up clothes and shoes and, quite honestly, being a bit annoyed by it all. Instead, I saw this family from the outside looking in, as though the giant window before me was a movie screen. As my feet pounded a rhythm on the rotating belt beneath, I watched.
I saw how happy everyone was, laughing and playing together, and I thought about the times I had become discouraged by the petty arguments that inevitably arise in a family, by the uneasy feeling that, despite my best effort, I was failing to teach my children to love each other. But as I watched, I saw people who were happy together. I discovered that I wasn’t failing to teach them to love one another; I was just failing to notice that they could.
I watched one of the girls jumping from the pool’s edge over and over again into her daddy’s arms. I thought about all the big jumps she would make throughout her life and hoped she would trust Heavenly Father to catch her each time. I knew that with each jump she was learning to trust and that being part of our family was a safe way to learn that trust.
Another daughter sought to perfect a swimming skill. I saw how her family’s encouragement kept her trying. There would be times in her life when she would need that same support in the face of more difficult challenges.
And then I watched as our third daughter was accidentally bumped into the pool. Upset and angry, she sputtered her way out of the water and into a chair. Immediately her family noticed she was missing. I watched each one lovingly encourage her to rejoin them. She eventually did, and I thought of her future, of all the times she would be hurt and feel like giving up. I hoped she would always find in the love of her family the strength to endure.
Suddenly, the realization hit me: our families can be a key to our ability to learn, understand, and live the gospel. Nephi noted that “by small means the Lord can bring about great things” (1 Nephi 16:29). And so it is with families. Yes, parents struggle. But every effort to teach and train and love, no matter how small, matters.
My little movie drew to a close. As I turned off the treadmill and watched my family gather their clothes, I felt renewed determination to keep going, to keep doing all the little things that I sometimes worry don’t make a difference.

It’s something like the experience of a young girl who was walking with her grandmother. The song of the birds was glorious to the little girl, and she pointed out every sound to her grandmother.
“Do you hear that?” the little girl asked again and again. But her grandmother was hard of hearing and could not make out the sounds.
Finally, the grandmother knelt down and said, “I’m sorry, dear. Grandma doesn’t hear so well.”
Exasperated, the little girl took her grandmother’s face in her hands, looked intently into her eyes, and said, “Grandma, listen harder!”
There are lessons in this story for both the nonbeliever and the believer. Just because we can’t hear something doesn’t mean there is nothing to hear. Two people can listen to the same message or read the same scripture, and one might feel the witness of the Spirit while the other doesn’t.
On the other hand, in our efforts to help our loved ones experience the voice of the Spirit and the vast, eternal, and profound beauty of the gospel of Jesus Christ, telling them to “listen harder” may not be the most helpful way.
Perhaps better advice—for anyone who wants to increase faith—is to listen differently.

After some time, I heard that the man who assaulted me had been released from prison again and had assaulted another woman. I thought, “This can’t keep going on.” I decided I needed to do something to try to change the law to have harsher sentences for repeat sex offenders. I came up with a proposal for Ireland’s minister for justice to implement. Officials from the minister’s office declined my proposal. They said the laws at the time were adequate.

I decided to start a media campaign to gain support for my proposal. I’m grateful for the past 30 years of Church membership because I have given many talks and lessons, which gave me skills for public speaking and the confidence to write the emails, make the phone calls, and knock on doors for the campaign. I worked with journalists on television, radio, and newspapers. They were great. They ran the story and did it justice. They were true to the story and true to the campaign, and this kept the issue in the public eye.

I also worked with a local politician who helped me formulate another proposal that gained enough support. After much work, the bill finally passed on January 16, 2019.

While campaigning for this new law, I became emotionally exhausted at times. I had to tell my story so many times and try to hold it together during TV, radio, and newspaper interviews. It wore me down, and I could feel at times the weight of everything coming in on me. I could feel a kind of darkness around me and dark thoughts come into my mind. I felt like I could not make a difference and sometimes asked myself why I was even trying. At those times, prayer, scripture reading, and ministering to others helped me so much. I have such a strong testimony that prayer works. If it weren’t for prayer, I would have collapsed mentally years ago. I also went to my branch president for priesthood blessings. I’m grateful to Heavenly Father for putting the right people in my path to help me.

Amy Adams of Washington, USA, was trying to decide which activities would be best for her three young children when a conversation with her mother changed her mind. “What if you gave your children something better than training in sports or dance?” Amy’s mother asked. “What if by staying home, they could learn to feel the Spirit more?” Then her mother reminded her of what President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, has taught about the power of focusing on life’s basic relationships (see, for example, “Of Things That Matter Most,” Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2010, 19–22).
Amy and her husband, Brett, prayed about and pondered this counsel and felt it would be a good idea for their family to spend more time together at home. For one year, they chose to forgo dance and sports; instead they prepared meals, learned Primary songs, visited museums, and played outdoors. “Our children were able to feel the Spirit … because we took the time to stop and listen,” Amy says. Their children may not be the top sports and dance stars, she says, “but they have a testimony of the Savior.”
Amy and Brett prayed to know how they should personally follow the counsel of modern prophets, and doing so allowed them to receive inspiration for their family. Amy says this inspiration led to her “proudest moments as a mother.”

Eighteen years ago, my wife and I received a phone call from President James E. Faust, then Second Counselor in the First Presidency. He called us to serve as mission president and companion in Portugal. He told us that we had only six weeks before we started the mission. Although we felt unprepared and inadequate, we accepted the call. Our most important concern at the time was to obtain the visas required to serve in that country because, according to past experience, we knew the process took six to eight months to complete.
President Faust then asked if we had faith that the Lord would perform a miracle and that we would be able to solve the visa problem faster. Our answer was a big yes, and we started making the arrangements immediately. We prepared the documents required for the visas, took our three young children, and went to the consulate as fast as we could. A very nice lady met with us there. In reviewing our papers and getting acquainted with what we were going to do in Portugal, she turned to us and asked, “Are you really going to help the people of my country?” We firmly answered yes and explained that we would represent Jesus Christ and testify of Him and His divine mission in the world. We returned there four weeks later, received our visas, and landed in the mission field within the six weeks, as a prophet of the Lord had asked us to do.