Gospel Story Finder

I stood one day some years ago with a Japanese businessman in Hiroshima, beside the monument that marks the events of that tragic August 6, 1945, when in a matter of minutes some 85,000 people were killed. He told me that he had been a member of the Japanese Imperial Army, that out of that experience had come a hatred for all Americans.

One day two of our missionaries knocked on his door. He was too intoxicated to talk with them. All purpose had gone from his life, and his only refuge was drink. Not recognizing them for what they were, he invited them back, and there followed some weeks later his baptism.

With his conversion came purpose into his life, the will to forsake old habits, the strength to turn completely around. He spoke of appreciation for the young men who had taught him and the motivation they had cultivated within him.

At the time of our conversation he was serving as a member of the branch presidency and as an active member of an elders quorum. His case, in essence, can be multiplied thousands of times. There is no other power like the reforming power of the gospel of Jesus Christ to give men the desire and the will to change their lives.

For her second pregnancy, the doctor recommended performing an abortion before she was four months along; she flatly refused. After prolonged hospitalizations, the child was born without signs of life and without responding to neonatal resuscitation. But her husband, who is a doctor, “began to breathe on him with his mouth and to give him heart massages and I heard him say, ‘let’s go champion, champion up,’ and after a long time the baby screamed. It was a miracle, it really was a miracle,” said Yanet.

An example of such service was the missionary experience of Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, who were called to fill a mission in Poland. Brother Fussek was born in Poland. He spoke the language. He loved the people. Sister Fussek was born in England and knew little of Poland and nothing of its people. Trusting in the Lord, they embarked on their assignment. The work was lonely, their task immense. A mission had not at that time been established in Poland. The assignment given the Fusseks was to prepare the way so that a mission could be established.

Did Elder and Sister Fussek despair because of the enormity of their assignment? Not for a moment. They knew their calling was from God. They prayed for His divine help, and they devoted themselves wholeheartedly to their work.

In time Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles; Elder Hans B. Ringger, then of the Seventy; and I, accompanied by Elder Fussek, met with the religious affairs minister, Adam Wopatka, of the Polish government. We heard him say, “Your church is welcome here. You may build your buildings; you may send your missionaries. This man,” pointing to Juliusz Fussek, “has served your church well. You can be grateful for his example and his work.”

Like the Fusseks, let us do what we should do in the work of the Lord. Then we can, with Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, echo the Psalm:

“My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.

“… He that keepeth thee will not slumber.

“Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep” (Psalm 121:2–4).

Lori:
We have a lot of members and very strong wards around a place called “Trash Mountain,” which is an open dump where people live. Members there are pickers and collectors. They make their money off of recycling plastic and aluminum that they get out of the dump. They live in teeny little houses that we have been to dozens of times.
Bob:
One day we could hear music blaring, and we noticed a tent was being set up. In Cambodia, that either means somebody is getting married or somebody has died.
Lori:
We found out that a mother of five or six kids had just died. There was no husband to speak of. The children just woke up and realized their mom was dead.
One daughter was just sobbing. Through a translator, she said, “I’m the oldest. I’ve got all these siblings. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
I just scooped her up in my arms. How could I not? This girl just lost her mother. I spoke to her in English and said, “I know you don’t understand me, but I promise you will see your mother again. You are going to be OK. You are not going to be left alone.”
So many experiences like this have given us a special connection with the people of Cambodia.

When I was seven, I learned one of the greatest lessons of my life. We were studying the environment in school. We discussed pollution and ways we could help decrease its terrible effects on the world. We talked about the oceans and how, even in little ways, we could change some of the things we do at home to make the world safer for all creatures.
I was still pretty young then, but I really took what we had been learning to heart. To me, the environment is a very important thing. The more I learned about why we should conserve our natural resources, the more I wanted everyone else to know the same things and think they were just as important as I did. I became a seven-year-old warrior fighting in the everyday battle to save Mother Nature.
One day, I came home from school having just finished drinking a soda. We had a recycling bin, which we used regularly, and with my newfound enthusiasm for caring about the environment, I went straight to toss my empty bottle in.
“Stop,” my mom said over her shoulder. “Our recycling company doesn’t allow us to recycle green plastic.”
I was shocked. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The recycling companies were supposed to be the heroes; why would they say we could recycle some things and not others? It didn’t make any sense to me. Disappointed, I dropped my bottle in the trash and headed back toward my room.
At that moment, I had an impression I’d never had before. Coming from a family that was not very religious, we had never had family prayer or even knew what prayer was, other than what we had seen on TV. But right then that was exactly what I felt I needed to do: get on my knees by my bed and pray about it. So I slipped into my room and, not really knowing how to begin, gave it a simple try.
“God,” I started quietly, “this is Ace. Thank you for the environment. Please let us recycle green plastic bottles in this area. It’s really important.” I closed with an “amen” and waited. I didn’t know what to expect. Although I wasn’t visited by angels or struck by lightning, I did feel something I had never felt before. As I sat there, I felt good. I felt like I wasn’t alone in the room anymore, although there clearly wasn’t any other person I could see. Something told me that what I had just done was right.
Life continued the same as it always had. In fact, by the next afternoon I had been so involved in usual things at school that I had mostly forgotten about the green bottle episode and the prayer.
When I got home, I went back to my room, but before long my mom called my name and asked me to come to the kitchen. When I did, I saw that she had a letter in her hand. She explained that it was from the recycling company stating that now we could recycle green plastics in addition to other things.
She handed me the letter. I looked it over, but I couldn’t believe it. The same feeling I had had the day before came rushing back to me. It was an answer.
That was an experience that has never left me. Every time I think about it, I’m still amazed that it could have happened at all. And it was this experience that, three years later, helped me to feel the truth of the gospel when the missionaries came knocking at our family’s door. It was the same feeling.

