Gospel Story Finder

I was a young mother with five children under the age of six. My husband, Van, had just finished his first year of law school. We were a gospel-oriented family and had been blessed by the Lord; in fact, our married life was virtually free from serious adversity. My life revolved around my family. I loved being a wife and mother, and yet sometimes I realized my life was so filled with housework and daily tasks that it lacked spiritual intensity. Still, I did not know how to change it. We tried to express gratitude for our blessings, but without real opposition, how does one know how truly blessed he is?
Lehi’s instruction to Jacob that there must be opposition in all things (see 2 Ne. 2:11–15) was soon to acquire new significance in my life. I know now that it takes opposition, suffering, adversity to awaken us to the genuinely valuable things in life. I have also come to know that one of the greatest lessons that can come from adversity is learning to accept the Lord’s will and to depend wholly upon him.
For some time I had been having dizzy spells, nausea, loss of balance, and other disturbing symptoms. I had a nursing baby. Van was preparing for law finals. It was a terrible time for me to get sick, but I was, and we had to do something about it. After my doctor checked my inner ears, he sent me to a neurologist, who promptly put me in the hospital for tests.
The tests were painful and left me with intense headaches and nausea. Many times I prayed for relief of pain and strength to endure, and I was surprised and humbled by the quick response to my prayers. The doctors were looking for a tumor which was a little frightening, but Van and I naively imagined it would be something simple and operable and that I would be all right. Imagine my feelings when the neurologist came in one morning, looking very grave and upset, and said they had found a brain-stem tumor. It was serious. He told my husband such a tumor was inoperable and that it was probably malignant. We were stunned. Suddenly our optimism vanished. The future seemed bleak.
I kept thinking of all the reasons I could not die: I could not leave Van—how would he manage? And what about my babies?
Many were praying for us. I found out weeks later, and am still touched when I think of it, that my mother prayed that, if possible, she would take my place should someone die. What love she showed! Our ward fasted and prayed, and I was deeply moved. While I was in the hospital I had no idea of the many wonderful people who were concerned.
My husband was a man in anguish. There were no regrets, but oh, we had planned to grow old together! We had always been close. How could we possibly get along without each other? He prayed for understanding, peace of mind, and the courage to accept whatever happened.
I, too, prayed to have the right attitude. But it escaped me, until one morning I opened the Bible at random and was struck forcefully by the Lord’s words to Peter, “Lovest thou me more than these?” (John 21:15.) He seemed to be asking me that question. Did I love the Lord more than anything—more, even, than life itself? Yes, I told the Lord. Yes, I really did.
Finally, I was able to reconcile my feelings, to say, “Thy will be done” and really mean it. And when I could do that, I was filled with an inexpressible peace. I was no longer afraid. When I cried, it was because of my babies. How I hated to leave them to be raised by others! But we were an eternal family, sealed in the temple, and surely we would be together again.
During this period I felt very clearly the true significance of time on earth. In the eternal scheme, it is really so short, even if it lasts a hundred years. Those who are left on earth do miss the one who goes, but they should fill their lives with good things, and try to keep growing. The one who has died will be very busy in the spirit world.
Following my reconciliation with God, I felt a constant burning of the Spirit, and strength flowed from me to my loved ones. I began to understand that there were many in the spirit world waiting for me, and I would not need to feel afraid or alone. My loving father and my stepfather were both there to be with me. Yet the thought occurred to me over and over that I must keep my life in order. If somehow I were to live, I should see to it that I was prepared to die.
The doctors decided to give me a final test—a very painful injection of air into the spinal fluid. This would help pinpoint the tumor and perhaps tell the doctors more about it for possible cobalt treatments. Before the test, I received a beautiful priesthood blessing, promising that I would leave the hospital.
While I was recovering from the test, the doctor approached my family in amazement: there was no tumor. There was actually a space where the tumor had been, but nothing was there. The doctors had no explanation. They admitted to being baffled.
Suddenly I knew what the expression “a new lease on life” really meant. I had a new lease. After all, we are all here by the generosity of a loving Father and according to his wisdom. My “lease” had been renewed. After seventeen days in the hospital, I left, barely able to walk but supremely happy. This was the answer to the prayers of many faithful, wonderful people, and the blessing and power of the priesthood.
As I grew stronger, my life was once again filled with all the mundane chores of cooking, cleaning, laundry, and diaper changing. It was also, more than ever, filled with gratitude and happiness, and with an understanding of the need to constantly seek the Spirit, carefully teach the gospel to our children, and strive for more meaning in prayer.
My constant prayer now is that I will live to be worthy of the Lord’s confidence in me. None of us knows how long we may live. I hope to make the best of all the time I may have.

