Gospel Story Finder

I’d like to share a story that has inspired me.

We are acquainted with a family who had a son out on a mission. As his mission came to a close, the main office at the Church made travel arrangements for the young man to come home, with notification to his family and the mission office.

The young Elder had served an excellent mission and had served with an equally talented and qualified group of Elders and Sisters who had come from the MTC together, and would return home on the same release date. Many of these missionaries had served in important leadership and training positions, and some still did.

Somehow, the impending release date of that missionary group escaped the attention of the mission president until after all the travel arrangements were made.

Understandably, when he found out, he had a mild panic attack! Imagine losing a sizable group of seasoned missionaries by surprise!

No one really knew where the miscommunication had occurred - certainly the mission president wasn’t looking for problems, it just happened.

As this faithful and stunned mission president started to work his way through pushing back some release and travel dates, some of the missionaries and their families were agitated. “How could this happen?”, “We’ve made our plans already!”. Unfortunately, some unkind things were said about the mission president.

The mother of our missionary friend saw more than a lesson in travel inconvenience for her son, though. Listen to the letter she sent her son (with names changed to protect the innocent):

Dear John (every missionary should get at least one “Dear John” letter):
I've prayed several times before writing this to you. I understand your disappointment! But let's try to see things from a different angle...
First, your President’s request that you to stay on for another five weeks is actually a huge compliment to you! If you weren’t a faithful Elder, he'd be happy to have you on that earlier airplane! It might be that he really needs you to stay! You've been a hard-working and obedient Elder—and he has been a faithful, hard-working Mission President, who is worn out from doing his best to keep the Lord's work going successfully. He's not being difficult, he really does need you!
So, what does that mean for you?
John, you have an opportunity to step up and do something bigger than yourself—for your Father in Heaven. And I PROMISE YOU, HE WILL BLESS YOU FOR IT! I am as sure of that, as the beating of my heart!
I don't know why this happened—why this change in plans came about after you'd already received a release date! Yes, you may feel tired. You feel worn out and ready to come home! That's good too—that means you've served honorably, worked hard, and given your heart to the Lord.
Now, stomp out every feeling of anger, bitterness, and contention you may have right now! Don't give in to backbiting… do not say one negative thing about your mission president. Don't even think it. Picture a faithful leader who is equally tired and looking forward to a rest as much as you are! And then decide how you're going to support him, love him, and sustain him.
You have an opportunity to become an amazing leader by being an amazing follower first. Someday you'll look back (as tired as you are of hearing that phrase) and be so glad that you didn't give in to pride and anger, and grumpily finish out those five weeks like a martyr! You'll be so glad that you gave it your extra everything—that you went the distance and then some! I remember at one point in your mission that you were a little concerned about not serving a full two year mission because of the transfer dates—well, now you're being given the chance to do exactly that, plus a little more.
Be like Nephi. You go and DO!
Love, Mom

The happy ending to that story is, that young Elder listened to the Spirit and finished his mission with distinction.

Incidentally, sisters, we are richly blessed by our gifted mothers!

Amy explained that when her modern-day family saw the pageant performed in Nauvoo over a decade ago, they recognised the beautiful pioneer spirit there and knew they wanted to be part of it. After applying multiple times, they were accepted as part of the family cast of the Nauvoo and British Pageant to be performed in Nauvoo during 2018.
Remembering that amazing experience, Amy reminisced, “We danced and sang and worked day after day in the hot sun to learn our parts, to be ready to perform. Our kids danced and played music in the country band all while costumed from head to toe in 1840’s pioneer attire. One week of rehearsals and the next week is go time! It’s quite miraculous how it all comes together. I’ll always remember and cherish the feeling of unity we shared as a family.”

Another five years passed, and I came to stay at my parents’ home while I was changing employment. My father was the ward mission leader, and every afternoon the missionaries would visit him briefly to update and coordinate plans. One day they asked him, “Who is that young man there?”
He said, “That’s my older son.”
“Is he a member?”
“No.”
“We need to talk with him.”
But I said, “No, I’m not interested.”
Then one day my father agreed to let the missionaries teach a lady in our home. They came around 5:00 in the afternoon and began teaching her—and they knew that I was in the next room making a sandwich before leaving to see my friends. They taught about a boy prophet—Joseph Smith—and the First Vision. And from the other room, I listened.
When I eventually left the house, the Spirit started to work in my heart and some questions came into my mind: “Why don’t you do what the sisters taught this lady? Why don’t you study the history of Joseph Smith and ask the Lord if he was a prophet?” And I said to myself, “I’m happy. I’m doing good things. I don’t need it.” But the Spirit started to wrestle with me, and I decided not to see my friends that night. I went back home.
I asked my mom, “Where can I read the history of Joseph Smith?” She gave me her scriptures and showed me the Joseph Smith—History, and I read and prayed. I read the first paragraph, pondered, and asked Heavenly Father if what’s there is true. I did this with every paragraph until I completed the whole thing. My heart was anxious for an answer. I read and prayed all night, until 9:20 the next morning.
The Lord revealed to me that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I had a very sacred experience. As I finished praying, I promised that I would find the missionaries and be baptized because I had this sure knowledge.
I told the sisters, “I need to be baptized now.” They explained the lessons I needed to have and commitments I needed to make. But I said, “I don’t want to lose a single day with the knowledge that the Lord has given me that Joseph Smith was a prophet.”
The sisters called their zone leader. He agreed to an accelerated schedule for the lessons. He scheduled the baptismal interview and told me he’d also need to talk to the ward mission leader, and I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll talk with the ward mission leader. He’s my daddy. He’s been praying for years for me to be baptized.”
My baptism was an experience I will remember forever. What a sweet and wonderful feeling. I felt that I was a new man. I was clean. I felt so close to God, and I was very happy.

