Gospel Story Finder

During that winter, I had been wanting to test out Moroni’s promise that the missionaries had shared with me. So one night, I waited until everyone fell asleep in our one-room home. Then, by candlelight, I read Moroni 10:4–5: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you by the power of the Holy Ghost. And by the power of the Holy Ghost, ye may know the truth of all things.” [1]

As soon as I read those verses, and before I could utter my prayer, my heart was on fire, and that fire transferred through my entire body, and a distinct, unmistakable thought came to my mind, saying that this book was from God and everything that the Church is teaching is true and good. This miraculous experience was a gift from God to me, and it became the fertile ground where my faith could take root.

The Young Women of the Price Ninth Ward, Price Utah Stake, prepared and hosted a valentine dance for the adults of their ward. They decorated the cultural hall and set tables with fine china borrowed from their mothers. Each couple was greeted at the door and escorted to a table. The dinner was prepared and served by the Young Women.
Following the dinner a short program and dance were held. The girls worked hard and were rewarded by many thank-yous from the ward members.

My sister Heidi loves the sacrament. That always impresses me because she doesn’t like to eat bread or drink water. Heidi was born with a serious physical problem called cerebral palsy. She can’t hear or talk. She can’t sit up alone or walk. She can only use her hands very awkwardly.
Her mouth and stomach muscles are so tight that eating hurts, and she has hated it every since I can remember. She gets fed through a tube in her stomach while she sleeps at night.
We offer her food when we’re eating, but nine times out of ten she will shake her head no and tightly shut her mouth. Even on her birthdays, when we have her favorite—cheesecake—she usually refuses to eat it. Mom will help her hold a spoon and scoop up some of the cheesecake. Heidi smiles the whole time. But when Mom tries to get it to her mouth, Heidi frowns and pushes the spoon toward Mom’s mouth and feeds her the cheesecake instead.
But in Heidi’s twelve years of life, I have never once seen her frown or close her mouth to the sacrament. We’ve tried giving her little pieces of bread and sips of water at other times, but she’ll never take them.
It has taken me a while to figure out this mystery, but I think I finally have. Heidi likes the sacrament because it isn’t just food. Since she can’t talk, it’s hard for me to know how much she knows about Jesus Christ. I don’t know if she understands that He was born in a stable or that He died on the cross. I guess for Heidi that really doesn’t matter. What is important for her to know about Jesus Christ, Heidi understands. She knows she needs this bread and water in her life. I wish you could see her smile when she takes the sacrament.
I don’t take the sacrament for granted, thanks to my sister Heidi. I know I need it too.
Note: Shortly after this story was written, Heidi died from complications due to her cerebral palsy. The way she attempted to take the sacrament was a miracle to all around her, and we wanted to share it with you.

After Lee finished sweeping the back room, he tiptoed into the front of the Chinese shop to watch his father, dressed in a long gown, cover the rich carvings with beautifully colored silk cloths. When everything was well covered, his father’s head dipped in a bow. Lee knew it was time to go home!
Although the shop was filled with fine old porcelain cups and plates, hand-painted fans, and ivory and jade statuettes, Lee didn’t like it. The shop was too Chinese. His father still clung to the ways of the old world. His manner was humble, his step soft, and he seldom spoke—not even to the customers.
Once Lee spoke up. “You’re supposed to talk to customers,” he told his father.
The only answer was his father’s lowered eyes. Lee waited a minute and then dared to say even more. “You’re supposed to tell customers about the things you have to sell.”
Father’s searching eyes looked at Lee from across the room. Then he said, “What I do not wish men to do to me, I also wish not to do to men.” He turned and quietly walked out of the room.
Lee’s mother said nothing until she was sure they would not be overheard. Then her dark head went from side to side. “It is not right to talk to your father that way.”
“But,” Lee began, “you have to talk fast and push hard.” He wanted to tell his mother what his friend’s father had said, but his mother’s long cool fingers pressed against his lips.
“No more,” she said softly. “You must remember that you are your father’s son.”
Lee tried hard to remember, but one day he forgot. He had just finished sweeping the back room when a lady entered the shop.
Lee knew that after a brief nod the customers were permitted to browse and look about. He also knew that he should not approach customers. But all of a sudden he found himself saying to the lady, “Are you looking for cups?”
The lady half-smiled, and before she could answer Lee said, “We have porcelain cups and also beautiful hand-painted fans. They came all the way from China! So did the ivory elephants and the frogs carved of jade. Would you like to see them? We have nice incense burners too.”
Lee spoke so fast and said so much that the lady turned and hurried out of the shop.
His father watched but did not speak. Lee was grateful, for his face was already crimson with shame. He had talked fast, pushed hard, and lost a sale.
He waited for his father to speak. All he said was, “One good word is better than a thousand bad ones.”
Lee remembered his father’s words long after they had been spoken. He often said the words to himself, repeating them again and again, burying them deep in his mind.
He did not go near a customer again, but one day a customer approached him. A man came into the shop and looked about. When he saw Lee’s father was busy behind the counter, he motioned to Lee. “I’m sure you can help me,” he said.
Lee’s feet refused to move. It was only when his father nodded that he went forward. Have I learned, he thought, or will my tongue prattle?
The man smiled, and Lee’s lips quickly parted. But just as quickly his lips closed. Instead of speaking, his head dipped low just as his father’s would have done. Then he stood silent and waited while the man’s smile broadened as he picked up an ivory elephant and a green jade lotus blossom.
“I’ll take the elephant,” the man said at last. But he did not leave the shop. He stayed to look at the many other lovely carvings. At last he turned to Lee and said, “Most salesmen talk you to death when one good word could make a sale!” He turned and called to Lee’s father, “Your son is a good salesman. You should be proud of him.”
Lee saw a small smile cross his father’s face before they both quietly bowed their heads.