I recall an experience I heard at a stake conference in Idaho. A farm family in the community had just contracted for the installation of an additional and much-needed room on their home. Three or four days later the father came to the building supply dealer and said, “Will it be all right with you if we cancel the contract? The bishop talked with my son John about a mission last night. We will need to set this additional room aside for a while.” The building supply dealer responded, “Your son will go on his mission, and he will find the needed room when he returns.” Here was the spirit of Christianity—a family sending a boy into the world to teach the gospel, and friends coming to help the family with their problems. What then, indeed, shall we do with Jesus who is called Christ?

In 2000, Lucas Bento traveled from Mozambique to Lisbon, Portugal where his brother lived, to receive medical treatment for a chronic illness. He stayed with his brother and made weekly visits to a nearby hospital. Lucas was a faithful member of a Protestant church in Mozambique and was anxious to attend services during his stay in Lisbon. When he asked his brother where he might find the local Protestant church, he was told that there was not one in the area, but that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, was nearby. His brother was not a member of the Church but was familiar with the missionaries and knew that they were frequently in the neighborhood visiting people. Lucas’ brother knew that the missionaries would gladly take him to church.
Lucas began meeting with the missionaries and soon expressed an interest in becoming a member. He was particularly impressed with the commandments and teachings of the Church, such as the Word of Wisdom, the law of chastity and the importance of having a living prophet. One scripture in the Book of Mormon was important to his search for the true Church. In 3 Nephi 27:8, he read, “And how be it my church save it be called in my name?” Lucas Bento gained a testimony of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and was baptized on 9 June 2002. He was ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood and soon returned to his village in Mozambique where he was the only member of the Church.
Brother Bento’s branch president in Lisbon instructed him not to join another church when he returned to Mozambique, but to gather his family and teach them the gospel of Jesus Christ. Brother Bento asked the missionaries in Portugal why the Church was not in Mozambique. When he discovered that the Church was indeed in his country, he wrote the mission president in Maputo asking for directions to the Church. Missionaries were sent to visit Brother Bento in Nampula. He showed them his baptismal and Aaronic Priesthood ordination certificates, and arrangements were made to ordain Brother Bento to the Melchizedek Priesthood. He wrote again to tell the mission president that he had followed the directions of his branch president in Lisbon and had been teaching his family and friends. There were 18 people ready to be baptized.
Brother Bento continues to share the gospel with his neighbors and is now the group leader for a small congregation in the village of Luaha, Mozambique. There, close to 80 members have joined the Church as a result of Brother Bento’s missionary efforts. He loves the gospel of Jesus Christ and continues to teach his neighbors about the prophet Joseph Smith and the Restoration. Brother Bento recently traveled to the temple in Johannesburg, South Africa, to be endowed and sealed to his wife. “When I went to Lisbon,” he says, “I did not go just for my illness; it was Heavenly Father’s will. Over my year in Portugal, I went to five hospitals and was still was not cured. But I now understand that I went to Portugal to find the true Church of Jesus Christ.”

One beautiful spring day, I heard a knock at my front door—then another and another. It sounded like the knocks came from little hands.
Dropping a basket of clean laundry on the couch, I opened the door. There stood Wade, Savannah, Mace, and Zane. At once they began showering me with questions: “Is it OK if we pull the weeds in your garden?” “May Mom and Dad trim your bushes?” “What color are your favorite flowers?”
For a moment I stood there speechless. Then I asked, “Would you like to come in to visit?”
The children smiled up at me. “Oh, no,” they said. “We’re not here to visit. We’re here to help you!”
The children showed me the tools they had brought. “May we get started?” they asked. “We will be careful of your purple flowers.”
Soon eight little helping hands were busy at work as four happy voices filled the air. All day long they worked, pulling weeds and planting flowers.
What a beautiful example of love and service those children set for me. I will always remember their kindness—and the gorgeous marigolds they planted in my garden with their little helping hands.