As I approached my 18th birthday and prepared to enter military service in World War II, I was recommended to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. Mine was the task to telephone President Paul C. Child, my stake president, for an interview. He was one who loved and understood the holy scriptures, and it was his intent that all others should similarly love and understand them. As I knew from others of his rather detailed and searching interviews, our telephone conversation went something like this:
“Hello, President Child. This is Brother Monson. I have been asked by the bishop to visit with you relative to being ordained an elder.”
“Fine, Brother Monson. When can you see me?”
Knowing that his sacrament meeting time was 4:00 and desiring minimum exposure of my scriptural knowledge to his review, I suggested, “How would 3:00 be?”
His response: “Oh, Brother Monson, that would not provide us sufficient time to peruse the scriptures. Could you please come at 2:00 and bring with you your personally marked set of scriptures?”
Sunday finally arrived, and I visited President Child’s home. I was greeted warmly, and then the interview began. He said, “Brother Monson, you hold the Aaronic Priesthood.” Of course, I knew that. He continued, “Have you ever had an angel minister to you?”
My reply, “I’m not sure.”
“Do you know,” said he, “that you are entitled to such?”
Came my response: “No.”
Then he instructed, “Brother Monson, repeat from memory the 13th section of the Doctrine and Covenants.”
I began, “Upon you my fellow servants, in the name of Messiah I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministering of angels …”
“Stop,” President Child directed. Then in a calm, kindly tone, he counseled, “Brother Monson, never forget that as a holder of the Aaronic Priesthood you are entitled to the ministering of angels. Now continue the passage.”
I recited from memory the remainder of the section. President Child said, “Splendid.” He then discussed with me several other sections of the Doctrine and Covenants pertaining to the priesthood. It was a long interview, but I have never forgotten it. At the conclusion, President Child put his arm around my shoulder and said, “You are now ready to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. Remember that the Lord blesses the person who serves Him.”

Several years ago we were returning home to the East Coast of the United States from a summer trip to Utah. Our family van started to “hiccup” somewhere in Missouri, and it got worse as we drove into Tennessee. Finally, climbing the hill leaving Chattanooga late that night, the motor died.
As we sat in the dark, wondering what we could do, it occurred to me that this was a great time for our entire family to unite in a prayer of faith. My wife and I calmed our four children and invited them to exercise their faith as we prayed.
Immediately after the prayer, the van started and we continued up the hill. But within a mile it started running badly again. We took the first exit, thinking we would find a motel room for the night. But despite checking with four different motels, we couldn’t find a vacancy.
We returned to the freeway and soon came to an exit that didn’t look like it would have any motels, but something whispered to me to take that exit. I did, but I could see nothing that I thought would help solve our problem. The exit led to a four-lane highway, and we quickly came to a stoplight. I was desperately wondering what I could do for my family in our predicament.
Suddenly my wife pointed out a sandwich shop that was still open on a side road and suggested we stop and get the kids something to eat. I pulled up to the shop, gave our oldest son some money, and sent the other children in with him while my wife and I sat and pondered.
We were tired. We had been traveling since 5:00 that morning, and it was now close to 9:00 p.m. I started asking questions in my heart about why our prayer hadn’t worked and why all our efforts to live the gospel didn’t seem to be having an effect for us in our time of need, when suddenly it came to me that something just wasn’t right.
I looked up and realized that the sandwich shop’s outside light wasn’t turned on. “How did you spot this shop?” I asked my wife. “Was there a sign out by the highway?” She said no, that she had had a sudden impulse to turn her head to the right, and there it was.
I nodded, my mind racing, and quickly summed up. We were trying to live the gospel, raise our children right, be faithful in our callings; we had prayed in faith, followed a prompting, and here we were. It came to me then that we were exactly where we were supposed to be. We just hadn’t figured out what the Lord had for us here.
And then I knew. Somebody must be here who could help us. I looked into the sandwich shop, and in the first booth was a young family. From my seat in the van I could tell that the father had grease stains on his hands.
I got out of the car, walked into the shop, and approached the family. “Are you an auto mechanic?” I asked.
Surprised, he answered, “Yes.”
I explained my problem, and his wife turned to him and said, “That’s just what my car did last week!” He told me what to do to get my car running well enough to reach Atlanta that night. There we had the car repaired and then made it home no worse for wear.
Our children learned that night—and I did too—that faithful prayer does work, but often you have to trust in the Spirit to help you understand the answer.

