Gospel Story Finder

I went off to school that fall. I was on the track team, and though I was not a star that year, I ran straight and hard. When I came home that summer, I had an interview with my bishop to begin the work of serving a mission. It didn’t take place in a bishop’s office, but in a blue, two-story home in south San Francisco. I sat on the edge of a bed, and the bishop pulled close his favorite old chair. He seemed a little hesitant. His eyes were wet.
“Tom, you are a Rosa,” he began. “And you are a Latter-day Saint.”
“Yes.”
“If you honor your family, you will honor your church. If you honor your church, you will honor your family.”
“I understand that.”
After asking me the normal missionary interview questions, he concluded, “You will do good. You will be a fine missionary.”
Then he told me to go help Mom in the kitchen. I looked back at him as I left. His hair was mostly gray now, and his arms were not as thickly muscled as before. He sat in his chair and stared out the window at ten thousand sparkling lights on the hillside across the bay from our home. I wondered if he knew how proud I was to be his son and how much it meant to me to share his good name. I walked downstairs realizing that all those years I had been running, my father had been growing, and I would never lack for someone to look up to.

“What’re you doing with my ball?” Rodney Sims growled at me as I stood under the huge sycamore tree at the park, admiring the new football I’d found on the grass. He stomped toward me, his face red and sweaty from playing ball in the sun.
I nodded at my friend Frank. “We were just riding past on our bikes and spotted it lying here. I figured somebody lost it.”
“Well, I left it here,” Rodney barked, snatching the ball from my hands and tucking it under his arm. “It isn’t lost, and I don’t need anybody ripping it off, either.”
“I wasn’t trying to steal it,” I said, climbing back onto my bike. “It sure is a nice ball, though. If it were mine, I’d write my name on it so I wouldn’t lose it.”
“Hey, kid, you want to buy it?” Rodney’s tone was suddenly friendly. Surprised, I turned to face him. “I have another one.” He nodded at the guys who were still playing football. “If you like this one, I’ll sell it to you.”
I laid my bike down again and took the ball, a red and gold San Francisco 49ers ball. It fit my hand perfectly. I had seen some just like it at the Sports Haven, a big sporting goods store downtown. The 49ers were my favorite pro football team, and I had wanted a ball like this one, but it cost ten dollars.
“I like it,” I said, gripping the ball tightly, cocking my arm and pretending to throw a pass. I shook my head and handed it back to Rodney. “But I don’t have ten dollars.”
Rodney studied the ball as he rolled it in his hands. “I’ll sell it to you for five.”
“Five dollars?”
“I have my other ball, and I’m a Dallas Cowboys fan, anyway.”
My mind began to race. I had four dollars at home in my drawer, and I could borrow a dollar from my little sister, Stephanie. I licked my lips and grabbed the ball again, searching for flaws. There were none.
“I’d have to go home for the money,” I explained, picking up my bike. “It’ll take me fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be here. But the price is five dollars. And no refunds or returns.”
I sped home so fast that Frank had a hard time keeping up with me. Stephanie agreed to lend me a dollar until my next allowance. I snatched the other four dollars from my drawer.
“You’d better think about this,” Frank warned as I crashed out the front door and leaped for my bike. He was still straddling his bike in the driveway.
“What do you mean, think about it? I’ll never get another deal like this! Five dollars, Frank, for a ten dollar ball! And if I bought it at the Sports Haven, I’d have to pay tax too. I can’t pass this up.”
“Something’s fishy, Joshua,” he cautioned me again. “Has Rodney ever been nice to you?” I thought a moment and shook my head. “So why’s he suddenly doing you this great big favor?”
“He has an extra football and he doesn’t like the 49ers. I’m just helping him out,” I answered defensively.
“Something has to be wrong with the ball. Maybe it has a slow leak. Have you thought of that?”
“I checked the ball out really well, Frank. It’s brand new. Nothing’s wrong with it.”
“I wouldn’t buy it if I were you, Joshua.”
I stared at my friend. “You’re just jealous because he’s not selling it to you. I’m getting that ball before Rodney changes his mind.”
Rodney was waiting for me under the sycamore tree with one of his buddies. The others had left. He had the new 49ers ball and another one that was a bit scuffed up. I held the money out, and Rodney snatched it. As soon as he was sure it was all there, he handed me the football. “You just bought yourself a ball, kid.” He laughed and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s head out of here.”
Holding the ball, I watched the two run off. They were smirking as they glanced over their shoulders in my direction. An uneasiness stirred inside me. I thought of Frank’s warning. Maybe there was something wrong with the ball. I tossed it around a bit. It felt good. I squeezed it to see if it was losing air. It seemed firm enough. If there was anything wrong with the ball, I sure couldn’t tell what it was.
For the next two days, my friends and I played with my 49ers ball. It was everybody’s favorite. It didn’t have a slow leak, either. It was brand new, just like it looked. I kidded Frank about being worried and asked him if he wished he had come up with the five dollars. He shook his head, but I still figured he was jealous.