When Elder Ballard was in his late 20s, he was called to be a bishop. “I faced great anxiety,” he recalls. “I’d never been a bishop before. Both of my counselors were old enough to be my father. I thought about all the bishops I’d ever had and tried to glean from their examples those things that I admired and thought were worthwhile. But ultimately doing the assignment, whatever it is, helps you overcome that fear.”

I was raised a deeply devout Roman Catholic, going to church every day. Studying the Bible was a normal every day event which I loved. My testimony of Jesus Christ was well established. He was my cornerstone, my iron rod. I had never visited any other church and was unfamiliar with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I often prayed that I could be a good Christian example to my children.
During one of my prayer sessions, I experienced a very personal and sacred spiritual encounter. I shared this encounter with a local parish priest and was told these things don’t happen today, so I kept this to myself for many years. But it became foundational to my testimony.
When I moved to Utah, I became involved in the local Catholic community. I didn’t drive back then, so my husband would take me and the children. One Sunday we were running late for church and took a different route. On this route, we passed a building with a sign which read: “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.” Immediately, a presence came over me. Even though we were going about fifty miles, it felt like time had stood still. After mass, I mentioned to the parish priest that I saw a sign that said “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints”. I expressed an appreciation for the name and asked, since we are the true church, why aren’t Catholics called this? He admonished me not to have anything to do with Mormons. This was the first time I had heard this word but the seed had been planted.
Some time later, there was a knock on my door. I assumed they were Jehovah Witnesses so I told them I wasn’t interested and they started to walk away. For some reason I called them back and asked them who they were. They mentioned they were members of “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.” This captured my attention, and I invited them in. They left me a Book of Mormon which began a friendship with two ladies who were members of the local Relief Society.
A few months later, my husband was asked to work on Sundays so I had no way of getting to my local church. Around the same time, my children began to interact with other children in the neighbourhood, which led to me being invited to activities at their local church. On my first visit to my neighbour‘s church, they were showing a film of Joseph Smith‘s first vision. It was new to me, but when it came to the part he was bound, from my own experience years before, I knew this to be true.
As mentioned I wanted my children to know of Jesus as I knew of him, so I started to attend the Sunday services. I grew up in a Latin based church service where prayers and hymns were all in Latin, so this was the first time I had ever entered another church and heard hymns in English. I remember the first hymn I heard was “O my Father Thou That Dwellest.” It filled me with awe and is now my favourite hymn.
Thereafter, I was invited to the Relief Society and then my baptism came around. I think the whole stake came out to see this young Scottish girl being baptised in Utah. I have since held many positions in the church, such as Relief Society President, Primary President, Stake Primary President, and Sunday school teacher. Currently, I am in charge of Public Relations and Communications for the Greenock Branch.

Bárdur’s dream of uniting his family began to come true in 1994 when word was received that the Icelandic temple ceremony was scheduled to be recorded in the Salt Lake Temple. In May of that year, Ólöf accompanied him to Salt Lake City, along with the small group who had been called to make the recording. While there, surrounded by their friends, Bárdur baptized his wife in the baptistry of the Salt Lake Tabernacle. They were sealed in the London Temple one year later.

After five days, the recording project was completed. Before the group who did the recording left the temple, they were allowed to view a small portion of the finished product. “Seeing just a part of the film and hearing those first few words in our own language touched me deep in my heart—it was something I will never forget,” said Gummi. “That increased our fervent desire to share this wonderful experience with all our brothers and sisters at home.”

It was now possible to think about organizing a trip to the temple for the members of the Reykjavík Branch. There was much preparing to be done—in addition to becoming worthy for temple recommends, branch members had to do genealogical research to find family names, and they had to save money for the trip. When whole families were planning to go, this became a sizable amount!

“There was a wonderful excitement, an extra amount of love and care shown among the members as they prepared for this experience,” recalls district president Ólafur Einarsson. “It brought a feeling of unity to the branch that we had not felt before.”

The necessary preparations were completed, and 38 members of the Reykjavík Branch—adults and children—journeyed to the London Temple in June 1995. For a week, they devoted themselves to the work of the Lord. “It was an unforgettable experience to see the joy on the faces of our group as the Spirit touched our hearts,” recalls one branch member. “The love and kindness we felt toward one another continued to grow as we shared the joy of our temple experiences.” They returned to their homes and families with strengthened testimonies and a renewed love of the gospel.

As the Church becomes stronger, the saga of the Saints in Iceland continues. In June 1996—still filled with memories of their experiences the previous year—some of the members of the Reykjavík Branch made a second trip to the London Temple. There, they once again were blessed to participate in holy ordinances as they renewed their covenants with the Lord—in the language of their Viking ancestors.

What you have done remarkably well together is to cherish, watch over, and comfort each other. I was a witness of that threefold miracle just one month ago in your service to one sister. As her father, I thank you and I want to extend my thanks to God, who guided one visiting teacher.

Our daughter Elizabeth, who lives in another state and time zone from us, was at home with her three-year-old daughter. Her other child was in her first week of kindergarten. Elizabeth was six months pregnant and looking forward to the birth of her third child, which the doctors said would be another girl. Her husband, Joshua, was away at his work.

When she saw that she was passing blood and that the flow was increasing, she called her husband on the phone. He told her to call for an ambulance and that he would meet her at the hospital, which was 20 minutes from her home. Before she could place the call, she heard a knock at the front door.

At the door she was surprised to see her Relief Society visiting teaching companion. They had no appointment for that morning. Her companion had simply felt she ought to come by to see Elizabeth.

She helped her into the car. They arrived at the hospital minutes before Joshua arrived from his work. The doctors decided in less than 20 minutes to take the baby by surgery to save Elizabeth and her baby. So a tiny girl came into the world, crying loudly, 15 weeks ahead of schedule. She weighed one pound, eleven ounces (765 g). But she was alive, and so was Elizabeth.

