Gospel Story Finder

One particularly powerful experience that I had with prayer was in June 2018 as I prepared for a mission. I had received my mission call to Greece and was eagerly applying for my visa and participating in the temple preparation course to be ready to go to the temple. One night I went to a friend’s house who was no longer a member of the church. She had many other friends there who were drinking and when the topic of my mission call came up in the conversation, they all started saying discouraging things about my decision. Saying that I didn’t know my own religion and Joseph Smith had done things I should know about and I shouldn’t preach stuff to others that I didn’t know enough about myself. I started doubting myself and my experiences and my decision to serve. As I drove home that night, my car became my sacred grove. I poured my heart out to God asking Him for help – a sign, reassurance, anything. I arrived at my university apartment full of snot and tears and nothing happened. No angel, no voice, no light, no miraculous open page of a Book of Mormon with the perfect scripture. So, I went to sleep, wondering if God had heard me.
A few days later, I received a call from an old friend from New Mexico who I hadn’t had contact with since leaving for university. She explained that she didn’t know why she was calling me, but she felt prompted to tell me that she had decided to serve a mission and was submitting her mission papers. She hadn’t told anyone except for her family. I said congratulations and thought “That was random.”
A few days later, again I received a text message from a girl who had been my roommate for my first semester of university. She also told me she had decided to serve a mission and was called to serve to speak Spanish and French in Montreal, Canada. I thought, “Wow, that’s really cool!” and again felt it was random.
Then a few weeks later I got a call from one of my close cousins, Eric, who had not been active in the church for most of his life because of his parent’s divorce and excommunication. He told me that he had recently decided to serve a mission and had received his call. Not only was he going to serve a full-time mission, but he had also been called to serve in Greece on 21st November 2018. We were going to serve together!
I knew that these friends had been an answer to prayer and through following the promptings of the Spirit they were able to give me the reassurance that I wasn’t alone and my decision to serve a mission was right and I should move forward with faith. Just like my friends and cousin at that time, we can be instruments in God’s hand to carry out His will and aid those we know and meet in their search for answers to their own prayers.

Consider the following: John Lyman Smith the brother of President George Albert Smith related this incident that took place when he was a young boy.

In my early years I used to often eat at the table with Joseph the Prophet. At one time he was called to dinner. I being at play in the room with his son Joseph, he called us to him, and we stood one each side of him. After he had looked over the table he said, 'Lord, we thank thee for this Johnny Cake, and ask Thee to send us something better. Amen.' The corn bread was cut and I received a piece from his hand.

Before the bread was all eaten, a man came to the door and asked if the Prophet Joseph was home. Joseph replied he was, whereupon the visitor said, 'I have brought you some flour and a ham.' Joseph arose and took the gift, and blessed the man in the name of the Lord. Turning to his wife, Emma, he said, 'I knew the Lord would answer my prayer.'[13]

Recently I decided to take my fast Sundays to a new level and really focus on fasting with a purpose. The question was what to fast for. I’m doing pretty well. As a junior in high school, I serve in student government, get good grades, and have a passion for volleyball and the gospel. But as I read my patriarchal blessing, I felt different about myself. I felt like the Lord had so much more planned for me, so I fasted on how I could be a light for the world.
Fasting was a great experience, but I didn’t have any huge personal revelations. On Monday I was back to my normal routine. Then the following Wednesday, ESPN asked if I would be their elite athlete blogger on their high school volleyball website! They wanted me to write about whatever I wanted to for that audience.
Because of this experience, I’ve been able to mix my passion for volleyball with my standards and gospel insights in my blogs. I feel like I’m able to share who I really am in a personal way on a national platform.
When I fasted, I’d hoped that I could be the person my patriarchal blessing said I was, but I didn’t see how it was possible. The Lord gave me a voice and He wants me to use it.
I have a huge testimony of fasting with a purpose, and I know that if we have faith, the Lord will fulfill His promises in His own way.

Thirteen-year-old Lynnette Thompson wondered why the dogs kept barking and running around in circles in the yard. Then the fence she was standing by started to rattle, and her dad, who had just climbed down from the roof of the house, yelled at her to stop shaking the fence. She started to protest that she wasn’t doing anything to the fence, when the rock wall by the house started to crumble. “Then everything started jumping around. I saw the flagpole fall over, and the roof of the house jumped up several inches and came back down.”