One afternoon as I sat on the front steps, tossing my ball in the air and catching it, he rode up on his bike, looking serious. “I found out something about your ball,” he said.
I grinned. “Are you still worried about this ball, Frank?”
Frank didn’t smile. “My brother Derek runs around with one of Rodney’s friends. According to him, Rodney ripped that ball off.”
“What do you mean ‘ripped it off’?”
“Rodney stole it from the Sports Haven. A couple of his friends covered for him, but he was the one who sneaked it out of the store. That’s why he wanted to sell it.”
It felt as if Frank had punched me in the stomach. I looked at the football. “Maybe this isn’t the same ball,” I argued, feeling myself get angry.
“Rodney stole a 49ers ball the same afternoon you bought it from him. This is the one, all right.”
“Well, I didn’t steal it,” I snapped at Frank. “I paid for it, so it isn’t my problem. And I didn’t know it was stolen when I bought it from Rodney. He’s the thief, not me.”
Frank shrugged and turned away. “I just figured you ought to know.”
I was angry at him for telling me about Rodney’s stealing, because I liked that ball and I wanted to keep it. “Are you going to tell anybody?” I shouted after him. He turned back and stared at me. Slowly he shook his head.
After he left, I put the ball away. When Stephanie asked me to play catch, I said no. I kept telling myself that the ball was mine, fair and square, and that I hadn’t done anything wrong. But I still didn’t feel good about having it. I didn’t even want to play with it anymore. And I sure didn’t want to tell Mom and Dad what Frank had said. They hadn’t been happy about my borrowing the dollar from Stephanie in the first place, but they’d only suggested I pray about it and left it up to me.
The next day I went looking for Rodney. He was riding his bike over in the school parking lot with a couple of his buddies. Walking up to him, I handed him the football. “I want my five dollars back!”
He looked at the ball and then at me. “I told you—no refunds and no returns. Besides, I’ve already spent most of the money. And,” he added, nodding down at the ball, “it doesn’t even look new, anymore.”
“You stole this ball,” I hissed.
The grin disappeared from his face. Jumping off his bike and letting it clatter to the pavement, he grabbed the front of my shirt and jerked me toward him. “Who told you that?”
“There are guys who know,” I rasped. “And I don’t want a stolen ball.”
“Don’t you go blabbing around that I stole that ball, kid, or you’re going to be in a bunch of trouble. Nobody can prove that I stole it. Besides, it’s your ball. You paid for it.”
“I don’t want it now.”
“That’s your problem. If you don’t want it, go throw it in the trash.” He gave me a hard shove, climbed onto his bike, and rode off with his friends.
My feet dragged as I left the parking lot, carrying the football that until yesterday had been such a prize. Now it was a cold, hard reminder of dishonesty. I saw the garbage dumpster in the corner of the parking lot. I considered throwing the ball away. But I couldn’t. I’d paid five dollars for it, and I still owed Stephanie a dollar. I couldn’t just get rid of it.
I tried telling myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t known the ball was stolen when I bought it. I hadn’t been the one to take it. I had tried to give it back to Rodney. What else was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to lose my five dollars because Rodney had done something wrong?
I shook my head. All my excuses wouldn’t make the sick, guilty feeling go away. I thought of the Sports Haven. I had always liked going there and looking around. Now every time I even passed by, I thought of the stolen football. And even though I hadn’t been the one to steal it, the Sports Haven was still missing a ball. And I had it. I knew what Dad and Mom would say, and I knew I wouldn’t feel good again until I did it.
I walked home, climbed onto my bike, and rode downtown. It was tough walking into the Sports Haven. I asked for the manager, Mr. Turley. One of the clerks took me to his office in the back of the store.
“Well, hello, Joshua,” Mr. Turley greeted me as I stepped into the office. “How can I help you?”
I set the football in the middle of his desk and stared at it. “This ball was stolen from the Sports Haven,” I announced quietly. “I didn’t steal it, though,” I quickly added. I told him the whole story.
“So it’s not my ball,” I finally ended. “You might not want it, either, because it’s been used and I wrote my name on it in black marker.”
Mr. Turley leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. For a long time he thought without saying anything. Finally he leaned forward and took the ball from his desk and rolled it around in his hands. “Joshua, first of all, I want you to know that I’m happy that you had the courage to come in. I don’t expect that that was very easy.” I shook my head without looking at him. “It’s not always easy to be completely honest. In this case, it cost you five dollars. And you weren’t even the one who stole the ball. But being honest is more important than this football or the money you spent to buy it.”
Mr. Turley smiled at me. “I’m going to try to make being honest this time a little easier for you. You’ve already paid five dollars. I have some work around here that you could do to earn the other five. Then the ball would be yours.”
“You mean I could keep it?”
Mr. Turley smiled. “You just be here tomorrow morning.” Grinning, I turned and started for the door, the sick, guilty feeling gone. “Hey, Joshua,” Mr. Turley called out. I turned. He laughed and tossed me the ball. “You’d better take that with you, or someone might walk off with it.”