The words of Lucy Mack Smith were in part fulfilled that day. A faithful member of the Relief Society, prompted by the Holy Ghost, watched over, cherished, and comforted her sister in God’s kingdom. She and the tens of thousands of others who have given such inspired service over the generations have not only the thanks of those they helped and their loved ones but also of the Lord.

You remember His words of appreciation to those who receive little recognition for their benevolence: “And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

It was in the middle of November, when I was looking for a yardstick in Mom and Dad’s closet, that I found the skateboard and other Christmas presents hidden behind a box and a bag of old clothes.
I had ached all over to have a new skateboard because the best skateboarding hill in the world was over at Adam’s Park, not two blocks away.
My best friend, James, and I went there every chance we got and used a skateboard that we’d bought together at Tilly’s Secondhand Store for five dollars. It was small, banged up some, and had metal wheels that squeaked and rattled as we bumped down the winding walk at the park. But this skateboard wasn’t something Mom and Dad had picked up at Tilly’s Secondhand Store!
Sitting in the closet, I ran my hand across the skateboard’s shiny, smooth surface and spun the red “poly” wheels. There was a picture of a guy flying through the air on a skateboard, and underneath, in brilliant red letters, was “SPEED DEMON.”
“I found my Christmas present!” I called out as I rushed up James’s driveway and found him trying to fix a back wheel on his little brother’s trike.
“Christmas?” he muttered, looking up at me and zipping his coat tighter around his chin. “Who’s thinking of Christmas? We haven’t even had Thanksgiving.”
“I accidentally found my parents’ Christmas gift to me,” I gasped, dropping down beside him.
James set his pliers down and squinted at me. “What’re you getting?”
“A skateboard! Not a crummy one, either. You know the one we’ve looked at in the window at Benson’s Bargain Barn?”
James nodded.
“It’s as good as that one any day.”
James whistled softly. “And it’s yours?”
“With four sisters who could care less about skateboarding, it has to be mine.”
“A skateboard!” James whispered, shaking his head. “You’re a lucky dog, Aaron.” He grinned, and I knew he was happy for me, but I could see a hint of disappointment in his eyes because he knew that there would be no new skateboard for him.
Since Dad had been on just sick pay for several weeks, we hadn’t had much. But James’s family was poor all the time. His mom was a cashier at the supermarket. On Saturdays and some evenings, she cleaned people’s houses to get money for clothes and stuff like that for him, his brother, and his little sister. He didn’t even know where his dad was. James never expected much for Christmas.
That night as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I thought of James. I was happy about my skateboard, but I knew that having a skateboard wasn’t going to be all that great unless James had one too.
I tossed and turned, then started figuring. I’d already bought my family’s gifts, except the ones I was making in woodshop at school. The skateboard at the Bargain Barn cost over ninety dollars. I had twenty-seven dollars, money I’d been saving for months to buy a baseball glove. I had a set of baseball cards that Brandon had been coaxing me to sell him for fifteen dollars. I was sure that I could collect ten dollars’ worth of cans by Christmas. That was fifty-two dollars right there. And I could do odd jobs for folks in the neighborhood.
I had nearly six weeks till Christmas, and I was going to get James his own skateboard! Suddenly I was more excited about James’s skateboard than I was about the one Mom and Dad had tucked away for me in the closet.
“Do you still want to buy my baseball cards?” I asked Brandon the next day at school.
He stared at me. “You’re willing to sell?”
I nodded.
“Fifteen dollars?”
I nodded again.
“You have those cards over at my place this afternoon, and I’ll have your money for you.”
As soon as school was out, I sprinted home, dug my baseball cards out from under the bed, and galloped over to Brandon’s place. He had his money ready for me. Of course, Brandon didn’t ever have to worry about money. He was the only kid in his family, and his mom and dad gave him just about anything he wanted.
I checked with everyone in our neighborhood about doing odd jobs. Brother Tubbs let me clean out his garage. Sister Wells had me rake leaves and trash from her backyard. I took care of the Parkers’ dog and two cats and watered houseplants while they were gone for a week and a half.
Two weeks before Christmas I had seventy-two dollars. With my money stuffed into a bag, I entered the Bargain Barn. “I know the skateboard costs ninety-five ninety-five,” I said to Brother Benson as I pushed the bag across the counter, “but if you’ll save that skateboard for me, I promise to get the rest of the money to you as soon as I can.”
He thought a moment, rubbing his chin and gazing at my money. “Aaron, you must want that skateboard pretty bad.”
“I’m getting it for a friend.”
“He must be a pretty good friend.”
“The best a guy could have.”
“I’ll save the skateboard for you.” He hesitated, then added, “I could use a little help around here between now and Christmas. Maybe I could help you earn some of that money.”
“Would you?” I asked, hardly believing my ears.
Brother Benson’s eyes twinkled. “I think we could work something out.”
For the next two Saturdays and some afternoons after school, I worked at the Bargain Barn. I broke down cardboard boxes for recycling, straightened up the storeroom, swept the parking lot, ran errands, and did anything else I was asked to do.
“I can’t find my Christmas presents anywhere,” Brandon complained the day before Christmas vacation as we walked home from school. “Usually I’ve found where Mom and Dad have hidden them by now. They always give me one big thing that I really want, and clothes I need, and other stuff, but I haven’t found anything, and I’ve looked all over.”
I shrugged. “Why not wait and be surprised like everyone else.”
“Don’t you ever wonder what you’re getting for Christmas?”
A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. “I don’t have to wonder this year. This is going to be my best Christmas.”
“Well, Aaron,” Brother Benson said the day before Christmas Eve as he was closing up his store, “you’ve been a real trooper. When I told you that you could work here for a few hours, I didn’t know you were going to give me such a hand.”
“How much do you figure I still owe on the skateboard?”
Brother Benson chuckled. He stepped into his office and returned with a huge oblong box, wrapped in silver paper and tied with red ribbon. “You’ve earned it,” he said, handing it to me.
I took the package with shaking hands. I could hardly wait to see James’s eyes bulge when he saw his gift.
Christmas Eve was a busy day. I helped Mom make cookies and candies for neighbors and friends. We finished doing a few decorations around the house—the Christmas tree had long since been decorated. There weren’t a lot of packages under the tree, but that didn’t bother me because I knew that the best gift was hidden away in Mom and Dad’s closet.
It was well after dinner before I could take my gift over to James. I rushed to my room, pulled the silver package out from under the bed, and ran my hand gently across the paper. “You’re going to love it, James,” I whispered. “We’ll both be skateboarding pros.”
I got up, threw on my coat, grabbed my gift, and rushed down the hall toward the back door. As I burst into the kitchen, Mom and Dad were there, and the skateboard was on the table. I froze in my tracks.
“I wish we could afford to buy one for our son,” Dad was saying to Mom, shaking his head and staring at the table.
Mom shrugged. “Janet just wanted to surprise Brandon for once, so she asked me to keep his gifts. Every other year he’s found his presents weeks before Christmas.” She laughed. “She told me yesterday that they’re sure he’s searched their house a dozen times and is pretty worried.”
“This is Brandon’s?” I asked, feeling sick.
Mom turned and saw me. She nodded. “His mother’s on her way over to pick all these things up.” She gestured to a pile of packages on the counter as well as the skateboard. “Where are you headed, and what’s that under your arm?”
“I was going to see James,” I rasped. “I have a gift for him.”
“OK. It’s nice of you to think of him.”
After I rushed out the back door, for a moment I stood in the driveway, clutching the skateboard. I’d never had a skateboard as nice as the one under my arm.
I can keep this one, I thought to myself, and find something else for James. No one would know. I deserve a good skateboard after I worked so hard. Then I thought of James and how fun it had been working to get something nice for him. And I knew that I could never truly enjoy this skateboard, knowing it had really been meant for him.
Slowly the sick feeling went away and a warm, peaceful feeling took its place. It was the same feeling I’d had since deciding to buy the skateboard for James. I started for his house.
“What is it?” James asked, surprised, as I pushed the huge silver package into his arms.
“Open it and see.”
“Now?”
“I won’t be around to watch you open it tomorrow,” I pointed out.
James hesitated, then tore the silver paper away and gazed at the skateboard. His mouth dropped open. “Are you joking, Aaron? You’re not really giving this to me, are you?”
“It’s all yours, James.”
“But—but how? … Why … ?”
“You’re my friend, and I knew you’d want one.”
“What’s yours like?”
I shook my head and laughed. “I found out that Brandon’s mother had asked Mom to hide that one for him. But I think yours is the best one around.”
James’s smile drooped. He pushed the skateboard toward me. “Aaron, I can’t take something as nice as this. But thanks for offering.”
“You have to take it,” I argued. “You can’t give a Christmas gift back.”
For a moment he just stood there holding the skateboard, blinking back tears. Then he said, “Half of it is yours, then.”
I shook my head.
“I’m giving half of it to you, and like you said, you can’t give a Christmas gift back. It will be ours together. And the day after tomorrow we’ll try it out at Adams Park!”
I nodded, fighting back tears, too, then headed home, knowing that no one—not even Brandon with all his gifts from Santa and his parents—would ever have as nice a Christmas as mine.