My family was driving down a residential road in France when my father thought he smelled something burning. We pulled over to the side of the road and inspected the car. We couldn’t find anything wrong with the car, but we did find something else: a wallet on the side of the road with money in it!
My initial reaction was that I would be able to buy lots of neat things. I knew, however, that we should be honest. My father drove to the police station, and we turned the wallet over to the police. I felt happy, and I know that honesty is worth any cost.

A few weeks ago, just before 6:00 a.m., my wife and I boarded a taxi to begin the last lap of our trip to Salt Lake City from Australia. Our driver, who had been on duty since 3:00 a.m., was anxious to talk with us, his first passengers of the day. We learned his parents were born just outside of Mexico City. They moved to Chicago, where he was born, and then moved to New Mexico. Twenty years earlier our friend had come for a short visit to San Francisco and had never left. During our trip to the airport, this man related a few incidents from which some great truths were reemphasized.
One other important point was made by this unusual taxi operator. He told us that some of his unmarried friends who are also taxi drivers are often out of money. They come to him to borrow. He indicated that he is generally able to help them over tight money spots. When his companions asked how he is able to support his family on his salary when they can’t even keep themselves, he said, “I tell them I don’t waste money at the races or on liquor or tobacco. My wife fixes our meals at home, and we don’t have to pay for expensive restaurant food.” He smiled when he added, “We do our partying with our family.” This man’s objectives are family-oriented, and he has learned the folly of serving the gambling, drinking, and momentary expensive habits.

After World War I ended, Amelia began taking premed courses at Columbia University and at Barnard College. But studying medicine lacked the pleasure she found in nursing and Amelia soon grew restless. When a letter arrived from her family in California urging her to come west, Amelia packed her bags and bought a train ticket home.
Amelia could hardly wait for the long ride to end. Soon she was hugging her family and talking excitedly about what she had been doing. “Oh, I missed you so much!” she cried.
There was little time for Amelia to rest. The Earharts wanted their daughter to meet new people. She was invited to a number of delightful parties and picnics. Then one afternoon Amelia and her father went to see an air show in Long Beach, California.
“Well, are you having a good time?” her father asked.
“A wonderful time, Father! Wouldn’t it be glorious to fly like that!” Amelia exclaimed.
“Would you like to go up for a spin?” he questioned, catching his daughter’s enthusiasm.
“Do you think I could?” asked Amelia, hardly believing that it would be possible.
“I believe Mr. Hawks, one of the pilots, sometimes takes people up for short rides,” Mr. Earhart told his excited daughter.
“Let’s find him, Father! I just have to go up!” Amelia exclaimed.
They found Mr. Hawks and a few moments later Amelia and the pilot were taking off in a plane from a strip of graveled ground nearby. They just barely cleared the derricks of some oil wells near the end of the runway, but Amelia was too thrilled to be frightened or to notice how old and rickety the plane was.
“As soon as we left the ground,” Amelia recalled, “I knew I had to fly by myself! Miles away I saw the ocean [and] the Hollywood hills smiled at me over the edge of the cockpit. … We were friends, the ocean, the hills, and I.”
As soon as Amelia was out of the plane, she began coaxing her father to let her learn to fly. But he was hesitant and Mrs. Earhart was even more reluctant to agree to Amelia’s plan.
“Flying is not a suitable pastime or occupation for a young lady,” said Mrs. Earhart. “Flying is for men.”
“But why is it only for men, Mother?” Amelia persisted. “Why can’t a woman control an airplane as well as a man?”
“Amelia, there are some things a young lady doesn’t do. Flying is one of them,” her mother insisted.
“Voting used to be something women didn’t do,” said Amelia, not wanting to drop the subject.
“My dear,” her mother added, “there’s a big difference between marking a piece of paper and handling a flying machine.”
Though this may have ended the discussion at the moment, her parents both knew that when Amelia wanted to do something, she would find a way to do it. Before long she had a job where she could work during the week and take flying lessons on weekends. Within a year, she had made her first solo flight. In 1920, she set the women’s altitude record of 14,000 feet.

Many years ago, when our children were small, we attended a local fair as a family. We had great fun on the rides and enjoyed the food and music. When it was time to return home, I noticed that I had lost the car and house keys. The place was large and full of people. How were we going to find those keys? Our strategy was to go to a secluded spot in the fairgrounds and have a family prayer. Then we went out to search for the keys.

The first thing we saw was a policeman on duty. We approached him, told him of our predicament, and then asked if a bundle of keys had been handed to him. He immediately asked us one question: “Are you members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?” After the initial shock caused by his question, I answered “Yes.”