The gym was quickly filling up with people when a hush came over the once-noisy room. The choir from the Czech Republic started to file onto the stage.
I sat forward in my chair searching for the red-haired girl whom Mr. Lauritzen, my choir director, had described to me a few minutes earlier.
“There is a Latter-day Saint girl in the choir,” he had said. “She has red hair and her name is Iva.” I had signed up to host someone from the choir at my house for the night, and once I had heard about Iva, I immediately wanted her to stay with me.
I soon discovered a few red-haired girls in the choir, but one stood out to me. She was on the front row, and somehow I felt that she was Iva.
“What is your name?” I asked the girl after the program.
“Iva,” she said.
“Hi, my name is Cindy.” I paused not knowing what to say next. “Would you like to stay with me?”
“No, I am sorry. I am staying in the dorm.”
I felt bitter disappointment. I had to think quickly because there was no way that she was staying in that dorm if I had anything to do with it.
“I’m a Latter-day Saint!” I blurted desperately.
She looked at me in shock. “You are? Well, then I want to stay with you,” she said excitedly.
She was the only Latter-day Saint in her choir, and I understood how she felt because I am the only Church member in my school. Since there are not very many Latter-day Saints in either the Czech Republic or in my hometown, Collegedale, Tennessee, the chances of her staying with an LDS family were very slim. It was not even likely for us to meet.
Iva chattered away in her own language to her friends, explaining to them that she wanted to stay with me.
She turned to me regretfully and said, “It’s too late. The girl that I needed to talk to has already left.”
Once again, something came in the way of her staying with me. I was not about to give up. After I said a silent prayer, I turned to my choir director for help.
“Mr. Lauritzen, Iva was staying in the dorm, and now she says that it is too late for her to stay with me.”
“Well, I know how to fix this. Iva, why don’t you talk to your conductor?”
After Iva’s conversation with her conductor, she smiled at me. “It is fine. I can stay with you.”
I blew out a sigh of relief as we headed toward the exit. As I drove the short distance to my house, Iva told me something.
“While I was still in the Czech Republic, I prayed that I would be able to stay in a Latter-day Saint family’s home. I cannot believe that I am really doing this.”
We arrived at my home at 11:00 P.M., and my mom met us at the front door. “Mom, this is Iva.” I paused, “She’s a Latter-day Saint.”
“I can’t believe what you just said,” my mom replied as if she were in a dream.
“I am so glad to be able to stay in your home,” Iva said with gleaming eyes.
“It’s nice to have a Church member stay with us,” my mom added.
Iva agreed as they embraced.
Later, when we had snuggled underneath the soft covers of the twin beds in my room, Iva pulled out her Czech Book of Mormon.
“Iva, I have an idea. Why don’t you read from your Book of Mormon aloud while I follow along in my English one.”
Iva seemed to like the idea and soon the room was filled with the sound of her soothing voice speaking in the tongue so foreign to me. Soon after we put up our books, we fell asleep.
Iva left early the next morning. Her choir was headed for Memphis. I do not know if we will ever see each other again, but we will keep in touch. Iva and I were almost complete strangers brought together by shared beliefs. Although we were with each other for too short a time, I know we will always be friends and I will never forget her or the blessing that she brought into my life.