The first story occurred many years ago when I was in graduate school studying economics. I took a course from a very famous and prominent professor named John Dunlop. I studied hard in that course, and I prepared diligently for the final exam. I also prayed for help and guidance. The day for the exam came. The final exam in that course was unusual. Instead of giving us essay questions or problems to work, Professor Dunlop simply gave us two recently published papers and asked us to critique them. I began to read. As I read, I experienced something I will never forget. I saw clearly, as though someone had laid it all out before me, exactly what the authors were trying to do, where the weaknesses in their argument were, and what I should write about their work. I began to write. I wrote and wrote and wrote. The words just flowed. It was like there was a conduit running from my brain down my arm through my hand into the pen and onto the paper. It felt like the words were just flowing down the conduit. I then picked up the second paper, and the same thing happened. I knew as it happened that the Lord had blessed me beyond my own ability. I experienced what the Prophet Joseph once called “pure intelligence” flowing from the Spirit to teach me and help me. At the end of that exam I knew that what was written in those blue books was beyond my own capacity.

It has been 31 years since that experience. I have had that experience many times since. I hope and pray that I shall have it many times in the future. As I look back on the day of that exam, I can see the hand of the Lord at work. Because of that exam Professor Dunlop opened many doors for me. Those experiences bear witness to me of the truth of the promises of the Lord, and of the importance of seeking knowledge and learning by study and by faith.

My wife, Sarah, was 24 weeks pregnant when she started having a lot of pain. I gave her a blessing and then left for work. I was still at work when she called me home to take her to the hospital.
“Your baby’s coming,” we were told when we arrived. Since Sarah was only 24 weeks along, the baby’s best chance of survival was an emergency C-section.
“Your wife doesn’t need to go through any additional trauma,” the doctor told me. “She’s going to lose the baby anyway.”
Sarah and I talked and prayed about what the doctor had said. We felt that if there was any chance our baby could survive, we needed to take that chance. We had experienced difficulty having children. Our oldest son, Taylor, is adopted. When Sarah got pregnant two years after we adopted Taylor, we felt that it was a miracle. Now we needed a second miracle.
A little while later, a specialist came to us and said, “I think we may have time to get your wife to a children’s hospital in El Paso, Texas, that is equipped to care for premature and critically ill newborns. The baby will have a chance there!”
An ambulance pulled away from our local hospital with Sarah and sped toward the children’s hospital 45 minutes away. I followed close behind, pleading with the Lord in prayer to give us a miracle. I promised Him that I would stay on the gospel path and try to be better.
At the hospital, I told the doctor in the neonatal intensive care unit: “We know we have already had one miracle with my wife’s pregnancy. Now we expect another one.”
The birth went well, and our baby survived. After she spent four and a half months in the neonatal intensive care unit, we brought Shanna home. We had received a second miracle. Not many years later, we received yet another miracle—the Lord blessed us with twins.
Shanna has a slightly low IQ, and she’s in a wheelchair, but she’s full of joy, always positive, and a friend to everyone. She loves to tell you about her day, and she’s excited about life. She keeps us smiling and teaches us to be happy. We love her and are grateful for her. Shanna is truly a blessing.