Mike’s interest in amateur radio (the term ham is a nickname for the same thing) began while he was young. “We set up an electric train in the basement when I was about five, and I started figuring out how it ran. I’ve been working with wires ever since.”
“My uncle gave me a home-built transmitter, which I used along with a receiver I built from a kit. You can get a novice (beginner’s) license from the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), and with less than $100 worth of equipment, be operating a Morse code station.”
Mike got his novice license in August 1975, received his general license eight months later, his advanced license “a couple of months after that,” and now holds the highest license, the extra class license. There is one other license, the technician license, but it is used mostly for business communication, and higher licenses have the same privileges, so Mike bypassed it.
A novice licensee is allowed to broadcast only in Morse code. If he attains a higher license, however, he is allowed to broadcast his voice. “I started out memorizing Morse code,” Mike says. “Then I had a record with a very slow code speed, and I practiced off the air. Once I got on the air, I didn’t have any interest in receiving from a record. The main thing that pushed me to learn code was foreign stations sending it faster than I could receive, so I kept on pushing.”

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! A busy yellow bee landed on a flower by Andrea. She jumped up and hurried away. Andrea didn’t like bees. She moved to a different part of the garden to pull weeds by a leafy tomato plant.
The sun was warm on Andrea’s back. She could hear Mom close by in the rows of corn. Suddenly Andrea heard more buzzing. Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! She ran to find Mom.
“There are too many bees, Mommy!” she said. “I want to work in the garden without the bees.”
“We need the bees to make our garden grow,” Mom said. “Jesus created bees to pollinate the plants so we can have our favorite foods.”
“Without the bees we wouldn’t have our garden?” Andrea asked. She thought about all of her favorite plants. She liked pretty flowers. She liked to eat strawberries and tomatoes. She would be sad to live in a world without them.
“I’m glad Jesus made the plants,” Andrea said. “I’m glad He made the bees too!”

Because of physical health problems, when I was about a year into my mission, I had to go home for a little bit. But before I left, one of the other sisters told me, “Be home for Christmas. This is your home.”

I made that a goal. I knew the mission field was where God wanted me to be, and I really wanted to do what He asked, feel the joy I’d felt before, and spend my Christmas experiencing miracles as a missionary.

I returned to my original assignment in the first week of December. God helped me jump back into the work, and it was such a good Christmas season. It was service-oriented and Christ-centered, just how it’s supposed to be. Sometimes we get caught up in the material aspects of Christmas, but that’s not the point. The point is that Jesus Christ was born for us, lived for us, and died for us because He loves us.

I loved having Him be the center of my life during my mission because it helped me feel closer to Him, and I got to share that gift with other people too. We were teaching a woman who really wanted her family to come over for Christmas because she hadn’t seen them in a while. We cleaned up her house, set up her Christmas tree, and watched the Church video “The Christ Child” with her.

Later she told us, “I got to have Christmas because of you sisters. I wouldn’t have had my family over if you hadn’t helped me.” It really touched my heart. I was so grateful that God let me experience that.

In the future, I want to make my Christmases more about Christ and be more involved in Light the World. That’s how we can be more like Him: by serving more and being outward-focused.

Mary M., from Colorado, USA; served in the Arizona Mesa Mission

She’s only 14, but April Marsh leads the youth choir in her ward through their warm-up exercises. Then as accompanist Jaci Marsh, 17, begins to play, April starts going over a new song. In the Copper City Utah Second Ward, the youth choir is run entirely by the young people themselves.
It all started when Heather Steele wanted to sing in a choir but was hesitant about joining the ward adult choir. She made the suggestion to her Young Women leaders that they start a youth choir. The bishop agreed and called sisters April and Jaci Marsh to be the chorister and accompanist. Heather was called as choir president. From then on, responsibility for holding practices and leading the choir rested on the youth themselves.
What’s it like having a 14-year-old leader? “She’s fun,” says John Kirby. “She makes jokes if you make a mistake,” says Shellie Nelson.
The choir performs in sacrament meeting. April says she gets a tingle when the choir is “sounding like the Tabernacle Choir.” Nicole Roper says, “It’s neat to see people right on the edge of tears.” John adds quickly, “It’s mostly our moms and dads.”
The bishop wanted the youth to understand the importance of worship through music. The youth choir has come to understand that. As Sarah Hardman said, “When you’re performing, you really feel the power of the music.”

Let me share with you the beautiful message which appears on the Christmas card of Dick and Mary Headlee. It is entitled “A Modern Miracle.”