In 2020, my cancer unexpectedly returned! After the initial crying from us all, I felt calm. I had another wonderful blessing and could feel peace. I play the piano, and playing songs helped me get through it.
I love the April 2020 General Conference talk from President Nelson called Hear Him.1 Playing and listening to music is a way I Hear Him. I prayed to Heavenly Father and said I didn‘t mind having chemo as long as I suited being bald.
The cancer went, which was a surprise, and a nurse who was an atheist said, “You know I don‘t believe in God, but someone is watching over you”. I‘d spoken to them all during my treatment about members fasting and praying.
In June 2022, the cancer had returned for the third time in 4 places! I‘ve never been an anxious person but waiting for the result was horrible. My husband and I hugged and cried yet again. We said a prayer to ask Heavenly Father to help us get through it. Another talk from President Nelson came to mind. It was Let God Prevail.2
This time the monthly chemotherapy has affected me psychologically. I‘m a strong-willed person and I‘ve never said, “Why me?”. Instead, I ask the Lord what I need to learn. My prayers have never been as heartfelt. Yes, sometimes I cry out during the night when I‘m so fatigued with my chemo. We have a picture of Christ on our bedroom wall, and when I‘m awake during the night I ask for His help. I have the words ‘Let God Prevail‘ in my mind every day. Whenever my husband is stressed about his business, he knows I‘m going to smile and he says, “Let God Prevail.”
Although we‘re going through these trials, and I still have down days where I cry and feel hopeless, most days I Let God Prevail and feel at peace. I‘m still serving as our Ward Relief Society President, and blessed to be able to help the members with their trials in their lives.
Let us not put off praying and asking for help getting through challenges in our lives. The Lord is there, waiting for us to ask for help- “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

A recent magazine article contains the story of a 12-year-old girl who got hooked on the Internet. In a chat room she met an admirer. One thing led to another until the discussion became sexually explicit. As she conversed with him, she thought he was a boy of about her own age.

When she met him, she found “a tall, overweight gray-haired man.” He was a vicious predator, a scheming pedophile. Her mother, with the help of the FBI, saved her from what might have been a tragedy of the worst kind (see Stephanie Mansfield, “The Avengers Online,” Reader’s Digest, Jan. 2000, 100–104).

In 1965 I headed to Vietnam for my third tour of duty with the U.S. Air Force. We were flying combat missions just about every day, with our squadron’s F-100 Super Sabers taking small arms hits regularly. In this environment, I easily developed faithful habits of prayer, and I found strength in knowing that my family back home was praying regularly for my safe and speedy return.
Looking back, I can see clearly that these prayers helped build a protective shield around me. I felt this protection especially on the morning of March 30, 1966. About halfway through a mission, I noticed that my fire warning light had lit up. I had been hit! I was in trouble, so I headed east toward the nearest friendly airfield.
I was feeling pretty good about things until my wingman told me that I was burning badly, with flames trailing several feet behind the aircraft. A moment later, the aircraft quit responding to the control stick. It was time to bail out. I squeezed the trigger, firing the ejection seat charge. It fired much more violently than I had expected, but at least I was separated from the burning F-100.
As soon as I ejected, things quickly went from bad to worse. The jolt of the ejection put me into a rapid, head-over-heels tumble. The tumble was so violent that I couldn’t think through the remainder of my memorized emergency procedures. My only clear thought at the time was that the human body was not built to withstand such violence. I expected an arm or a leg to be torn off at any minute!
I finally calmed down enough to recall a parachute free-fall training film I had seen just before my deployment to Vietnam. An image soon became crystal clear in my mind: Spread eagle to slow down and stabilize. As I responded to the image, which I knew was an answer to the many prayers that had been offered in my behalf, I immediately stopped spinning and tumbling. I was then able to concentrate on other pressing matters—like opening my parachute! If it had opened automatically, I wouldn’t have found myself tumbling with such violence.
My mind then cleared further, as if a small TV screen had appeared before me, outlining the rest of the critical emergency procedures I needed to remember. Check chute. I didn’t have one. If no chute, pull D-ring. The D-ring is the rip cord, which I quickly pulled. Immediately the parachute popped out and filled with air to break my fall. Deploy seat kit. I pulled the lanyard to release the heavy, hard-shelled survival kit that was strapped to my seat. No luck. The kit stayed attached, hanging dangerously behind my thighs.
Later, in my debrief of the ejection, a flight surgeon told me that in every case he knew of, an undeployed seat kit had resulted in a crushed pelvis. I was thankful I was not aware of this grim statistic as I floated toward the earth.
I hadn’t realized that Vietnam was in its dry season, and the soft rice field I expected when I landed was concrete hard. I hit my head on the ground and was briefly knocked unconscious. Fortunately, I had kept my helmet on throughout the ejection.
When I recovered, I unstrapped myself from my parachute and took a quick inventory. I had no broken bones and saw no enemy troops, but I knew I had landed in hostile territory controlled by the Vietcong. Within 30 minutes an Army helicopter arrived, picked me up, and flew me to my intended destination.
When I finally came down from my adrenalin high and could focus on all that had happened, I became immediately aware of the divine intervention that had occurred in my life. I had experienced major equipment problems: neither the automatic feature on my parachute nor the survival kit release system had worked. My spinning had prevented me from thinking clearly until mind-clearing images came to me. And I had landed safely and been rescued from hostile, Vietcong-held territory. In short, it was clear that my prayers and those of my family had been answered in a remarkable fashion.