When I was seven years old, I really wanted a gaming console. I knew that my parents didn’t really like video games, so I made a deal with my mom. I told her that I would serve a mission if she would buy me the one I wanted when I got back. Smiling, my mom jokingly said, “Son, I will even buy you two games to go with it.”
Now that I’m 17 and seriously preparing to serve a mission, I realize how silly that deal was (though my mom and I still laugh about it). My motivation to serve has changed as my testimony and faith in Jesus Christ have grown. I want to share the joy and blessings that come with living the gospel.
I’ve found that going to seminary, studying my scriptures, praying, and helping with family home evening have helped me to feel more prepared to serve on my mission. I think it is up to us as youth to take the lead in preparing to serve. Maybe that’s on a mission. Maybe it’s attending the temple, participating in ordinances, and serving in the Church. Whatever we do, as long as what we want lines up with what God wants, we will be blessed.
Brigham R., New Zealand

The Taylors heard the restored gospel as a result of some unusual circumstances. In 1836, Parley P. Pratt was sent to Toronto by revelation to preach the gospel. Concerning Elder Pratt’s mission to Canada, Elder Heber C. Kimball had prophesied, “From the things growing out of this mission, shall the fullness of the gospel spread into England.” (See Roberts, page 35.) Elder Pratt received from a stranger a letter of introduction to a John Taylor in Toronto. But when he called at the Taylors’ home, his reception there was polite but not exactly cordial. Later, after presenting his message to the ministers in the city, Elder Pratt prepared to leave. Valise in hand, he was saying good-bye to John Taylor when a neighbor—a member of the Taylors’ religious study group—came in, offered her home for Elder Pratt to preach in, and proposed to lodge and feed him. As a result, John and Leonora Taylor heard Elder Pratt preach. This was John’s response to his group of friends:

“We are here, ostensibly in search of the truth. Hitherto we have fully investigated other creeds and doctrines and proven them false. Why should we fear to investigate Mormonism? This gentleman, Mr. Pratt, has brought to us many doctrines that correspond with our own views. … We have prayed to God to send us a messenger, if He has a true Church on earth. … I desire to investigate his doctrines and claims to authority, and shall be very glad if some of my friends will unite with me in this investigation. But if no one will unite with me, be assured I shall make the investigation alone. If I find his religion true, I shall accept it, no matter what the consequences may be; but if false, then I shall expose it.” (See Roberts, pages 38–39.)

For three weeks, John Taylor followed Elder Pratt from place to place, copying down sermons as Elder Pratt delivered them—and then privately comparing them with the scriptures. Satisfied that the missionary was teaching the truth, John and Leonora Taylor joined the Church. Twenty-eight-year-old John was ordained an elder and was placed in charge of the Church in Canada when the missionaries returned to their homes.

Our journey to the temple started by sacrificing a lot of things. We knew that the Church was going to pay for many of our expenses, but we still needed to come up with money to pay for our visas, and for food, housing, and garments.
To raise all these funds, we had to sell our wedding rings and some other gold pieces that we had. It did not yield much money, maybe about almost $500 Eastern Caribbean Dollars. That still wasn’t sufficient. We still didn’t have enough money. A missionary couple gave us $400 US that covered the cost of our lodging on the temple grounds and our visas. The $500 EC had to be changed to US dollars for us to change to pesos to buy food when we arrived in Santo Domingo.
So, with that money, we were on our way to the temple. We spent the night in Trinidad and woke up at 4 a.m. to catch our next flight to Panama. While on the plane we met a missionary named Sister Poulson. She was going to Santo Domingo, so we talked for a short while. In Panama, we had a delay of about four hours before our flight to the Dominican Republic. While there we were very hungry because we had no money to buy anything to eat. So, we walked around trying to pass the time. While doing that, we bumped into Sister Poulson again. We talked for some time because we were going on the same flight. She was on her way to get something to eat and asked if we had already eaten, so we explained about our trip and also our finances, and without us knowing she bought food for the four of us. We were so very grateful. When the time came, we boarded the plane and left for Santo Domingo. When we arrived and finally exited the airport, Sister Poulson was gone.
Outside of the airport, a man was waiting with our names and a taxi to take us to the temple where we were going to stay. Before we got there, we stopped by a supermarket to buy some groceries. The following day, my husband received his own endowment, and we did a few more sessions, spending the day at the temple. Then the big day arrived for our family sealing. Everyone there had heard about us and knew what we were there for. On that day we had the temple to ourselves. We got ready, and when we arrived, some missionary couples were there to assist us. When we got to the sealing room, everything was prepared; we were sealed first, and then our two daughters were sealed to us. It was the most wonderful thing, the way that we felt is unexplainable. There was not a dry eye in the room. All the missionaries who were there and the sister who had fed us at the airport was there, and they were all in tears. The Spirit was so strong and was felt by everyone in the room.
Our Heavenly Father was waiting for that day and had a lot planned for us. We had the most memorable spiritual day. The next few days were filled with temple work. We were able to do work for the dead, for our own family, and for others who had been waiting for a long time.
One very memorable day we were in the temple doing some work for the dead, and I was exhausted, because we had been there for the whole day. When I got up to leave, one of the temple workers asked me to do just one more, so I agreed and finally finished. When I got outside the most amazing thing happened, when I got to my husband, who was already outside waiting for me, fireworks started going off. We both stood there and watched with everyone else who said that they never had that happen. I took that as a sign to mean that our Heavenly Father and those waiting were very happy and pleased with the work we had just done.
We were so grateful for all the people God sent to feed us, to help us, and to just overall take care of us. Thank you to all of you, but most of all thanks to God.