The second experience also involved the loss of an ox and the ill treatment of Mary Fielding Smith by a wagon master who had had personal differences with her. Whenever people are thrown together in such a manner as they were in pioneer companies, tempers in some are prone to flare, and frictions may develop. Almost every boy who has attended a scout camp or national guard camp, or girl a girl’s camp, is aware of this problem.
So, it was almost inevitable that friction would arise among pioneer companies.
The difference of opinion in this case had arisen from the fact that the supervisor had felt Widow Smith was not prepared with sufficient supplies and equipment to reach the valley and that she would be a burden upon any company she joined. Finally, he concluded, “I will have to carry you along or leave you on the way.” To which Mary Fielding Smith replied, “I will beat you to the valley and will ask no help from you either.” And thus the verbal battle lines were drawn and the company set off. All proceeded about as well as possible until about midway between the Platte and the Sweetwater Rivers, at which time one of Sister Smith’s oxen laid down in the yoke as if poisoned. To all outward appearances the ox was in the throes of death. It stiffened out spasmodically, and all supposed it would die momentarily. The wagons behind were also brought to a stop as the captain of the company came running forward, “blustering about, as if the world were about at an end.”
“There,” said he, “I told you you would have to be helped and that you would be a burden on the company.” But in this he was mistaken. Producing a bottle of consecrated oil, Widow Smith asked her brother and James Lawson if they would please administer to the ox just as they would do to a sick person, for it was vital to her interest that the ox be restored. Her earnest plea was complied with. These brethren poured oil on the head of the ox and then laid their hands upon it and rebuked the power of the destroyer. Immediately the ox got up and within a very few moments again pulled in the yoke as if nothing had ever happened. This was a great astonishment to the company. Before the company had proceeded very far, another of her oxen fell down as the first, but with the same treatment he also got up, and this was repeated the third time.
Through all of these proceedings young Joseph F. was an observer, sensing the power of the priesthood being exhibited by his uncle, but also noting the deep faith of his widowed mother, a woman who was to leave a deep impression upon his life. Four years after entering the valley—at the age of fourteen—he was to lose his mother to death, and then was without father or mother.

The many Beehive and Mia Maid girls in this audience remind me of this little anecdote written by a sister who was preparing for a Young Women activity. She said: “My 5-year-old daughter asked me how many ‘Honeyhives’ I had. After a little discussion, I determined she was talking about Beehives. I counted the young women who were Beehives and told her. She had made a paper airplane for each young woman, and proceeded to count out the appropriate number of airplanes.
“When she was finished, she still had a few paper airplanes left. After a moment of thought, she asked, ‘How many Mermaids do you have?’”

The call of duty came to John E. Page when the Prophet Joseph Smith extended to him a call to serve as a missionary. John E. Page “murmured” and responded, “Brother Joseph, I can’t go on a mission to Canada. I don’t even have a coat to wear.”

The Prophet Joseph removed his own coat, handed it to Brother Page, and said, “Here, take this and the Lord will bless you.” John E. Page went on that mission to Canada and, during a two-year period, walked five thousand miles and baptized six hundred people. (See Andrew Jenson, “John E. Page,” The Historical Record, 5:57.)

Brother Paul himself was a convert to the Church. While in Nassau as consul general, he became interested in the Church, made inquiries, flew to Utah, and attended general conference there. Impressed by what he learned, he was referred to two LDS families living in the Bahamas—the McCombs and the Ballards. These families had been holding church services in their homes. Alexander Paul and his family were taught the gospel and baptized. It was then that he invited the Ferriers to investigate the gospel.