The Headlees wrote: “Our family and friends, working with Project Concern International, aided by the LDS Church’s Humanitarian Aid Relief, had been gathering food, clothing, medical supplies, blankets and toys for months. Finally the project deadline arrived, and the container had to be shipped from Salt Lake City that day. The last hour we sealed the 40-foot container for shipment to the Romanian orphanage was hectic. The 40,000 pounds of needed supplies were finally packed. A friend, Barbara Brinton, arrived from Provo literally at the last minute. She had several items, among them a child’s orthopedic walker. Her neighbor had heard of Barbara’s interests in our orphanage project and was inspired that they might need her child’s walker in Romania. Our daughter Kathy thanked her for the supplies and looked quizzically at the orthopedic walker. It wasn’t on the list of needs, but she thought, ‘Oh, well; it doesn’t weigh much. We’ll throw it on.’

“When our family arrived in Romania, they met a doctor who was working with a multiple-handicapped four-year-old orphan named Raymond. Raymond had been born with severe club feet and was blind. Recent orthopedic surgery had corrected the club feet, and Dr. Lynn Oborn was attempting to teach Raymond, who had never walked, how to use his legs. Dr. Oborn’s first words to us were, ‘Oh, you’re the people who have the container. I hope you brought me a child’s walker for Raymond.’ Kathy responded, ‘I can vaguely remember something like a walker, but I don’t know what size it is.’ She dispatched our son Bruce back into the container, and he crawled amongst all the bales of clothes and boxes of food searching for the walker. When he found it, he lifted it up and cried out, ‘It’s a little one!’ Cheers erupted—which quickly turned to tears, for they all knew they had been part of a modern-day miracle.

“There may be some who say, ‘We don’t have miracles today.’ But the doctor whose prayers were answered would respond, ‘Oh, yes, we do, and Raymond is walking!’ The neighbor who was inspired to give the walker was a willing vessel, and surely would also agree.

“Our family members, whose lives have been enriched by this entire experience, bear witness that God hears and answers prayers, and for this we give thanks.”

Dr. Neal Halfon, a physician who directs the UCLA Center for Healthier Children, Families, and Communities, refers to “parental benign neglect.” One example involved an 18-month-old and his parents:
“‘Their son seemed happy, active and engaged, clearly enjoying time and pizza with his parents. … At the end of dinner, Mom got up to run an errand, handing over care to Dad.’
“Dad … started reading phone messages while the toddler struggled to get his attention by throwing bits of pizza crust. Then the dad re-engaged, facing his child and playing with him. Soon, though, he substituted watching a video on his phone with the toddler until his wife returned.
“… [Dr.] Halfon observed a dimming of the child’s internal light, a lessening of the connection between parent and child.”

Feeling miserable after a week of making poor choices and enduring lectures from my parents, I went to visit my grandfather. Flopping down on his front porch, I rested my chin on the palms of my hands and wondered how a kid as young as I was could get into so much trouble.
Noticing how sad I looked, my grandfather sat down beside me. “Jeffery,” he said, “I think it’s time we went fishing.”
Early the next morning we were on the lake in his boat. “Granddad, how do you do it?” I asked. “How do you always make the right choices? I’ve never seen you lose your temper or make any of the mistakes I do.”
Granddad pulled a silver compass out of his pocket and laid it on the seat between us. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, Jeff, but when I was sixteen, I learned a valuable lesson, and this compass was part of it. I carry it with me all the time because it reminds me to check my other compass to make sure that what I’m doing is right.”
“You carry two compasses with you?”
“Yup. They remind me of the day I used them both and barely escaped death, anyway.”
“Escaped death? What happened?”
“Wow, Granddad, that was some experience!”
“It sure was, Jeff, and it taught me a lifelong lesson. When I can no longer see where my pocket compass is leading me, I can still head in the right direction. I just have to let my inner compass guide me.”
“But how do you know when it’s working?”
“You know it’s working when you get a feeling that something is right or wrong. If you feel right about your choice, you know you’re following in the direction your inner compass is pointing. If you feel uncomfortable or miserable about your choice, you know you’re going in the wrong direction.”
“Thanks, Granddad,” I said, “I’m going to start using my inner compass right away.”