From the time Reid Newey of Roy, Utah, was six years old he had dreamed of playing basketball. He played on community and church teams as a boy and as a teenager. He watched games on television and attended games with his father. Basketball was what he wanted to do with his life.
During his first year at Utah State University, Reid was honored by being selected for the national team made up of first year college students. He was making a meaningful contribution to college basketball. The following year he would have been one of the leading players. But something else was affecting his life. “I read the Book of Mormon all the way through during my first year in college,” said Reid. “And I really gained a great testimony of it. I loved it. I’d rush home from practice just to read it because I loved it so much. From then on I had a different feeling. I went through a lot of prayer and fasting, and it was a personal revelation for me that I should go on a mission.”
Reid had a tremendous experience in the mission field that made everything worth it. “We met this man who was a retired colonel from the army. He was just a great man. He was baptized a week before I left. He drove me to the airport to go home, and we had the opportunity to visit together for a while before my departure. As we spoke, he looked at me and said, ‘Thanks for coming, Elder Newey.’ I didn’t know exactly what he was referring to. But then he took my arm and said, ‘I mean, thanks for coming on your mission.’ That was the greatest experience of my life. It really touched me, and I can’t bear to think what it would be like if I hadn’t experienced that.”
Reid had one more piece of advice. “I’m a basketball player, but everybody has their own obstacles to going on a mission. Everybody can think of something to keep them from going. But I know there isn’t anything worth staying home for. My advice would be to get your life in order and go, no matter what it takes.”

As all of you are aware, last fall a terrible storm hit Central America. For six days and nights, Hurricane Mitch locked in over that area and particularly over Honduras. The winds blew ferociously, and the rains fell without letup. Rivers swelled and took with them houses that had been built along their banks. More than 200 bridges were washed out in Honduras, destroying means of travel. The soil from the highlands washed towards the sea in a deluge of filthy mud. Houses were filled to the tops of the windows. Yards and streets were filled. People fled in terror, leaving all behind them.
One of our bishops secured a big truck and went about gathering his people, taking them to higher ground. When the truck could no longer get through, he somehow secured a boat. He was looking after his flock.
I went down there to see what had happened and to give comfort, where possible. I beheld a miracle. I witnessed in operation the simple and marvelously effective organization of this Church.
Every member of this Church has a bishop or a branch president. I have only commendation for other relief efforts which came in from across the world. But I have unending admiration for the wonderful manner in which the Church operated. The bishops appealed to their stake presidents, who appealed to the Area Presidency, who appealed to headquarters here in Salt Lake City. Within hours great quantities of basic foodstuffs, medicine, and clothing were on their way from our storehouses.
A warehouse was rented in San Pedro Sula in the area of the greatest damage. It was the bishops who marshaled their people to work shifts in the warehouse putting into plastic bags enough food to take care of a family for a week, clothing to put on their backs, medicine to safeguard them against disease. Every bishop knew his own people. He, with his Relief Society president, knew their needs. These were not faceless strangers working as employees of government. They were friends, each a member of a ward family small enough that they knew one another’s needs. There was no argument, no greedy grasping for food and clothing. Everything was orderly. It was systematic. It was friendly. It was motivated by love and concern, and it was done quickly to meet an immediate need. It was the gospel at work in a quiet and magnificent manner.
The waters finally subsided, but mud was left in a thick and ugly coating on everything. Nothing became more valuable than shovels and wheelbarrows. And together, again under the direction of the bishops, the mud was cleaned from the houses.
We visited a meetinghouse on a Saturday. There were many people there, with a bishop, a loving father to his flock, giving direction. The pews, which had been floating in the water, were taken out and carefully cleaned. Mud was scraped from the walls and the floors. Then the mops came out and the polishing cloths, and before nightfall that Saturday evening, the building had been made ready for worship services on the Sabbath.
I stand in humble gratitude and respect and admiration for the bishops of this Church. In the most dire of circumstances, I watched them in La Lima, Honduras. I spoke with them, shook their hands, loved them. How thankful I am for these men who, without regard for their own comfort, give of their time, of their wisdom, of their inspiration in presiding over our wards throughout the world. They receive no compensation other than the love of their people. There is no rest for them on the Sabbath nor very much at other times. They are the ones closest to the people, best acquainted with their needs and circumstances.