Nell was so excited she could hardly wait to change her Sunday clothes and run out to tell Dad what she had learned at conference. She didn’t even take time to put on her shoes, but ran barefoot across the dusty yard.
It was June 1899. There had been no rain in southern Utah for more than two years. The streams and even the wells around St. George had dried up. No crops could grow without water, and thousands of cattle had died on the range. Some of the families had already moved, and now Dad was also preparing to leave. Earlier that morning he had decided he was too busy packing the wagon to go to conference, even though President Lorenzo Snow had come all the way from Salt Lake City to talk to the people.
“Dad! Oh, Dad!” Nell called as she ran to him. “You can take our things out of the wagon. We don’t have to leave! In conference today President Snow said if the people will pay their tithing and plant their fields, the rains will come and we’ll have food.”
But Dad didn’t seem to understand. He just shook his head and sat down on the tongue of the wagon, staring out across the barren fields.
Dad had explained again and again that they could not live through another year without rain. There was very little food on their pantry shelves, and all the money that was left was the twenty dollars Grandfather had given to Nell.
Later that evening as Dad was washing up for dinner, Nell overheard him tell Mother they should all be ready to start at six the next morning. “We can make Thomson’s ranch by noon if we do,” he said.
The family sat down to a simple meal. No one spoke. Nell felt so sad she could hardly choke down the food. Finally she swallowed hard and said, “Grandfather once told me a story about how the people were blessed by doing exactly as Brigham Young asked them to do.”
Her father and mother stopped eating to listen as Nell continued, “When I said I wished I had lived then so I could have followed a prophet, Grandfather said that President Snow is our prophet today just like Brigham Young was then and that we should all follow him.”
After Nell finished telling the story, she asked Dad to take her precious twenty dollars. “You can give it to Bishop Thorne,” she explained, “to help bring rain to St. George!”
Early the next morning Nell looked out the window and saw a great cloud of dust blowing at the far end of the field. She dressed quickly and ran out across the dry ground.
When Dad saw her, he stopped the horses and held out his arms. Nell flew into them and he held her close. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said. “I thought you’d never get here in time to help me plow the field and plant our seeds!”
During the hot dry weeks that followed, the people of St. George anxiously scanned the cloudless sky and sadly shook their heads. But neither Nell nor her father were at all surprised when on the second of August it began to rain.

One day I attended a conference with our one-year-old daughter. In the conference, an Area Seventy talked about the responsibility of parents to teach the gospel to their children. He then made a promise that left a huge impression on me. He said: “If, after everything you can do to teach the gospel, one of your children leaves the Church, they will still be blessed because of the memory of the things they experienced at home.”

The words of that Area Seventy filled me with hope because I had nieces and nephews who had left the Church. Years later my daughter, the same one-year-old I held in my arms during that conference, left the Church when she turned 17. She had met someone who was not rooted in the gospel, and they got married. She never went to church after that.

This was painful for me. I asked myself over and over what we did wrong. Her father and I always tried to keep the commandments and serve in the Church. We love our children and want the best for them. After many tears and questions, we finally concluded that children grow, exercise their agency, and don’t always believe the things they’re taught at home.

Unfortunately, my daughter’s marriage fell apart, and she still doesn’t want to come back to the Church. All I can do is remember the promise that she will remember and be blessed because of the things she was taught at home.

I continue to pray for my daughter. I love her with all my heart, and it hurts me to see her distanced from the Church. But I know that, despite my imperfections, the things I taught her are right and true. I know that Heavenly Father is just and loving and that He listens to our prayers. Without any doubt in my heart, I know that if I do my part, He will answer them in the moment He sees right.