He then handed me the keys and explained to us how he knew that we indeed were members of His Church. He told us that his father had been a branch president who also carried among his keys a small vial of consecrated oil, like the one I had on my keyring.

A few weeks later, our two youngest children got lost in a large department store where we had gone to get new eyeglasses for the older children. After waiting a while, they got bored and decided to go off on their own, looking for the toy section. The consequence was that they got separated from us.

What did they do when they realized that they were lost? They went to a secluded spot in the store and offered a faithful prayer that they would be reunited with us. Then they stepped out of that spot, with great faith that they would be found. At that same time, their older brother saw them as he was looking for them in that area.

Consider all that is learned from these two interrelated stories of faith. It is in the daily practice of the gospel that we mostly teach, and that children learn the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. It happens as we seek to diligently keep His commandments and covenants.

Natalie likes to explore the fields around our house. She found a special tree not far from our backyard, where she likes to pray. One night as I tucked her into bed, she said that Heavenly Father had told her to fast on the next Fast Sunday. She is so thin and young that I discouraged her. It was three weeks until the next Fast Sunday, so I thought that she would forget. But she didn’t!
On the day before the fast, she knew exactly her purpose for fasting. She wanted Heavenly Father to bless an elderly sister in our branch who had been very sick. Natalie said that she was never hungry during her fast, because she knew that that was what Heavenly Father wanted her to do.
For several months, she fasted every month with a special purpose, was cheerful, and never complained once. She has been a wonderful example for our family.

When our youngest daughter was about four years of age, I came home from hospital duties quite late one evening. I found my dear wife to be very weary. I don’t know why. She only had nine children underfoot all day. So I offered to get our four-year-old ready for bed. I began to give the orders: “Take off your clothes; hang them up; put on your pajamas; brush your teeth; say your prayers” and so on, commanding in a manner befitting a tough sergeant in the army. Suddenly she cocked her head to one side, looked at me with a wistful eye, and said, “Daddy, do you own me?”

She taught me an important lesson. I was using coercive methods on this sweet soul. To rule children by force is the technique of Satan, not of the Savior. No, we don’t own our children. Our parental privilege is to love them, to lead them, and to let them go.

My memories of childhood in a small farm town in northwest Florida are recollections of difficult times. When I was six years old, my father was blinded in an accident. Already motherless, I had to take over the responsibility for cooking and housekeeping in our home. It was not easy, but we got by. Although I attended the church we belonged to, I was never really much of a joiner, so I was often left out.
A few years went by and my brother—just seventeen years old—went to Vietnam as a soldier. The next year my father was killed in another accident. I was the one who found his body crushed under a car, and I thought I was going to lose my mind. Soon my sister and I had to appear before the county judge and were told that no foster home had been found for us. That meant we would have to go to an orphanage. But before that could happen my sister married, and shortly afterward I married Ben. Opportunities for a young married couple in our area were limited, so when Ben’s uncle came down from the north to persuade us to move to Indiana, we went. We were very unhappy for a long time. There we were, all alone, a thousand miles away from home and everything we knew.
In this state of mind, I was dismayed when I received a letter from my sister and learned that they were expecting a child. I had already made up my mind that I would never have a baby. I was very bitter about life, and I didn’t want to bring a child into the world to grow up like I had.
Soon, though, I began to feel an ache inside that I did not understand. I needed something—something of my own to have and to hold onto. So eventually I changed my mind and decided to venture into motherhood—still unsure and scared, but a little excited too.
I was very sick the whole time, and I wondered at times about my decision; but when the nurse laid my baby in my arms for the very first time, there was no more doubt. We named him Bill. He was so beautiful, and I loved him so much I nearly burst. He became my whole life—not just a part but the sum total, all I lived for. I had Ben too, but I suppose my experiences up to that point had led me to a vague (and in this case, unfounded) uneasiness about the permanency of anything in this life. But Bill I was sure of. He was mine.
Our circumstances improved, and at last we were able to buy a mobile home. And it was our good fortune to move into a mobile home park next door to a Latter-day Saint family. They were very friendly and often urged us to go to church with them. I felt that I needed God for my child, so I was glad they kept asking until we gave in.
It happened that our first meeting was a fast and testimony meeting. I was a little bewildered by this new experience, but not Ben; he was converted on the spot. We received two missionary discussions in the next two weeks. Then on Saturday, 28 February 1970, we had three more discussions and were interviewed and baptized that same night.
Six days later, on 6 March 1970, my whole world came apart. My child was lying in a coma in a hospital and no one could help him. He was dying.
I’ll never forget that awful day as long as I live. March 5 had been a beautiful day. The sun shone and it seemed as though the whole world was ours. We had everything I had never had as a child—security, health, love, and now the Church. Little Bill was just nineteen months old, and that evening he had so much fun at the birthday party we held for his grandma. He was so happy, he ran and played and had a good time. Then in the wee hours of the sixth I awoke to the sound of Bill choking and crying. I ran to his room and there he lay, a tiny bundle of tears. He had turned nearly black, and foam was pouring out of his mouth. He was so hot to the touch that I had to wrap him in a blanket to even hold his little body.
We rushed him to the emergency room at the hospital, where we could do nothing but wait while the doctors ran tests and worked frantically to save his life. Finally our doctor came and told us that Bill’s temperature was 108 degrees. He said they could not find any cause for our baby’s frightful condition. He sent for the best baby specialist in the state. He, too, was baffled. Later in the morning we were taken into his office where he told us there was nothing he could do, that the fever would not break. My whole world was dying. I can’t recall those last hours too clearly, but I do know that I felt alone again as I had when I was a child
Ben was called away to talk to someone, and I was all by myself. I phoned my friend and told her Bill had only a few hours to live. Then I went to his room. He was so little, so very beautiful, and so still.
I sat down next to his bed, feeling numb at heart. And as I did, a feeling came over me that I cannot describe—a feeling of complete peace, the like of which I have felt only one other time, in the temple of the Lord the day our family was sealed for time and all eternity. It fell on me with such force that I was stunned and shaken. Then I looked up, and there standing at the door was a man I recognized as one of the high priests from our ward. I didn’t know his name, but I knew why he was there. I reached over and picked up Bill from the bed. He awoke when I touched his body. He looked at me for one short second, and smiled.
The man at the door said, “I am Brother Walters. The Lord has sent me to administer to this child.” Because Bill had been placed in isolation, the nurses wouldn’t let more than one visitor at a time into the room; so Brother Walters had to leave his companion in the hallway. He anointed Bill with oil and then laid his hands on his head and blessed him with health and strength—and that he would be made whole that very day.
Shortly afterward the doctor returned with a paper for me to sign. It was an autopsy consent. I refused, and he said he would be back. Ten minutes later I looked up to see my child sitting up, completely well! He climbed out of bed as if nothing had ever been wrong and padded out into the hall as fast as his little legs would carry him—his usual speed. He ran up to the doctor and grabbed him around the legs. The doctor, who was always composed and cool, looked down in astonishment. Then he picked Bill up and came running down the hall to me, laughing and crying at the same time. He shouted, “It’s a miracle!”
I agreed.
I don’t know who called Brother Walters to administer to Bill. I only know he was sent by God.