An example of the home-front battles that were fought in the early days of the Church is found in Ann Howell Burt’s journal. Sister Burt emigrated from Wales, married, and lived in a dugout in the summer of 1863. As a young mother she had to work hard to keep order and see to the needs of her family. She recorded in her journal:
For several mornings I was puzzled to find my milk-pan skimmed. . . . So the other evening I sat down behind the door, with my knitting, to watch proceedings, and what was my surprise to see a huge bull-snake come crawling out from the head of our bed and swaying gracefully toward my crude cupboard . . . to skim my cream.
Now I cover my milk tightly.2
Personally, I think I would have done more than cover my milk, and maybe she did, but this was just one of many episodes during that summer. Her journal continues:
This is a hideous place. Some days ago, I killed a rattlesnake with my rolling pin, as he came crawling down the steps. I was just cooking supper and the baby was on the floor or rather the ground. . . . I was badly frightened. . . .
. . . A few days ago, while keeping the flies off the baby’s face as he slept . . . , I discovered . . . a large tarantula crawling toward the child. I seized the broomstick, thrust the end of it at the tarantula and when it took hold . . . I hurriedly put it into the fire.3

I grew up in a city near Seattle, Washington, and was not a member of the Church. When I was 11, I joined a local ballroom dance team that several of my friends were on. The team had started as a youth activity for Latter-day Saints, but it was so popular the instructors kept it going. I didn’t know much about the Church, but the instructors and other youth were so welcoming that I didn’t care.
My friends invited me to Mutual activities and weekend Church dances. I began to notice something interesting about them: they were always smiling. They were positive, encouraging, and enthusiastic about any opportunity that arose. They had joy that I had never felt.
I wanted to know what made them so happy. During six years of careful observation I learned some interesting things. My friends jumped at the opportunity to help and serve those around them. They never judged their peers for the way they looked, talked, or acted—they accepted everyone. My friends believed in speaking cleanly, acting appropriately, and dressing modestly. They valued their parents and siblings as the most important people in their lives. And most important, my friends had firm testimonies of Jesus Christ that strengthened them in difficult times.
After high school graduation, I said good-bye to these friends and started college in New York City. It took only two weeks for me to desperately miss what I now know was the Spirit I felt at Church activities and dance classes with my friends. I looked up the closest ward on LDS.org and then walked to the meetinghouse the following Sunday. I met the missionaries and began learning from them.
When the missionaries taught me about Joseph Smith, I knew instantly through the Spirit that his experience was true. Then, when they explained Jesus Christ’s sacrifice and how He atoned for us, my heart was filled with gratitude for my Savior and His love for me. Six weeks later, I was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church.
I owe my introduction to the Church to my friends who were so kind and welcoming. They didn’t allow their standards to slip when pressure was strong or their decisions were unpopular. Their testimonies were firm and unwavering. They held true to their faith and showed me what it meant to truly live the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I know the importance of always living my standards. Both members and nonmembers need strong examples of friends who refuse to lower their standards. Even when I think no one is paying attention, I will try to never waver. You never know who is looking at your example.

One day my brother was playing soccer. During the game, one of my brother’s teammates fell down and started crying. My mom thought I should show him my stuffed animal to help him feel better. I had just bought it, but I walked over to the boy and asked, “Would you like to play with this?” The boy looked up and said, “Yes!” The boy laughed while he played with it, and he felt a lot better. Afterward I felt really good. I knew Heavenly Father would be pleased with what I did.

One day, while waiting her turn at the dentist’s office, Heidi felt impressed to give a copy of the Book of Mormon, with her picture and testimony inside, to a neighbor lady who was also waiting. “You can have this,” Heidi said, handing the woman the book. “It’s a true book, and ours is the true church.”
The spirit of truth worked quickly. The next day the neighbor lady, Lajla Pedersen, phoned and asked if she could go to church with the Pedersens the next Sunday. Soon Lajla and her husband, Jan, were converted to the Church. Within weeks he was baptized, ordained a priest, and, with much jubilation, was able to baptize his wife, his daughter, Lisabeth, and his son, Kim.