Let me share a personal experience with you that has helped me understand this delivering power with new eyes. I call this my “scary scuba story.”
About 20 years ago, I decided to enroll in a series of scuba courses. Throughout my training, we practiced things like what to do if my mask filled with water, how to share air with another diver in need, and other similar types of scenarios. By the time I was finished, I was looking forward, with great anticipation, to trying it out on my own. So one day I decided that I was ready to explore the underwater world of Flaming Gorge Reservoir, in eastern Utah.
When I arrived at the lake, I found an isolated dock, where I started to “gear up.” I wriggled into my wetsuit and strapped my air tank to my buoyancy compensator device, or BCD for short. Now, the BCD is the dive vest that inflates with air to help keep one balanced in the water. Next, I slid on my dive fins and then pulled my mask over my face. Once dressed, I waddled my way to the edge of the dock, put my air regulator in my mouth, held my hand to my mask (just as I’ve seen it done in the movies), and then stepped off the dock.
As I began to swim towards the middle of the lake, I noticed that I was gradually sinking beneath the surface of the water, in spite of my best efforts to keep from doing so. As I continued to sink, the atmospheric pressure of the surrounding water also continued to increase with depth. Consequently, I began to sink at an accelerated rate, and I quickly found myself 10 feet deep! Then, before I even realized how fast I was sinking, I was suddenly 15 feet below the surface!
I found myself out of control and sinking deeper with every second into the dark, seemingly bottomless waters of that lake. I could literally watch the light disappearing around me as I fell through those dark waters, now at a depth of 20 feet below the surface!
“How could I stop this uncontrolled fall?” I wondered. Then I remembered something that I had learned from my training: If I borrowed air from the oxygen tank and placed it into the dive vest, or the BCD, the added air in the vest would compensate for the increased pressure of the surrounding waters and help keep me from falling deeper. However, when I tried this, nothing happened; I just keep sinking! Faster and faster, deeper and deeper I dropped—25 feet, 30 feet, 35 feet. I was in a full-blown panic when I finally landed hard on the bottom of that lake about 40 feet deep and surrounded by cold, dark, murky waters.
No matter how hard I pushed off the bottom and kicked my legs, straining and fighting to make it back to the surface, I continued to land back in the same place, four stories underwater, trapped and terrified. Over and over I tried to swim my way to the surface without success. After multiple attempts, and now exhausted, I realized that I needed to change my tactics if I were to escape those dark, cold waters.
I considered the idea of abandoning my scuba tank and my vest on the bottom of the lake, filling my lungs with one last deep breath, and then racing to the surface. I knew that this was extremely risky, but what other options did I have? Just before proceeding, I fortunately remembered learning about a condition called the “bends,” or decompression sickness. This condition can occur when a diver ascends too quickly to the surface, causing nitrogen bubbles to form and then expand in the body. The effects of this condition can result in severe pain, paralysis, or even death.
“I might be able to make it to the surface on one breath of air,” I told myself. But doing so without incurring some level of decompression sickness was very unlikely. No, there just had to be another way.
As my mind raced, I thought of a second option. “Maybe I could swim along the bottom of the lake until I reached the shoreline.” However, this too was risky as the water was so murky that I could hardly see one foot in front of me. And because of those dark muddy waters, I completely lost my sense of direction and had no idea which way to even start swimming. I could easily swim myself into a much worse predicament—farther from the shore and without any air in my dive tank. I felt trapped, confused, and afraid.
Brothers and sisters, what would you have done if you were in this situation?
Well, in that moment of panic, confusion, and terror, I did what you probably would have done right from the start—I prayed. In fact, it was really more of a cry than anything else. I literally knelt down, right there on the bottom of the lake floor, surrounded by the circling darkness of the muddy waters, and pled for deliverance. I expressed my deep regret and sorrow for choosing to dive alone. I explained to my Father in Heaven that I had done everything I could think of to get out of this predicament but continued to find myself in the same situation. I pled with Him to help me return back to the surface and back to the warmth and light of the sun that I so desperately craved.
When I was pouring out my heart, my mind reflected back to minutes earlier, when I was safely back on the shore. In my mind, I saw myself picking up rock after rock and filling my vest pockets completely full of those rocks. You see, shortly after I had arrived at the lake, I had realized that I had forgotten to bring my dive belt.
Now, those of you who have been diving know the quandary I was in. The weighted dive belt helps compensate for the added buoyancy of the wetsuit and the oxygen tank. Without the properly weighted dive belt, I would not be able to submerge underwater. So, in an attempt to counterfeit the proper weight and use of the dive belt, I loaded my pockets with rocks.
After the Spirit had helped me recognize my obvious error, I knew exactly what I needed to do in order to be delivered. Now, in a very calm manner, I took off my gloves, unzipped my vest pockets on my BCD, and began removing the rocks that I had placed therein. One by one, I removed each of those rocks. Once they were removed, I was then able to inflate my vest with air to its full capacity, and immediately I began to ascend up towards the light.
You see, the rocks were the problem. They were restricting the amount of air I could add to my vest. I can still clearly remember those feelings of fear, anxiety, and cold being replaced with feelings of warmth, safety, and comfort as I slowly ascended and then broke the surface of the water. Through prayer and by heeding the promptings of the Spirit, I was delivered from that terrifying situation.

I know a good member of the Church who has a successful marriage and six beautiful children. She is trying to be the best companion she can be to her husband and the best mother she can be to her children. She is an effective Young Women leader in her ward. But sometimes she feels she isn’t good enough. She becomes discouraged and feels an emptiness of soul.
She came to me one day with her husband and described the powerlessness she feels at such times. She had discussed her concern with her priesthood leaders and especially her husband but had yet to find relief. I suggested that after her husband left for work and their children were in school, she find a place in her home and there reverently and humbly visit with Heavenly Father. I suggested that she express her gratitude to God for her blessings and then wait for His holy inspiration. She committed to do this daily.
Sometime later I received a letter from her. She said that as she went to her knees in those quiet moments each day and dropped her burden at Heavenly Father’s feet, He took her concerns away. She felt of her great worth to Him and learned more of “the healer’s art”4 as He healed her soul.