I have a dear friend named Thabiso Sehloho, whom I have known for over 15 years now, and from whom I have learned a great deal watching him go through life. He joined the Church at 18 years, having been brought up by a single mother. As a young man he showed great promise as a soccer player and even represented his country at the under-20 level and had a great future ahead of him. Initially, he battled with the idea of going away to serve a mission for two years, but as his testimony strengthened, he knew what he needed to do.

When the time came, he left a promising football career to serve a mission; returned home and found himself a faithful wife and started his work life. Many of his friends had views on the order in which he should have done things. He, however, walked in faith ignoring the many worldly voices but instead he put his trust in his Father in Heaven. Years later he would go on to complete his university education after having served in different leadership assignments where he was able to touch so many lives.

He has touched my life just because of his simple faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. He has learnt to block out the many voices that sometimes so easily get us distracted. This could be in the form of social media, news outlets, and just being preoccupied with so many things that we find ourselves having to deal with. In faith he seems to have mastered the Lord’s admonition, “Be still and know that I am God” (D&C 101:16).

When I was a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood, the member of the bishopric who advised the deacons quorum came into our quorum meeting the Sunday before Thanksgiving and said, “I hope we won’t have one family of this quorum who won’t kneel down in family prayer and have a blessing on the food this Thanksgiving.” It was 1943, and our country was engaged in World War II. We discussed our need for a divine blessing for those who were in military service and for all the other difficulties we as a nation were facing. We also talked about the blessings we each enjoyed. Then we were again encouraged to have family prayer.
A heavy cloud settled on my heart. I didn’t know how my family could have family prayer. My father had a drinking problem, and my mother was not a member of the Church at that time. We had never had a prayer in our home, not even a blessing on the food. After quorum meeting I continued to consider the challenge, and finally concluded we would not be able to have prayer.
That evening at sacrament meeting the bishop stood up at the close of the meeting and said, “Brothers and sisters, Thursday is Thanksgiving. I hope we will not have one family in the ward that will not kneel in family prayer. We ought to express our gratitude for the great goodness of our Heavenly Father to us.” And then he enumerated some of our many blessings.
Again it seemed as if my soul were filled with an enormous gloom. I tried to figure out a way our family could have prayer. I thought about it Monday, and again on Tuesday, and on Wednesday. On Wednesday evening my father did not return home from work at the normal hour, and I knew from experience that, because it was payday, he was satisfying his thirst for alcohol. When he finally came at two in the morning quite an argument ensued. I lay in bed wondering how we could ever have prayer with that kind of contention in our home.
On Thanksgiving morning, we did not eat breakfast so we could eat more dinner. My four brothers and I went out to play with some neighbor boys. We decided to dig a hole and make a trench to it and cover it over as a clubhouse. We dug a deep hole, and with every shovelful of dirt I threw out of the hole I thought about family prayer for Thanksgiving. I wondered if I would have enough courage to suggest to my parents that we have a prayer, but I was afraid I would not. I wondered if my older brother, who has always been an ideal in my life, would suggest it, since he had been in the same sacrament meeting and had heard the bishop’s suggestion.
Finally, at about two-thirty in the afternoon, Mother told us to come get cleaned up for dinner. Then we sat down at the big round oak table. Dad sat down with us silently—he and Mother were not speaking to each other. As she brought in the platter with the beautiful golden brown turkey, my young heart was about to burst. I thought, Now please, won’t someone suggest we have a family prayer? I thought the words over and over, but they wouldn’t come out. I turned and looked at my older brother, praying desperately that he would suggest prayer. The bowls of delicious food were being passed around the table; plates were being filled; and time and opportunity were passing. I knew that if someone did not act immediately, it would be too late. Then suddenly, as always, everyone just started eating.
My heart sank, and despair filled my soul. Although I had worked up a great appetite, and Mother was a marvelous cook, I wasn’t hungry. I just wanted to pray.
I resolved that day that no son or daughter of mine would ever want to pray and not be able to do it because of shyness or lack of courage. In our family we have family prayers, personal prayers, and blessings on every meal. As one who has known the contrast between families that do not pray and those that do, I know the value of prayer in the home and in the life of every child and youth in the Church. What a blessing it is for us to know that our private, individual prayers are heard and answered by a kind, wise, loving Heavenly Father, and that we can take our problems—no matter how simplistic they may be—to him in prayer!

A long line of cars and large trucks sped along the freeway through the steady rain, tires hissing on the wet pavement. Water squirting from under the wheels of the trucks formed a curtain behind each speeding colossus. Every time we passed one of those road giants, a streaming shower blocked our view.
Often, when a long line of cars was in front of us, we had to drive for minutes beside one of those enormous vehicles. Shivering with fear, my wife would look up at the monster that thundered along only a couple of meters away from us.
I grumbled to myself because we had left so late that I had to hurry in these dangerous weather conditions to arrive on time for our appointment.
Suddenly we heard a mysterious sound against the side of the car. It went “klack-klack-klack-klack,” sounding like the first four beats of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, of which the composer said, “That’s the way fate knocks at the door.” The sound repeated itself every so often.
I stopped the car in the emergency lane and inspected the tires and the body of the car. I could find nothing that could have caused this knocking sound, so we continued our trip. After several kilometers, we heard the same knocking sound. I stopped and inspected the car again. Nothing was to be found. But when I stopped a third time, I did discover something—a bump on one of the tires that slowly grew to the size of a coconut!
When the mechanic who came to change the tire inspected the inside of the tire, he whistled fearfully. Even though the tire had been new, it had a big tear in the canvas—a factory defect. “You couldn’t have driven another kilometer with this,” the man said. “The tire would have had a blowout.”
I shivered with the thought of what could have happened if we had had a blowout when we were driving next to one of those huge trucks. That day, I clearly felt the protecting power that we so often plead for in our daily prayers.
Years later, one stormy night. I felt that protection again. We were a little older and little bit more forgetful. The wind roared around the house and gusted at doors and windows. However, inside it was quiet and safe, and we slept warm and comfortable.
The next morning, we awoke, said our morning prayers, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, we had the scare of our lives! There was a strong gas smell, and the kitchen door, which we normally locked tight, was wide open in the wind. Without realizing it, we had left the gas knob of the stove wide open and the door unlocked. Somehow the storm wind had blown the door open. Had the door not been open, the gas would surely have been ignited by the flame in the water heater, causing a potentially serious explosion.
We are not wise people, just a simple couple striving to keep the covenants we made with Heavenly Father when we were married in the temple. We feel protected. Perhaps we are protected many more times than we even realize. Certainly, we believe that it was the hand of our Heavenly Father who saved us twice from misfortune.