Rebecca Rosanne couldn’t stop following things. She followed the big brown garbage truck as it crawled like a giant beetle from dumpster to dumpster in the apartment complex where she lived.
She followed the gardener on his riding lawn mower. And she followed the letter carrier in his little white jeep with the red and blue stripes. But every time Rebecca Rosanne followed something, she followed it so far that she got lost.
“Rebecca Rosanne,” her mother would say, “when will you stop following everything that moves!”
Rebecca Rosanne would hang her head. She never meant to get lost by following things. But she was curious about trucks and jeeps and lawn mowers. She was curious about the letter carrier’s bag of mail.
One day Rebecca Rosanne was digging in the sandbox when a strange bus drove into her neighborhood. It wasn’t orange like the bus the older children rode to school. It was green and black.
Rebecca Rosanne was curious. She ran to the parking lot, where the bus had stopped. People lined up to climb the three tall steps into the bus. So did Rebecca Rosanne. When she looked inside, she was surprised. Instead of seats on this bus, there were shelves of books. She followed a boy to the back, where there were some picture books on a rack.
Rebecca Rosanne pulled out a book and sat down on the steps that led to the back door of the bus. She smiled when she turned to the first page. There was a picture of a letter carrier beside a white jeep with red and blue stripes. A picture on another page showed where the letter carrier got the mail.
Then Rebecca Rosanne found a bigger book about trucks. She was so busy looking at this book that she didn’t notice the other people leave the bus. She didn’t hear the driver close the front door and start the engine. Before Rebecca Rosanne knew what was happening, the bus full of books was gently swaying as it drove out of the parking lot.
When it stops at the next apartment building, I’ll get off, thought Rebecca Rosanne.
But the bus didn’t stop at the next apartment building. Instead, it drove onto the main highway and headed downtown. Rebecca Rosanne was scared. She had never followed anything that far before. Her stomach felt as if she’d swallowed a bowlful of cold, wiggly worms.
Finally the bus pulled into a driveway behind a red brick building and stopped. Rebecca Rosanne heard the driver walking toward the back of the bus. When the driver saw her, he said in a kind voice, “Well, it looks like somebody hitched a ride on the bookmobile.” He bent down and asked, “What’s your name?”
Rebecca Rosanne was still scared, but she told the driver her name.
“Well, Rebecca Rosanne, climb off the bookmobile while I lock up. Then we’ll go into the library and call your mother.”
While she waited, Rebecca Rosanne said to herself several times the word bookmobile. She thought that a bus full of books was even better than a garbage truck.
And when Rebecca Rosanne saw what was inside the red brick building the driver had called the library, she was even more pleased. Books were everywhere!
A woman behind a high counter smiled kindly, then said softly, “This must be Rebecca Rosanne. Your mother just called. A neighbor told her that she’d seen you climbing into the bookmobile. I’ll call your mother and tell her that you’re here.”
The driver led Rebecca Rosanne to a room with tables and chairs just her size. “You can wait for your mother here,” he said.
Rebecca Rosanne looked at a book about trains until her mother came. “Hey, Mom,” she shouted, “a book on the bookmobile showed me where letter carriers get their mail. And this one is about trains!”
When Rebecca Rosanne’s mother saw how excited her daughter was about the books, she helped Rebecca Rosanne borrow some from the library.
One day when they were looking at a book, Rebecca Rosanne said, “I haven’t gotten lost for a long time, have I, Mom?”
“No, not since you stopped following everything that moves and started following books,” she said, giving Rebecca Rosanne a big hug.