While serving a mission, I had many opportunities to use the musical skills that I had learned. I relished the many opportunities to sing and play the piano and played nearly every week in sacrament meeting. I will always remember listening to those faithful Guatemalan members singing the hymns. I taught members new hymns that they weren’t familiar with. I taught some basic piano lessons. My companions and I would sing to the people we were teaching. Even if we sang off-key, the Spirit was always there to touch the hearts of the people.

Our son is a new hematology-oncology doctor. He has had the blessing of obtaining all his medical school education and training through a scholarship from the United States Army Medical Department (AMEDD). It has provided 100 percent of his tuition, housing costs, and expenses and even a small monthly stipend during medical school. When he was working hard to qualify for that scholarship and fearing the possibility of having to take out six-figure loans if he did not, I remember a conversation we had. I will never forget what he shared. My son told me that he knew it would all work out somehow because he was committed to paying tithes and fast offerings while he was in medical school.
He wanted to know he was doing everything he could to qualify for the Lord’s help with the large task he was setting out to accomplish. His work ethic has since been tested to its limit, but he is a good example to me of never being weary in well doing (see Doctrine and Covenants 64:33). Even with his busy hospital schedule, he has happily accepted heavy Church assignments, and he and his wife and little family have been blessed.

In junior high, I didn’t think life was fair. I was short—not just a little below average, but officially vertically challenged. One day my entire grade lined up by height for a picture. I was at the end of the line—the short end.
Despite my height, I loved basketball and was determined to make the team. As a gym full of boys began running drills to win their places on the squad, I hoped my many hours of practice would pay off. The coaches stood in the middle of the gym, observing us and taking notes on their clipboards. At my size, I just prayed they would notice me.
After warm-ups, the head coach blew his whistle and explained our first shooting drill. He handed me a ball. I was one of the first to dribble from half court and pull up inside the three-point line for a jump shot. I knew everyone was watching; my shaking hands reminded me with every dribble. I stopped at the top of the key, jumped, and let go of the ball. I hoped that it would at least hit the rim. The ball rolled around the iron and dropped through the net.
Sooner than I wanted, it was my turn again. Again my shot found its way through the hoop. Through the next rotation, my luck continued. The returning center of the team noticed me and decided to help out an underdog. He began calling attention to me right before each of my next shots. Thankfully, I kept making my shots.
At the end of the day, when the list of those who made first cuts was posted, my name was there. I had just climbed the first leg of my Mount Everest.
After a few more days of tense nerves and early-morning drills, another cut was posted. I made it past my second hurdle. With only one or two cuts left, my chances were getting better, but my competition was stiffer.
At the end of the week, tryouts were over. I tried to remain calm as I walked to the coaches’ office to see if I made the team. My name was missing from the list.
The assistant coach, who was also my science teacher, pulled me aside. “You’re a good little ball player. You’ve got a lot of potential.” His compliments didn’t help my disappointment. “It’s hard to cut people. It’s just that right now you don’t have the size to play for the team. Maybe next year.”
Why me? One of my dreams crashed, and it wasn’t because I didn’t try or practice. It was because of something out of my control. Life just didn’t seem fair.