As an example, I share an experience related by Sister Lanett Ho Ching, currently serving with her husband, President Francis Ho Ching, who presides over the Samoa Apia Mission. Sister Ho Ching relates:
“Years ago, our young family moved to a tiny home in Laie, Hawaii. The carport of our home had been converted into a studio apartment, where a man named Jonathan lived. Jonathan had been our neighbor in another place. Feeling it wasn’t a coincidence that the Lord had put us together, we decided to be more open about our activities and membership in the Church. Jonathan enjoyed our friendship and loved spending time with our family. He liked learning about the gospel, but he was not interested in committing to the Church.
“In time, Jonathan earned the nickname ‘Uncle Jonathan’ with our children. As our family continued to grow, so did Jonathan’s interest in our happenings. Our invitations to holiday parties, birthdays, school events, and Church activities extended to family home evenings and the children’s baptisms.
“One day I received a phone call from Jonathan. He needed help. He suffered from diabetes and had developed a severe foot infection that required an amputation. Our family and neighboring ward members walked him through that time of trial. We took turns at the hospital, and priesthood blessings were offered. While Jonathan was in rehab, with the help of Relief Society sisters, we cleaned his apartment. The priesthood brethren built a ramp to his doorway and hand railings in the bathroom. When Jonathan returned home, he was overcome with emotion.
“Jonathan began taking the missionary lessons again. The week before New Year’s, he called me and asked, ‘What are you doing on New Year’s Eve?’ I reminded him about our annual party. But instead, he replied, ‘I want you to come to my baptism! I want to start this new year right.’ After 20 years of ‘come and see,’ ‘come and help,’ and ‘come and stay,’ this precious soul was ready to be baptized.
“In 2018, when we were called to be mission president and companion, Jonathan’s health was declining. We begged him to stay strong awaiting our return. He carried on for almost a year, but the Lord was preparing him to come home. He passed away peacefully in April 2019. My daughters attended their ‘Uncle Jonathan’s’ funeral and sang the same song we sang at his baptism.”

The cool evening air felt good on my face as my companion and I were frantically riding our bicycles back to our apartment to make it home on time. The May weather had been typical for Texas, hot and humid, so the crisp evening air was a welcome feeling.
I began thinking of the success we were enjoying in the city of Brownsville. A family of five was baptized last month and another family of five was to be baptized this month. Suddenly that warm, familiar, and welcome feeling came over me, and I was prompted to look back. Through the trees I saw a row of houses a little way off the road—houses I had never noticed before!
When we reached the apartment I told my companion, Elder Maughn, that we needed to go back to those houses in the morning and meet a few people. Then we planned our activities for the next day and went to bed. I could hardly sleep for the excitement of that day. We had challenged a family to be baptized, and they accepted, and now it seemed that the Lord had more people for us to teach.
The morning came not too soon for me. After a shower, breakfast, and study class, we headed out for the houses I had noticed the last night. It was easy to see why we had missed them before. Somehow between the junkyard and bushes and the low-hanging trees, there was a road. Actually, it was more like an alley. It was so rough that we could hardly get our bikes down it.
There were about seven houses down this road, so we began at the first and worked our way to the last. Yes, number six was the house. We knocked at the door, and a woman answered. Her face radiated with a warm, kind, and protective glow. We introduced ourselves and said we had a brief message about the Lord. She invited us into a small, two-room house.
As we entered the living room, we were greeted by no less than five children, ages ranging from eleven down to two. The children giggled as we spoke to them. We told her we would like to return when the father was home, and she invited us back that evening.
The rest of the day my head was spinning with thoughts of how we would teach the family. We knew with the Lord’s help and consent we would help this family become members of his church.
Somewhere between banging on doors and lunch a fearful thought came over me. Tithing! Reflecting back about that family we visited earlier that morning, I wondered how they would accept the principle of tithing. I thought of that family of seven and their home, which apparently had only the bare necessities. The kitchen had just a table and benches in it. The other room, which was divided in half and separated only by a curtain, was both the bedroom and the living room. The only furniture in this room was one chair and a tattered couch. How would this family be able to budget tithing?
Paying an honest tithe seemed to be a stumbling block to some of the people we had taught before, and I worried about this all day. Silently I prayed that this family would gain a strong testimony before we were to teach the principle of tithing to them.