“What’s wrong?” Carol’s mother asked as they cleared away the dinner dishes. “Your birthday is just a week away and I thought you’d be happy and excited. It’s always been such fun to have your birthday in December. Your father and I named you Carol because having you for a daughter makes it seem like Christmas all year round.”
“I’ve always been excited before, but this year is different,” Carol answered.
Her mother looked puzzled. “What’s different about this year?”
“Well,” Carol began, “today at school Julie, Kay, and Krista decided to have a birthday party for me and they want it to be a caroling birthday party.”
“That sounds fun!” her mother exclaimed. “And I’ll make some hot chocolate for everyone. But why aren’t you happy about the party?”
“Mom, you don’t understand. You know I can’t sing. All that comes out when I try is a squeaky and embarrassing sound, especially when compared to the beautiful sounds Julie and Krista make when they sing. I love to hear them,” Carol explained.
“Everyone can sing,” declared her mother. “And I’ve always enjoyed listening to your singing.”
“That’s just because you’re my mother and so it doesn’t count,” Carol said. “You love me anyway, no matter how I sound.”
“Indeed I do,” Carol’s mother answered as she finished washing the last dish. “And I hope you won’t let the party plans spoil your birthday.”
For the next two days Carol thought about her problem. How could she go on a caroling party and not let everyone hear her squeaky voice?
She suggested that the party be changed to a sleigh ride, but the girls said they’d rather go caroling.
I wonder if I could learn to sing before the party, she thought, trying to be a better sport.
Every time she was alone she would practice “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful,” and “Joy to the World,” but the songs didn’t sound at all the way Julie or Krista sang them. Her voice squeaked and cracked and she couldn’t reach the high notes.
“Why does my birthday have to be in December?” she grumbled. “But the party’s for me so I have to go.”
John, her little brother, poked his head into her room and teased, “If I were you, I’d just mouth the words!” Then he laughed and hurried to shut the door before she could answer.
“Very funny,” Carol called after him and threw a pillow toward the closed door.
Sitting glumly on the edge of the bed, Carol suddenly beamed, “That’s just what I’ll do,” she said. “I’ll mouth the words. No one will even hear my squeaking.”
That night as she and her mother were doing the dishes, she confided. “I’ve figured out how to have fun at my party.”
“I’m glad,” her mother answered. “I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”
The night of the party, Carol bundled up in her warmest clothes and left with a big smile on her face.
“Happy birthday,” Julie and Krista greeted.
“We’ve never been caroling before. We can hardly wait,” several other girls said.
“We’re all here,” Kay shouted. “Let’s go.”
The group stopped first at Mrs. Caulder’s house where strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” floated onto the crisp night air. Carol moved her mouth with each word but didn’t make a sound.
This is great, Carol thought, as they walked on. I’m going to have a good birthday party after all.
“Do you have a cold or something?” Kay asked Carol. “You haven’t been singing.”
Carol was embarrassed. “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”
“What do you mean?” Kay persisted.
Carol tried to laugh. “I wasn’t singing because I can’t.”
“Neither can I,” Kay admitted.
“But you were singing!” Carol said.
“Sure! Anybody can sing Christmas carols. They’re so beautiful they make you forget everything else!”
“Not if you have a squeaky voice like mine!” Carol argued.
“Mine’s funny too. But I just think about the words,” Kay explained. “I could never sing a solo, but in a group like this it’s great.”
Think about the words, Carol reminded herself as the girls began singing “Silent Night” at the Langstons.
Carol listened carefully to Kay—“Round yon virgin mother and Child, Holy Infant, so tender and mild.”
Kay’s voice strained at the notes and squeaked almost as much as Carol’s, but the words came out loud and clear and full of meaning.
Carol joined in the third verse, but the squeaks and high notes were still there. She strained and tried harder, but nothing helped. She was sure Krista was staring at her out of the corner of her eye.
“I can’t do it,” Carol said to Kay as they walked on.
“You’re still worrying about the notes,” Kay said. “Think about the words instead.”
“I’ll try,” Carol promised.
The crisp winter air became colder as the girls moved on to the next house and started singing.
Carol took a deep breath and joined in, “Hark! the herald angels sing.” At first the words came softly and reluctantly, but as she thought about their meaning, Carol sang with enthusiasm. “With th’ angelic host proclaim Christ is born in Bethlehem!” Her heart suddenly took over and she felt as if she just had to let the whole world hear those beautiful words.
“Wow,” Krista whispered to Carol as they walked on. “You really sing with feeling. Everyone is sure to get the Christmas spirit when you’re around.”
“But I don’t have a beautiful voice like yours,” Carol protested.
“That doesn’t matter,” Krista said. “It’s the enthusiasm that counts.”
“That’s right,” Kay agreed, and winked at Carol.
“Let’s sing ‘Carol’s carol’ again,” Julie called as the group stopped before the next house. “That sounded great.”
Carol’s heart was filled with happiness as she thought of the meaning of the words and then sang out with the other girls, “Glory to the newborn King!”