Of the many happenings that I remember when thinking of these delightful outings, the incident I remember best happened one summer on Puget Sound in Washington.
A cunningly hewn, 30-foot Indian war canoe with a high animal head for the prow was our home and our method of travel for that summer. We were truly “roughing it” and had become tanned, tough as leather, and happy as could be.
Toward the close of this very enjoyable outing, we had pulled the canoe up onto a sandy beach and had been lazily lying around on the sand just passing the time in complete relaxation. Then the sudden inspiration came to us to move on somewhere. It was unanimously felt, so although it was late afternoon, we all got into the canoe, spread our blankets on the floor for those who wished to sleep, and pushed the canoe toward the shore on the other side of the bay.
The canoe was so wide that my father had equipped it with oars. We each rowed with just one oar, like the galley slaves of olden times. We were rowing along contentedly, paying little need to our exact destination, when suddenly we sat up and took notice. The shore seemed to be rapidly leaving us. We were caught in a rip tide and going swiftly out to open sea. My father, having been a ship’s captain and steamboat man knew there was trouble ahead. A storm was coming, a big storm!
He had mother and the two children sit in the canoe bottom to balance it as much as possible and then said, “Now, you four kids (meaning my brother, two sisters, and myself) row, but save your strength because you’re going to need it before we’re safely out of this fix.
Soon the storm began; the waves rolled higher and higher and the distant hills to which we must row were becoming misty and purplish with the on-coming night. My father, an expert boatman, was guiding the canoe between the great waves that now foamed all about us. Just one great wave over the side of the canoe would be enough to finish us.
Still, on we rowed and then came the night. Few words were spoken. The wind was in our hair and the salt spray dashed against our faces. We moved our oars carefully, fearful lest one of the waves bury them and throw us into the sea.
On and on we rowed, our arms becoming weary. But we dared not stop. My arms were numb. They had become mere mechanical devices that made the oar go forward and back.
Through the wind came my father’s voice: “Is everything all right?”
“All right,” was the reply, and on through the night we crept, barely moving against the wind and tide.
Hours passed before the dashing of waves against the rocks could be heard above the wind and the roar of the incoming waves. Ahead loomed the darkness of the cliffs toward which we had been rowing. The sound of the breaking waves on the rocks would have to be our guide. We could not turn in the wild tumult of those giant waves on the bay without capsizing, and we had to go ahead as fast as possible to have headway enough to move between the waves as they tumbled forward. But toward what were we moving? Although accustomed to the dark by now, we could discern outlines but nothing definite. We came closer.
I remember distinctly my father’s words: “Please forgive me if I fail this time. There’s one chance in ten thousand that we will see the sunrise again, and it is that chance I must take now. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” was the reply.
Straight toward the ominous cliff we rowed. I did not look ahead anymore but just rowed hard. Soon the canoe turned quickly.
“Oars in!” shouted father.
We quickly drew in our oars. A soft grating of sand could be felt. The canoe scraped to a stop. Our heads buzzed as the wind whistled through trees far above our heads but did not touch us.
We felt nothing but the large swells raising and lowering the canoe. No one spoke for a while. Then, as if without knowing that he spoke aloud, my father said, “Truly there is a God.”
We had to remain in the boat until dawn. I dropped off to sleep from sheer exhaustion, but father and mother kept watch. The tide might go out and leave us in a dangerous plight.
When next I opened my eyes, I saw a cozy little cove a little larger than the canoe, which was then resting on sandy bottom. A wall of rock all but surrounded us, with a break just large enough for the canoe to pass through into this shelter. Had father’s eyes been less keen, or his hand less capable with the paddle, none of us would have remained to tell the story. For kilometers up and down that coast, the cliff was otherwise unbroken.
To pass through that storm in a canoe that tossed about like a peanut shell, and in the dark come directly to that one possible shelter that was barely large enough to enclose the canoe, was truly a thing that could not be attributed to anything but the care of our Heavenly Father.

When I was a new bride, I asked my mother-in-law, who is a very good cook, if she would teach me how to make her delicious dinner rolls. With a sparkle in her eye, she replied that it took 25 years to learn to make a good roll! Then she added, “You had better start making some.” I followed her advice, and we have enjoyed many good dinner rolls at our house.
If reading the scriptures is not already a habit with you, today is a great day to start. It did not really take 25 years to learn to make good dinner rolls. I just needed the encouragement to get started. Homemade rolls have brought much enjoyment to my family. But the greater joy has come from the habit of daily scripture reading which I started so many years ago. Some days I have a lot of time to contemplate the scriptures. Other days I reflect on a few verses. Just as eating and breathing sustain my physical body, the scriptures feed and give life to my spirit. I can now echo Nephi and say: “My soul delighteth in the scriptures, and my heart pondereth them. … Behold, my soul delighteth in the things of the Lord; and my heart pondereth continually upon the things which I have seen and heard” (2 Ne. 4:15–16). In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When Patrick was 19, he lost his father and brother-in-law in a tragic car accident in Saudi Arabia. “My world turned upside down with their loss,” he says. His father’s guiding hand, loving encouragement, and joyful view of the world were gone. Lost in grief and emptiness for a time, Patrick went home to England with his mother but eventually returned to work in Saudi Arabia.
“I had all sorts of valuable opportunities to learn and grow and see how businesses worked,” he says. He was especially grateful for “a wonderful boss who coached and guided me and became a dear friend. He was one of several father-type figures I’ve been blessed with since my father’s death.”

I especially remember feeling the love of Heavenly Father as a youth participating in the sacrament. In my ward there were only a few young men, so every Sunday I passed the sacrament. When I served as a teacher, every Sunday I prepared the bread and the water. At that time we used glass cups, which I had to wash one by one.
When I passed the sacrament, I could see the eyes of the people. Old people, young people, children—each had a special feeling while taking the bread and water. I could see that they felt the love of Heavenly Father personally. Those experiences with the sacrament marked my life forever. Every week I remember the Lord, who died for us. I remember that if we are worthy, we can be together as a family eternally.