Again the cool evening air felt good on my face as we rode back to that home to meet the father and begin teaching his family. The father held as many of the children as he could, and the others huddled close by. We felt a warm, familiar feeling as we visited with them and explained our message about the Lord’s true church.
After a brief prayer we started with the filmstrip Man’s Search for Happiness. It would keep the children interested, and parents always seemed to enjoy it. I glanced over at the mother during the part about leaving the pre-mortal existence, and I thought I saw traces of tears in her eyes. I couldn’t help but again glance over at her during the part about death and our spirit returning home to loved ones. Yes, this time it was plainly clear. That sweet mother had tears in her eyes and half way down her face.
The mother was still wiping away the tears when the film ended, so I quickly bore my testimony to the truthfulness of the concepts taught in the film and the truthfulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. We then proceeded into the rest of the discussion. It was accepted well, very well. After arranging another appointment for the next night, we offered prayer and were on our way.
I noticed that there was no car in front of the house, and again I wondered how they would accept the principle of tithing.
When we reached our apartment, Elder Maughn and I knelt down and prayed. We prayed to our Heavenly Father to bless this family with a strong testimony and to provide a way that they could keep the commandments.
When we knelt for personal prayer I stayed on my knees a little longer than usual before climbing into bed. When the time came, how could we present the commandment of tithing so the Spirit would touch them with a testimony and a desire to keep it?
The family was progressing well. Every lesson was a spiritual experience for all of us. Members visited them and took them to church. Finally the challenge was given to be baptized, and they accepted.
The next step was the lesson on the commandments. I cleverly arranged it so my companion would present the concept on tithing. Yes, I would give the first concept, he the second which was tithing, then I would continue with the third and so on. This way I wouldn’t have to ask the family to keep the law of tithing and wonder about their answer.
That moment seemed to come all too soon. When we entered the home that evening and settled down for the lesson I began the discussion with the first concept. Before I had completed two sentences the father eagerly asked a question, and my companion answered it and continued on with my concept! He then finished the first concept, and now it was my turn—tithing! I said a quick silent prayer and proceeded with confidence.
I explained what the word tithe meant, how it was a commandment anciently and now also in our day. Then I came to the part I dreaded—to ask the family to keep the law of tithing. This fine brother answered back, but I was so worried that I didn’t hear the answer. I hurriedly continued on with the concept and then realized he had answered yes! I was then at the part where the question was to be repeated so I confidently asked again, “Will you keep the law of tithing?”
Again the answer was yes. I then bore my testimony with tears in my eyes that it was a true commandment and that many blessings would follow.
That following Sunday, just a week before the family was to be baptized, I looked eagerly for them. When Sunday School began, the family was not there. I didn’t see them anywhere. Perhaps they had decided they couldn’t keep the commandments after all, I thought to myself. I wondered if the problem was tithing.
Then just before sacrament meeting started, in through the front doors walked the family. I hurried to greet them. I had a smile on my face from ear to ear I’m sure. They explained that they had walked all the way, at least four miles I think, and the father carried two of the little ones.
We sat down in time for the meeting to start, and all I could think about was this family. What an example to me. I loved them already, and I had only known them for three weeks.
After sacrament the mother took me aside and said, “Here, Elder Myers. Here’s ten dollars. My husband gets paid every two weeks, and we wanted to start paying tithing now.” I stood there for what seemed like an eternity and just looked at the mother, with sincerity and humbleness written all over her face. I looked at the ten dollars. Her husband made two hundred dollars a month, and they were willing to keep the law of tithing. What a faithful family.
I guess I hesitated too long, for the mother said, “Isn’t it enough?” I quickly turned my head for tears began to fill my eyes. I found the second counselor in the bishopric and asked him to explain to this good sister about filling out the tithing slip.
As he explained the process to her, I slipped away to an empty room. I tried to hold back the tears, but “Here, Elder Myers” kept ringing in my ears. I thanked my Father in Heaven for this great opportunity and the testimony he had given to this family.
That following week the family was baptized.
Even now that I have returned home from my mission and have continued on with my life, I still think of this wonderful family and the great lesson they taught me about tithing. Every time I pay tithing I can still hear those words from that sweet sister, “Here, Elder Myers. Isn’t it enough?”