The summer sun beat hot against my back, and beads of sweat ran down my forehead. I wedged a pole among the roots of the tree stump and was going to push on the end, when my mother called.
“Todd? Your father’s home!”
I dropped the pole and ran across the soft brown field toward the house. Ducking beneath a line of flapping sheets, I rounded the house and stopped short of crashing into our wagon.
“Here, son,” my father said with a smile. “Take this sack of flour and give it to your mother.”
As soon as we unloaded the wagon, I put the horse in the pasture and returned to the house. Father was giving Mother a bundle.
“Twenty yards of unbleached muslin,” he said as he handed her the paper-wrapped package.
She smiled. “Thank you, James!” she said happily. Then she undid the string and removed the paper. “You can add the string to the ball,” she said, handing it to me. “Then you can have the paper for your schoolwork.”
I wound on the piece of string, then sat and watched as the rest of the provisions were put away. At the very last, Father reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of cinnamon candy. He rumpled my hair then handed it to me. My mouth watered and I was about to break off a piece when Mother reminded me she had cold meat and apple dumplings for lunch. At the table we bowed our heads while Father offered the blessing. As we ate, I listened to them talk.
“Ed Beesley was in town, Ellen,” Father said. “He offered me fourteen dollars an acre for our land.”
Surprised, I looked from Father, who sat eating contentedly, to Mother, who looked like she was about to explode.
“And what was your answer?” she asked in an uneven tone.
“Well,” Father replied as he slowly took another piece of meat, “that would be a total of seven thousand dollars.”
Mother’s eyes began to widen as she waited to hear the rest of the story. My father, however, took his time in the telling. “You could have almost anything you’d want … with plenty left over,” Father added.
“James Putnam!” my mother scolded. “Will you please get to the point?”
Father looked up and his eyes danced with mischief. “I told him no,” he replied simply.
Mother’s face turned into a bright smile as she went to his side. She kissed him, and they both laughed. “James Putnam, sometimes I just don’t know what you’re thinking.”
I smiled and poured milk over my dumplings.
Father carried the ax as we returned to the tree stump. “So you got all the digging done,” he said, smiling. “Good! But tell me, son, did you practice your writing today?”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded. “But I do hate it, Father.”
“You hate it!” he laughed. “You like printing. Why do you hate writing?”
I kicked at a clump of sod and shrugged. “My eye knows how it should look, but my hand does it all wrong.”
Father laughed again and lowered the ax to the ground. He took off his shirt and looked at the stump. “You mean your hand isn’t disciplined yet. Keep at it, Todd. Practice is good discipline.” He knelt beside the stump and felt around the roots. “You did do a lot of digging, but there are still some big roots down there. I’ll chop them loose then we’ll be able to get this stump out of here.”
He reached for the ax and I knelt beside him, watching. When the roots were chopped, he knelt beside me, resting.
“It’s a lot of work, isn’t it, son?” he puffed with a smile.
“Do you think you’d ever sell, Father?” I asked. “I mean, you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
He was quiet for a minute, then he smiled. “Money comes and goes, but the land is forever. No, Todd, I’d never sell it. It will be our legacy to you.”
“What’s a legacy?”
“A legacy is something precious that you leave to someone you love. What you decide to do with it will be up to you. But people see things differently. Ed Beesley sees land as something you parcel off and sell. But land’s a funny thing, Todd, even when you have a deed, it’s not really yours. You’ve just paid for the right to use it.” He picked up a handful of soil. “Smell that promise of all green and growing things, Todd. It’s a lasting responsibility, and long after we’re gone, the land will still be right here for others to use. While I use it, I mean to treat it kindly, and with discipline, just as God intended.”
“What do you think God intended?” I asked quietly.
“I think He wants us to dig out dead stumps … and grow things. You see, when we treat the land with discipline, it treats us kindly. We leave a stand of forest for the deer and rabbits that live in our meadow. If we had no meadow, Mother wouldn’t be able to make rabbit stew. If we grew no crops, we’d have little or nothing to eat. If we didn’t clear stumps and rocks or didn’t plant seeds, no crops would come up and we’d have no one to blame but ourselves. So we discipline ourselves to hard work, Todd, just as you can discipline your hand to write properly. Then as time goes by, you will see the benefits of your effort.” Father got up. “We’ve rested long enough,” he said, “now let’s see if we can move that old stump and make way for growing things.”
He put his back to the pole while I gripped mine with both hands. Slowly we pried, then eased up. Then we pried again and pushed with all our might. With a groan the stump inched upward as the ground yielded its hold. My father laughed as streams of sweat ran down his face. And soon the stump lay upside down on the ground. He clamped a hand on my shoulder and shouted, “We did it, son! We did it!”
“Hello!” Mother called as she came across the field. “I’ve brought a cool drink of water.”
She ladled a cup for me, then she and Father went off to sit beneath the shade of a tree. I stayed to break clumps of dirt from the bottom of the stump. Then I dug my fingers into the damp brown earth and let it trickle through my fingers. It formed a soft mound of earth that I smoothed flat with my hand. Carefully I wrote my name with a stick. The lines were scraggly and uneven. But with practice … yes, I knew I could write better.
I scratched out my name and looked out over the fields. Long green lines marked our rows where parsnips and corn and carrots and beets were reaching up through the ground. Here and there a tree stump or a rock poked through the soil. It will take years to clear them, I thought. Then I smiled to myself. It’ll be a big job, but the land will be mine. And I’ll be proud to continue my parents’ work.