I love missionary work! Three months after my baptism, I traveled to Martinique to spend time with my family for summer break. I spoke to my brother every day about the Book of Mormon and the gospel.
I invited him to church the first Sunday, but he declined. The second Sunday, he followed me to church. At the end of the meetings, he was mostly indifferent, as if he hadn’t experienced anything special during those three hours.
Even though I continued to speak to him about the gospel the following week, I didn’t invite him to come to church this time. A miracle happened Saturday evening: while ironing my Sunday clothes for the next day, I noticed he was doing the same thing.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He answered, “I’m going to church with you tomorrow.”
“I’m not forcing you to come,” I said.
But he responded, “I want to come.”
He continued coming to church each Sunday after that.
After I returned to southern France, where I was going to school, my brother told me over the telephone that he was going to be baptized. I told him I would like to be present at his baptism but that the most important thing was that he would still be in the Church when I returned to Martinique.
One year later, I visited again. During sacrament meeting, my brother testified with great strength of the truth of the gospel. I shed tears when I think that my brother, with whom I have shared the most beautiful moments of my life, can also share with me the gospel of our Lord (see Alma 26:11–16).
Ludovic Christophe Occolier, baptized in France in 2004

“Wait, you haven’t finished your breakfast,” Mom said. Mom pushed the small plates of vegetables closer to Juhyuk.
Juhyuk looked at his breakfast. He was running late! Normally his big brother helped him get ready for church. But his brother was out of town, so Juhyuk had to go on his own today.
“OK, Mom,” Juhyuk said. He hurried to finish eating. Then he hugged Mom and headed for the door.
Mom stopped him. “Do you have your phone?”
Juhyuk held it up. “Yes. I can text my Primary teacher if I have a problem.”
“And a sweater under your coat? It’s cold.”
Juhyuk showed Mom his sweater.
She nodded. Juhyuk hurried out to the street. All the city sounds made him smile. It was fun to live in one of the biggest cities in South Korea!
But Juhyuk still wished his brother were with him. They always made the trip to church together.
“I know the way,” he told himself. And sure enough, before long he was at the first bus stop.
But he was alone there. That was strange. He checked his watch. He must have just missed the bus! Now he would have to wait for the next one.
After several minutes, other people started gathering. Finally, a bright blue bus rolled up. Juhyuk climbed the stairs, paid the driver, and sat down.
Ta-tink!
Juhyuk checked his phone after the text alert. It was from his Primary teacher.
“Are you on the bus? Remember, if you get lost, we can come find you!”
He grinned and texted back. “Yes. I’m on it now.”
This was only the short bus ride, though. The second bus he had to ride for more than an hour.
Juhyuk looked at the time and frowned. He didn’t want to miss the sacrament. He loved the part in each sacrament prayer that said, “always remember Him.” That meant always remembering Jesus. And Juhyuk wanted to do that.
When his aunt and uncle had invited him and his brother to church a few months ago, he met the missionaries. Elder Kim and Elder Moon taught them both about Jesus. The more Juhyuk learned about Jesus, the more he loved thinking about Him.
Ta-tink!
“Have you switched buses yet?” the text said.
“Not yet,” he texted back.
The bus pulled up to the busy street where Juhyuk needed to get off to switch buses. He asked the driver if his second bus had come.
“You just missed it,” the driver said. “The next one arrives in 15 minutes.”
“Oh, OK,” Juhyuk said. “Thank you!”
Finally, after the second bus ride, Juhyuk hurried inside the meetinghouse. His aunt and uncle had saved him a seat. He had made it!
Juhyuk thought about everything he had done to get to church. He thought of all the people who had helped him along the way. He felt that Heavenly Father was glad he was there.
Juhyuk said a silent prayer. “Thank Thee, Heavenly Father, that I can come to church today.”

Some years ago I enjoyed a stake conference assignment as a junior companion to Elder LeGrand Richards, who had, under the influence of this directing Spirit, reorganized a stake presidency. We were driving home; he was very pensive. After a rather long period of silence, I asked him if there was something he would like to teach me. Quietly he said, “We have too many in the Church who deny the spirit of prophecy and of revelation.” That was it—he said no more about it. As I reminisced about the calling of the new stake president that day, it occurred to me then that this Church could not function for even one day without the spirit of prophecy and revelation.