A few weeks after my daughter’s death, the realization and magnitude of what had happened started to creep in. It was like heavy, thick black smoke seeping in at first, followed by all-consuming billows until I was surrounded by complete darkness. Grief in its rawest has its own dimension of blackness.
Natalie had died on Thanksgiving Day. It was now Christmas. The holidays only magnified my loss. The agony lingered throughout the day and tormented me throughout the night. It was relentless. The tears poured endlessly for days. Minutes passed like hours. Hours passed like days. Days passed like years.
As a divorced woman, I did not have a husband who could go out and earn a living. If I could have, I would have curled up in a ball, locked myself in a closet, and remained there forever. But I didn’t have that luxury. I had to somehow gather the strength to function. I had to find a job. I was working when Thanksgiving Day happened, but somehow in all the chaos, I had forgotten about my job. I could have gone back to it, but my Natalie loved to hang out there, and the thought of going back without her was unbearable.
By the first week of January, I had gotten a low-paying job. I tried to act like I was normal. My body kept going, but I felt like my soul had died. No one knew I was a hollow shell of a being just going through the motions. It was only during the drive to and from work that I was able to break down emotionally. This was my new normal.
I started going to my new ward a little at a time. I just knew if someone asked me how I was doing, I would fall to pieces. I desperately wanted to go to church, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone, much less make eye contact. I wished with all my heart that I could be invisible. More than anything, I just wanted to rip this all-consuming pain out of my chest!
I have no idea what the sisters in Relief Society thought of me, and at the time I didn’t much care. I was too busy just trying to breathe! I’m sure I gave off the impression that I wanted to be left alone, for none of them bothered me. They did, however, occasionally give me a warm smile that I found a little comforting—just the exact small dose to keep me from running out the nearest exit, which was a constant thought.
Time is a healer. It doesn’t erase events, but it allows gaping wounds to slowly close.
That fateful Thanksgiving Day was in 2011, and it took me a few years to realize just how much I was helped by my brothers and sisters in the Church. I felt like I was carried off the battlefield after having been critically wounded. I was nursed back to health and cared for until I could stand on my own.
Countless blessings have come my way, in a variety of ways. My testimony has grown to near full maturity. I know now what it feels like to be held in the loving arms of our Savior.
So to answer my friend’s question, “How did the Church help you through this ordeal?” I say, “They didn’t help me. They saved me.”