In a refugee camp in Asia was a young former schoolteacher who with her mother had escaped their country after having watched the brutal murder of others in their family. She had been viciously violated to the point where she had vowed never to speak again in this depraved world. It was her way of protesting against the wickedness imposed upon her and countless others. For more than five years she spoke not a word. Then one day she came into the influence of some of our Church representatives who are performing daily miracles of love in several refugee camps. They had no medical magic, these selfless young ladies representing us there, no professional competence to deal with a tortured mind and spirit. They prayed for her, took her hand, and spoke words of love to her; and she answered! For the first time in five years she spoke, and she has been speaking since. The Spirit of him who said, “Peace be still” (Mark 4:39), reached out through faithful instruments, touched the storm center of a troubled soul, stilled the winds and waves of torment, and brought faith and hope again.

Isabelle squinted up at the deep blue sky. There were no clouds in sight. She licked her dry lips.
Her parents were talking quietly with President Santiago, the stake president. The motor of the boat was so loud that she couldn’t hear them. But she knew what they were talking about. There was no more drinking water.
Isabelle tried to focus on the reason for their journey. They were going to the temple to be sealed as a family! She remembered hearing her parents talk about the beautiful temple in São Paulo ever since she was a little girl. Going there almost seemed like a fairy tale. After all, Isabelle’s family lived in Manaus, deep in the Amazon rainforest, and the temple was more than 2,000 miles (3,219 km) away.
Then President Santiago had planned a six-day trip to get there. More than 100 members had decided to go. “It will be a sacrifice,” Mamãe had told her. “But sacrifice brings blessings.”
At first the trip was exciting. They slept in hammocks on the deck of the boat, sang hymns, and read scriptures.
But then the drinking water had run out, and the river water was too dirty to drink.
Isabelle felt Mamãe touch her arm. “President Santiago is gathering us all together,” she said. “We’re going to pray for rain.”
Isabelle joined the group, and the prayer began. After the prayer ended, she felt cool air tickle her neck. She raced to the side of the boat and gasped. Gray storm clouds were moving toward them. Soon rain began to pour down! She opened her mouth to catch the raindrops on her tongue.
“Quick!” cried Mamãe. “Grab buckets, pans—anything!”
Isabelle grabbed a pan and held it out. She wanted to catch all the water she could. Everyone worked together, laughing and celebrating. Soon they were having a giant soaking party! The storm lasted for 15 minutes. It was long enough for them to get all the water they needed. It was a miracle.

I had respect for all the doctrine and for the priesthood. Because I couldn’t hold the priesthood at that time, people often asked me, “What about the priesthood?” I told them that I had complete acceptance of it.

During the cornerstone laying of the São Paulo Temple, President Spencer W. Kimball motioned for me to come to him. I looked around to see whom he was looking at. He repeated the gesture. I did not understand. Elder James E. Faust looked at me and mouthed the words, “Come here. He wants to talk to you.” I went. President Kimball shook my hand and took hold of my arm and said, “Brother, what is necessary for you is faithfulness. Remain faithful, and you will enjoy all the blessings of the Church.”

A little more than a year later, in June 1978, we received a telephone call from a friend in Salt Lake City, Utah, telling us that President Kimball had announced the revelation* that all worthy males could hold the priesthood. I shall not forget that day. My wife cried. I cried. We kneeled to thank our Heavenly Father. After that, the phone rang many, many times. Friends from the United States and Brazil called us.

Dan wasn’t the only one to be involved in baptisms during a minimission. Brian Wallen, 16, a priest in the Castle Rock Ward, Longview Washington Stake, served in Beaverton, Oregon, for three weeks, witnessing two baptisms and performing one.

“The missionaries had been teaching Mike, 15, and Joe, 16, for a while before I got there. They’re football players, and they were always talking about weight lifting. I’ve lifted weights, too, and since we’re in the same age group, we had a lot in common. When we talked about the gospel, they seemed to accept my ideas and my testimony. They were baptized the second week I was there.

“And then I got to baptize Amy Beth Valence. She’s nine years old. It made me feel great to use my priesthood. I didn’t expect to baptize anyone during a three-week mission!”