I walked briskly toward the shore, swinging my pail. Molly had trouble keeping up with me. We were twins, but I was tall for eleven, and my steps were longer than hers, especially when I wanted to get somewhere in a hurry.
“Wait up, Paddy. You not be going to a fire!”
We were on our way to collect periwinkles that hid among the stones at the water’s edge. These we sold to Mr. Moylan. He, in turn, made a profit on them from customers in England and France who enjoyed eating the marine snails. In this way Molly and I earned our pocket money. I was saving for a bicycle; Molly, a fiddle.
“The carrageen moss,” she reminded me. “Let’s be getting that out of the way first.”
Our whitewashed, thatched-roof cottage on the west coast of Ireland was but a hundred yards from the sea. The red carrageen moss drifted in on the water, and all we had to do was scoop it up and stuff it into a sack. Mother cooked it with milk to make a sweet jelly pudding.
As we reached the shore, Molly said, “I’ve worrisome news to tell you, Paddy!” She pushed back her red hair and looked anxiously at me. “Timmy’s brother let it slip yesterday that Tim already had four pounds fourteen shillings saved for that bike of Gerald’s you both be wanting.”
It was bad news. I had just a little over three pounds put away. I couldn’t afford a new bicycle, and Gerald’s was the only secondhand one in the area at the bargain price of five pounds. In good condition, it was up for sale only because Gerald’s rich uncle, who owned a cannery in Dublin, had sent him a fine new bicycle for his birthday.
“I must get that bike, Molly,” I muttered. “I hope I find lots of periwinkles today for Mr. Moylan to buy.”
She nodded. “Me too.”
I really needed Gerald’s bicycle. Molly and I and out two younger brothers had only one bike between the four of us. This fall Mike and Dan would be going to school with us, and we’d be having to take turns riding it to school—two riding double and two walking. It was a forty-minute walk each way. If I got the bicycle, we could all ride to school.
“I guess you want a bicycle as much as I be wanting a violin,” Molly said as we stuffed the moss into a sack. “I’ve but three pounds twelve shillings saved, and it’s grateful I am that Mr. Healy is willing to let me have his fiddle for only six pounds. ’Twill take me a while yet to save it all, but there’s no hurry, since I can practice on it in the meantime.”
Molly took music lessons—her one luxury—and practiced faithfully on the borrowed instrument she hoped to buy. It was her dream to play in concerts—she loved it that much—and she seemed to have plenty of talent for it. If ever a girl enjoyed practicing her music, it was Molly O’Sullivan. I hoped her dream would come true.
We were very close, Molly and I. I loved my brothers, but Molly was special—not just because she was my twin, but because she seemed to understand me better than anyone else; and she had a sweet, loving nature. I never heard her fight with anybody. She was the peacemaker in our family.
Our sack full of moss, we fell silent as we concentrated on finding periwinkles.
Suddenly I glimpsed a claw and shouted, “Hey, a lobster!”
Lobsters were a rare find on our shore. With a stick I poked around under the rock until it scuttled out. I pounced on it triumphantly and dropped it into my pail.
“Good for you!” Molly cried. “Do you suppose there be one for me under that rock?”
I poked under the rock again, but with no luck. Then, glancing up at the sky, I said, “There’s a storm brewing, Molly. We’d best be leaving.”
“But I haven’t found enough periwinkles yet.”
“There’s no time now. We have to hurry.”
We scooped up some salt water into our pails to keep the periwinkles alive longer, then hastened to Mr. Moylan’s cottage. He gave us a few shillings apiece for our catch and a few extra for the lobster. Molly and I got home just as the storm broke.
That night, after a good supper of beef boiled with cabbage and potatoes—and carrageen pudding for dessert—I lay brooding in the big bed I shared with my two brothers. I was still one pound short of the money I needed. I knew I could make sure of getting Gerald’s bicycle by borrowing the money from my father. But Timmy and I were friends, and we had made a bargain. Since we both wanted the same bicycle, we were to save only money we earned ourselves. The first one able to pay the five pounds would get the bike. Gerald had promised not to sell it to anybody else. And now Tim needed only six more shillings!
Borrowing from my father would be cheating, but I needed that bicycle—not just to ride to school but also so I could earn more money for the things my father couldn’t afford to buy for me. I needed it more than Timmy did; he had only one brother to share their one bike. I wished I hadn’t made that bargain with him.
When I awoke in the morning, the bicycle was still on my mind. It was all I could think about as I harnessed the family donkey to a cart holding our water barrel. It was my job to get the day’s supply of water each morning from our well, which was some distance from the house. I had to pump the water into a bucket and then pour it into the barrel. It took many bucketfuls to fill the barrel.
If only I had a couple of hours all to myself each day for collecting periwinkles, I thought wistfully as I pumped and poured. But I knew there was too much work to be done on our forty acres of farmland. We all had our chores—chickens and pigs to feed, the cow to milk, potatoes to dig out of the fields, corn to cut, barley to bind into sheaves, turf to cut out of the earth for the fire, and more.