The day school was out at the beginning of each summer, our family went to our ranch in Wyoming. It was there with my parents and brothers and sisters, and a few cousins mixed in, that I learned about family loyalty; love and concern; birth and death; that one must finish a job once it is started; and, to quote my father, “There are only two things important—the family and the Church.”
One year my father was waiting for us as we arrived. He said he had a big job for my brother Clay and me to do that summer. I was about twelve at the time, and my brother was two years older. Pointing to the field by the side of the house, my father said, “Do you see all of these lambs in that field? I’ll share the money we get for the ones you raise when we sell them in the fall.” Well, we were excited. Not only did we have a significant job to do, but we were going to be rich! There were a lot of lambs in that field—about 350 of them. And all we had to do was feed them.
However, there was one thing that my father hadn’t mentioned. None of the lambs had mothers. Just after shearing, there was a violent storm that chilled the newly shorn sheep. Dad lost a thousand ewes that year. The mothers of our lambs were among them.
To feed one or two baby animals is one thing, but to feed 350 is something else! It was hard. There was plenty of grass, but the lambs couldn’t eat the grass. They didn’t have teeth. They needed milk. So we made some long, V-shaped feeding troughs out of some boards. Then we got a great big tin washtub, ground up some grain, and added milk to make a thin mash. While my brother poured the mash into the troughs, I rounded up the lambs, herded them to the troughs, and said, “Eat!” Well, they just stood there looking at me. Although they were hungry and there was food in front of them, they still wouldn’t eat. No one had taught them to drink milk out of a trough. So I tried pushing them toward the troughs. Do you know what happens when you try to push sheep? They run the other way. And when you lose one, you could lose them all because others will follow. That’s the way with sheep.
We tried lining up the lambs along the troughs and pushing their noses down in the milk, hoping they’d get a taste and want some more. We tried wiggling our fingers in the milk to get them to suck on our fingers. Some of them would drink, but most of them ran away.
Many of the lambs were slowly starving to death. The only way we could be sure they were being fed was to pick them up in our arms, two at a time, and feed them like babies.
And then there were the coyotes. At night the coyotes would sit up on the hill, and they’d howl. The next morning we would see the results of their night’s work, and we would have two or three more lambs to bury. The coyotes would sneak up on the lambs, scatter the herd, and then pick out the ones they wanted and go after them. The first were those that were weak or separated from the flock. Often in the night when the coyotes came and the lambs were restless, my dad would take out his rifle and shoot in the air to scare them away. We felt secure when my dad was home because we knew our lambs were safe when he was there to watch over them.
Clay and I soon forgot about being rich. All we wanted to do was save our lambs. The hardest part was seeing them die. Every morning we would find five, seven, ten lambs that had died during the night. Some the coyotes got, and others starved to death surrounded by food they couldn’t or wouldn’t eat.
Part of our job was to gather up the dead lambs and help dispose of them. I got used to that, and it really wasn’t so bad until I named one of the lambs. It was an awkward little thing with a black spot on its nose. It was always under my feet, and it knew my voice. I loved my lamb. It was one I held in my arms and fed with a bottle like a baby.
One morning my lamb didn’t come when I called. I found it later that day under the willows by the creek. It was dead. With tears streaming down my face, I picked up my lamb and went to find my father. Looking up at him, I said, “Dad, isn’t there someone who can help us feed our lambs?”
After a long moment he said, “Jayne, once a long, long time ago, someone else said almost those same words. He said, ‘Feed my lambs. … Feed my sheep. … Feed my sheep.’” (John 21:15–17.) Dad put his arms around me and let me cry for a time, then went with me to bury my lamb.
It wasn’t until many years later that I fully realized the meaning of my father’s words. I was pondering the scripture in Moses that says, “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of [all mankind].” (Moses 1:39.) As I thought about the mission of the Savior, I remembered the summer of the lambs, and, for a few brief moments, I thought I could sense how the Savior must feel with so many lambs to feed, so many souls to save. And I knew in my heart that he needed my help.

I would like to acknowledge the work that is put into the New Era. I am the editor of the branch paper, and am finding it a challenge to get it out every month. About four years ago I had a letter published in Feedback. Because of that letter, I gained a very special friend. Lori Wall saw my letter and found it very close to her ideals. She wrote to me, and we have been writing to each other ever since. We hope someday to meet each other. I feel that I have known her since the time before we came to earth. I know that I have come to know a very special spirit and sister. Thank you so much for helping us meet each other. I hope that you have made someone else as happy as myself.
Petra MillsOrange, N.S.W., Australia

Several years ago my daughter, who was only seven years old, had a large swollen bump on the front of her neck. The pediatrician who was treating Jeanette explained that she had a goiter and that it was growing internally and externally and was quite serious. He sent her to the hospital for some tests and said she would probably have to have an operation.
Our family immediately began to fast and pray for Jeanette’s recovery. We prayed that everything would turn out all right. Jeanette had great faith and would often say, “Mama, I know that God is going to heal me and they won’t have to operate.”
The days went by, and the time came to take her to the children’s hospital in San José, the capital of Costa Rica. Before we went, my husband and my two brothers gave her a priesthood blessing. During the blessing, Jeanette felt within herself that a great miracle was being worked. She felt a sweet and tender hand pass over her throat. “Mama,” she said later, “I know I’m fine. They’re not going to put me in the hospital or operate on me.”
While we were in the hospital waiting room, I asked Jeanette how she felt.
“Just fine,” she told me, and she said again that there was not anything wrong with her.
My husband and I prayed constantly and tried to exercise faith that all would be well. We also understood that it might not be the Lord’s will for Jeanette to be healed; we prayed for the courage and faith to accept that answer as well.
Eventually the doctor called my daughter into his office and began to examine her. Then, very surprised, he said, “I’m sorry, but you will have to wait here for a moment. I have some concerns, and I need to call some of my colleagues.”
He left and returned with five other pediatricians. I was so nervous I was shaking, but my daughter was happy and calm. The doctors examined her, and then our pediatrician said, “She’s fine. There’s not a thing wrong with her. I don’t know what happened, but she’s fine. Go home and don’t worry about her.”
My daughter is 14 years old now, and she is very healthy and active and has a strong testimony. My own testimony has been strengthened because of her example. We are grateful that Heavenly Father heard and answered our prayers. And while the doctors may have been confused by these events, we understand what happened and are grateful for the Lord’s healing blessings in our lives.