Annette Aagard was in the middle of a bad week. She felt overwhelmed. She did not need one more thing to do. Then why was she rushing off to become—of all things—a volunteer?
A couple of months earlier it had seemed like a good idea. She had signed up to donate a few hours each week to Great Oaks Village, a residential school for abused children in Orlando, Florida. She had been through orientation to assist girls between the ages of six and twelve. And now she faced her first assignment—all alone.
As soon as she walked into the dorm at Great Oaks, she heard someone say, “Hey, the new volunteer’s here!” Several anxious, wide-eyed little girls ran up to her and asked, “Are you our new volunteer?” And someone said, “Better be good or she won’t talk to you!”
By the end of that first evening in March of 1989, Annette knew why she had rushed off to become a volunteer. She learned that the word volunteer is like magic to these youngsters. It means that for a little while, someone has come to be family; someone has come to give love.

Years ago, I found a summer job on an oyster boat in Long Island Sound. Four of us lived together in an area not much larger than the cab of a big semi-trailer truck. At first, I was considered a spy for the owner, and then a boy who didn’t have courage to “live like a man.” The others really gave me a bad time. Finally, when they understood that I would not do wrong things to prove I was a man, they left me alone, and we became friends. And then privately, one by one, they asked for help.
You know what is right and wrong. Be the leader in doing right. At first you may not be understood. You may not have the friends you want right away, but in time they will respect you, then admire you. Many will come privately to receive strength from your spiritual flame. You can do it. I know that you can do it.

A few years ago, a 19-month-old girl, Hope Gentile, was diagnosed with a tumor in her lower back. “Over the next five months of surgeries and chemotherapy,” Hope’s father, Nicholas, said, “Hope’s battle for life created a kaleidoscope of experiences.”
One night during Hope’s second five-day round of chemotherapy, Brother Gentile noticed how much hair she had lost. Her remaining strawberry blonde wisps painfully reminded him of her mortality. Nevertheless, he found solace in the Lord’s promise that “a hair of [her] head shall not fall to the ground unnoticed” (Doctrine and Covenants 84:116).
“I felt that Jesus Christ was deeply aware of Hope’s journey—and our heartache,” Brother Gentile said. “He did ‘not leave [us] comfortless’” (John 14:18).
During bedtime one evening as he read a board book to Hope, Brother Gentile asked in a silly voice, “What does the owl say?” Giggling, Hope replied, “Hoo, hoo!” Then he asked, “What does the cow say?” Hope proudly responded, “Moo, moo!”
At that moment, a picture of the Savior in Hope’s bedroom caught Brother Gentile’s attention. The Spirit prompted him to ask, “Hope, and what does Jesus say?”
Hope snuggled into his shoulder, opened her big blue eyes, and whispered, “‘Hold you.’ Jesus says, ‘Hold you.’”
Brother Gentile gently hugged Hope’s tiny body and deeply sobbed. As Hope hugged back, she whispered, “Love you, Dada.”
Jesus will hold us and bless us during our trials if we let Him.
Hope’s trial and uncertain future drew Brother Gentile, his wife, Christina, and their family closer—to each other and to the Savior. “Jesus was holding our family in His loving arms,” Brother Gentile said. “I have pondered the tender truth God taught me through my daughter’s words: Jesus will hold us and bless us during our trials if we let Him.”1
Hope Gentile, four days before her first chemotherapy treatment in March 2015.
I am happy to report that the Gentile family’s faith and prayers were answered. Today, Hope is a healthy, happy 10-year-old.

I also had such an experience. I prayed to our Heavenly Father. I read the scriptures and pondered upon them and tried to strengthen my testimony. And then when I was faced with such a situation, I said, “I am sorry, but I don’t drink. I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” I tried to help others understand my standards. At first I was nervous, but now I have become accustomed to doing it, and I continue to keep the Lord’s commandments. I overcame the trial with the Lord’s help, and I was also blessed with confidence, faith, good health, and high standards. Please tell your friends no with confidence and courage. When you do not compromise your standards, you can shine as a bright light.
Lee M., 17, Seoul, Korea