As soon as I could manage a break in my chores, I hurried out to where my father was reaping barley. Dad’s a big man and a hard worker, but he had hurt his back, and it had slowed him down some.
“Dad, might you be doing me a favor, I wonder? Like lending me a pound?”
“For that bicycle, Padraic?” My father always called me by my proper Irish name.
“Yes, sir. I’ve got to buy it before Timmy does, and he be needing but six shillings more for it, the last I heard.”
My father did not know about the agreement between Timmy and me. He would not have given me the pound had he known. “A bike of your own means a lot to you, eh, laddie? Wish I could get it for you, but I be trying to put money aside for some sheep. ’Tis hard enough to pay for your sister’s music lessons.”
“I know. But she’s deserving of them. Could you just lend me the money? I’ll pay you back from the periwinkles.”
“Very well, Padraic. Run along and tell your mother to take it out of the sheep money.”
“Thanks, Dad!”
I gulped down my lunch in a hurry that day so that I’d have time to go to Gerald’s with the five pounds.
I strode along whistling merrily, thinking of all the good the bike was going to do me. By getting home fast from school each day and having extra time for periwinkle hunting, I’d soon earn enough to buy the pocketknife I’d always wanted, the one with a nail file, a can opener, a tiny pair of scissors, and other useful gadgets. It even had a wee saw. A survival knife, it was called. It made my heart swell just to think about owning such a pocketknife.
But then a still, small voice spoke inside my head. Or was it inside my heart? “You made an agreement,” it whispered, “and now you’re going back on your word. You’re a cheat, Paddy.”
The cheery whistling died on my lips.
“How would you like it if Timmy had got the money from his dad and had already bought the bike?” the voice continued.
Not wanting to think about it, I shrugged and pursed my lips once more. But nothing came out. I no longer felt like whistling, but I pushed on determinedly.
“Listen, Paddy—”
“You hush up!” I yelled at the voice. “I be needing that bike more than Timmy.”
“More than your self-respect?” the voice inside me persisted.
“Hush up! Didn’t I tell you to hush up?”
“Just one thing more, Padraic O’Sullivan. Do you recall a certain scripture you heard in church last month? You even looked it up, remember? Hebrews 13:18.”
It came to me then, those words from the Bible: “… we trust we have a good conscience, in all things willing to live honestly.”
I caught my breath. It was almost as if God were speaking to me! Wasn’t the Bible His holy word, one way He communicated with people? I stood motionless, torn two ways. Finally I murmured, “Good-bye, bicycle.” Then I turned and started for home. At first I dragged a little. But with every step, my heart grew lighter. I returned the borrowed pound, mumbling something about waiting and taking my chances on getting Gerald’s bike. My father gave me a searching glance but asked no questions, for which I was thankful.
A little later I came across a tearful Molly in the barn. “What’s ailing you, girl?” Molly almost never cried. “Sure and it be not bad enough to cry over?”
“Yes it be,” she sobbed. “Mr. Healy sent word he’s moving to Dublin next week to live with his married daughter. ’Tis all so sudden! If I be buying his violin, it must be now. He’s willing to lower the price by half a pound, but ’tis still more than two pounds short I am. And if I don’t buy it, how will I practice?”
Molly tried to stem her tears, but I knew how she must feel. The price of Mr. Healy’s fine instrument was a bargain. With all the hard work and love Molly had put into practicing on it, she deserved to have it for her own. When you come right down to it, Paddy O’Sullivan, I told myself, she’s more deserving of that fiddle than you are of that bicycle.
“If it were just a few shillings, I’d ask Dad,” she went on through quivering lips, “but—”
“I’ll tell you what, Molly girl,” I said, interrupting her. “Let’s really rush and finish the chores today. If we get done early, we can ride double into the village to see Mr. Healy. And bring your money. Maybe something good will happen.”
At Mr. Healy’s, the amount my sister lacked I contributed out of my own savings. What radiance shone out of Molly’s face! Her joy filled my own heart. Surely this made up for the wrong thing I had almost done today.
“Oh, Paddy!” The happy tears in Molly’s eyes were replaced by a look of anguish. “B-But now you’ll be having no chance at all to buy Gerald’s bike.”
“Bike?” said Mr. Healy. “Be ye seeking a bicycle, Paddie? Well now, and don’t I just happen to have an old one sitting out back. You can have it for whatever it be worth to you. Come, I’ll show you.”
The bike was somewhat rusted and missing a couple of spokes, but a coat of paint would do wonders for it. It even had a basket! I handed over the rest of my money quickly, for fear the old man might change his mind.
“Thank you kindly, sir. Come on, Molly. Now each of us will be riding a bike home.”
Molly kissed the old man on the cheek. “I’m sorry to see you leave, Mr. Healy. I hope you’ll be happy in Dublin.” She planted a kiss on my cheek too. “I’m so glad for you about the bike, Paddy. And for myself to be having such a brother!”
I grinned self-consciously. “Turns out ’tis myself I did a favor for. When I came here to help you out, I had no idea ’twould mean a bike for me too. ’Tis almost like … like a gift from heaven!”