He can embrace us in His arms of mercy, comforting, empowering, and healing each of us.
Sister Reyna I. Aburto
At some point in our lives, we will have felt heartbroken after losing someone whom we love dearly. Through the current global pandemic, many of us have lost loved ones—either family members or friends. We pray for those who are grieving such loss. …
We can imagine how Jesus’s friends, who had followed Him and ministered to Him, felt upon witnessing His death. We know that “they mourned and wept” [Mark 16:10]. …
… When I was nine years old, I lost my older brother during a devastating earthquake. Because it happened unexpectedly, it took me a while to grasp the reality of what had occurred. I was heartbroken by sorrow, and I would ask myself, “What happened to my brother? Where is he? Where did he go? Will I ever see him again?” …
About 40 years later, during Easter time, I was pondering about the Resurrection of Jesus Christ and started thinking about my brother. …
That day I realized that the Spirit had given me comfort in a difficult time. I had received a witness that my brother’s spirit is not dead; he is alive. He is still progressing in his eternal existence. I now know that “[my] brother shall rise again” [John 11:23] at that magnificent moment when, because of Jesus Christ’s Resurrection, we will all be resurrected.

Rowena first wanted to be a gymnast, but there wasn’t a good gymnastics program close by. There was, however, a good swimming coach in town. As her mother says, “Rowena became very good very quickly. She thought she’d go to the 2000 Olympics in swimming. But the pool in town is only open half the year.” She was not able to train consistently.
That’s when her plans changed. She and her brothers and sisters had taken up cross-country skiing because alpine skiing was too expensive. When Rowena was 11, a girl on her school’s ski team broke her arm. Another person was needed to complete the team. The team knew Rowena cross-country skied and asked her to try alpine. As Rowena says, “That’s when I started, and I’ve never looked back.” The following year she was the Australian children’s champion.
The Bright family lives about an hour and a half from the only mountains that have much snow in Australia. Even then, with bad snow years and short ski seasons, Rowena has had to train in less-than-ideal conditions. Once she was asked to join the Australian training institute, and gained sponsors to help with the expense, then she was able to do some training and participate in competitions in Europe and North America where snow is more abundant.

During the last six months of his life, President Joseph F. Smith suffered from the effects of age and spent much time in his personal study in the Beehive House in Salt Lake City. He did, however, gather enough strength to attend general conference in October 1918. In the opening session, he arose to address the Saints, and with a voice filled with emotion said:
“I will not, I dare not, attempt to enter upon many things that are resting upon my mind this morning, and I shall postpone until some future time, the Lord be willing, my attempt to tell you some of the things that are in my mind, and that dwell in my heart. I have not lived alone these last five months. I have dwelt in the spirit of prayer, of supplication, of faith and of determination; and I have had my communication with the Spirit of the Lord continuously.”
According to his son, Joseph Fielding Smith, writing his father’s biography, The Life of Joseph F. Smith, the President was expressing in broad terms the fact that during the past six months he had been the recipient of numerous manifestations, some of which he shared with his son. He had received one of these manifestations, the Vision of the Redemption of the Dead, just the day before, on 3 October 1918, and recorded it immediately following the close of the conference.
Months later, on Thursday, 3 October 1918, President Smith, largely confined to his room because of illness, sat reading and meditating about the universal nature of the Atonement and about the Apostle Peter’s allusions to Christ’s post-mortal ministry. The stage was set: preparation of a lifetime and preparation of the moment were recompensed with a heavenly endowment—the Vision of the Redemption of the Dead.
“As I pondered over these things which are written,” the President writes, “the eyes of my understanding were opened, and the Spirit of the Lord rested upon me, and I saw the hosts of the dead, both small and great.” (D&C 138:11.)

Early one morning, without warning, the violent shaking of an earthquake woke us up. After making sure no one was injured, our family went out on the patio of our home to stay away from danger. There was fear that other violent earthquakes, aftershocks, would take place later on. How could we know when they would happen?
My wife came up with the simple idea of detecting tremors by hanging an old pair of scissors from a column in our home. Each time another tremor was near, the scissors would softly rattle, which made them ring like a small bell. This way, we could prepare for the violent shaking of the earth which soon followed.
This same phenomenon will occur on a spiritual level, if you listen. Anything that is contrary to your standards, that goes against correct principles, will trigger a warning, just as the soft ringing of the scissors let us know an earthquake was on the way. When you feel these warnings, get immediately away from danger. The best help you can have during critical moments will be the Holy Ghost. You have the right to his companionship. He will reveal to you what is right and what is wrong, and help you make correct decisions (see D&C 9:8–9 and D&C 45:57). But you must live worthily in order to receive his help. And you must learn to receive this spiritual help through personal revelation.