Why is Floriano Oliveira, a member of the high council in a stake in Brazil, so successful as a missionary? Because he obeyed the Lord’s counsel to open his mouth and share the gospel. One day as he was driving through the congested traffic of São Paulo he took his eyes off the road for but a second and crashed into the car in front of him. He jumped out of the vehicle, hurried up to the car he had hit, opened the door and said, “I am so sorry I hit you. It was all my fault. I accept the full blame and will pay the total costs. I had no intention to do this, so please forgive me. Yet if I hadn’t hit you, you wouldn’t have received this message I have for you, the message that you have waited for all your life.” He then explained the restoration of the gospel to this man, who was a medical doctor, and the man joined the Church two weeks later. Why has Brother Oliveira had so much success in baptizing more than two hundred people? Obedience—obedience to the request of the Lord.

“One day when I was about nine, Mother and Dad were on their way to a Church meeting and their car was struck by a train at a railroad crossing. Dad was unhurt in the accident, but Mother had one lung punctured and suffered many cuts and broken bones. The Latter-day Saint doctor who attended her shook his head and said, ‘She just can’t survive.’ But a member of our stake presidency gave her a blessing that she would recover. Soon the pain subsided, the lung healed, and the broken bones knitted together perfectly. Mother was born with a slight curvature of the spine, and afterward she good-naturedly teased, ‘If the Lord was going to mend my broken bones, surely He could have straightened my spine too.’

The university is equally well served by wonderful performing groups that are also sustained by a powerful spiritual force. And this largely because of the quality of leadership in our music program. I recorded the following on December 12, 1981.
Last night the community enjoyed a powerful experience in music. The Honolulu Symphony performed in the Cannon Activity Center with the BYU-Hawaii Concert Choir and the La`ie Choral Union directed by Dr. James Smith. Carolyn and our two daughters Merrilli and Angela sang with a 125 voice choir which had practiced for several months pieces from the Messiah and Hodie. According to Carolyn, the practices were discouraging, even ragged. It was embarrassing that the choir stumbled so badly even in the main practice with the main orchestra on Friday.
But our prayers and the great need of the people brought about a miracle of beauty seldom experienced. . . The choir sang brilliantly, one hundred times better than ever before in practice. I was stunned.
Afterwards Carolyn mentioned to me several times that as they sang she heard strong beautiful voices, not the choir's, blending in, strengthening and magnifying. She saw no angels but she heard them. She could even pinpoint in the choir where they were standing. Certainly the impact was heavenly, for the choir was resonant, in tune, responsive to the orchestra. They were magnificent as was our wonderful Dr. Smith. Dr. Preston Larson of our Music faculty came up to me afterward bubbling, almost jumping up and down with enthusiasm. The angelic support was manifest abundantly in an eighteen voice choir which sang in the Celestial Room of the remodeled Hawaii Temple in 1978. The rich beauty of that choir is unforgettable. When Dr. Smith retires at the end of this year, we hope that he does not take his angels with him.