The choir leaders work with the region’s public affairs office in organizing places and times to sing. The choir is often included in public performances where the audience is not well acquainted with the Church. When asked about their most memorable performance, they immediately mention a Christmas program held at the local YMCA. Rachel Neifert of the Maryland Heights Ward says: “There were all kinds of choirs there. We sang, ‘This Is the Christ.’ Afterwards people were asking us, ‘What was that feeling?’ It was the best we have ever done. I didn’t know we could sound that good.”

“I think before every performance at least one person says, ‘Let’s try and make this like the YMCA performance.’ That was the most spiritual experience,” adds Carolyn Rees of the Spencer Creek Ward.

The peccaries eagerly pushed and shoved, and their dark hooves churned the sand into a dust cloud. They squealed and bit each other in their haste to slake their thirst. Forgotten was the danger that might lie in wait at the water hole.
Suddenly an unknown sound startled the herd. For an instant, the small gray animals with their collars of white stood motionless. The stiff hairs on their necks and backs bristled. Then one barked sharply in warning, and the spell was broken. Abruptly they stampeded, discharging a strong, musky scent from a gland located on the ridge of their backs. Males, females, half-grown young, and even the newborn peccaries were swept along in a mad rush to escape.
One peccary, no bigger than a cottontail rabbit, lost his footing and fell. Though the others tried to avoid trampling the fallen animal, one flying hoof struck him hard. Stunned by the blow, the little animal lay still, his eyes closed. Blood trickled from his head. Only the slight rise and fall of his belly and the occasional twitch of his nubbin of a tail showed that he was alive.
Several ants from a nearby anthill were out scouting for bits of food to carry back to their colony. One of the foragers found its way blocked by a strange object lying in the sand. It scurried up the long, hairless snout to investigate. Another ant followed, then another. Soon there was such a parade of curious insects that the ticklings of their threadlike legs roused the little peccary.
He shook his head and blinked his eyes. He snorted and coughed the grains of sand from his nose and mouth. Then he struggled up onto his wobbly legs. Except for the ants hurrying away and a red-tailed hawk sailing overhead, the little peccary was quite alone.
For the first time in his short life, the peccary was separated from his mother, his twin, and the rest of the herd. Confused and afraid, the little animal took a few hesitant steps forward, then back. Finally he limped slowly away to search for the herd.
The sun was setting, and a cool wind blew down from the mountains. The peccary shivered and felt the first pangs of hunger. An older peccary would have eaten almost anything, from a spiny cactus to a poisonous rattlesnake. But the little one had known only the nourishment of his mother’s milk.
Aimlessly he wandered. Now and then he stopped, pricked up his ears, and raised his snout to sniff the wind. But there were no familiar grunts and squeals, no trace of scent on the rocks and bushes.
The animal soon became so tired that he could not go on. Looking for a safe place to hide and rest, he spotted a hollowed-out space under the overhang of a huge boulder. The little peccary dropped into it and dozed off, but his sleep was fitful because of the strange night sounds.
When he fully awoke, the sun was up, and the young animal squinted against the brightness. Suddenly hearing strange sounds, he tried to hide by scrunching back as far as he could. But the space was too shallow.
“Look, Maria, a baby peccary!” exclaimed Pepe. “And he’s all alone!”
When his sister knelt to stroke the grizzled head, her hand touched the dried blood. “Oh, you poor little thing!” cried Maria. “You’ve been hurt. We must take him home with us, Pepe. If we leave him here, he’ll die of thirst or starvation.”
“But what will Mama say?” Pepe asked.
“Oh, I’m sure she won’t mind—when we explain,” Maria assured him.
Pepe and Maria lived in a small village in northern Mexico. That morning their mother had sent them out to gather cactus fruit. However, their errand was quickly forgotten as Maria pulled off her bright serape and picked up the peccary. The little animal was so frightened and so weak that he didn’t even struggle.
Carrying her bundle, Maria started back to the village. Pepe followed, carrying the empty baskets.
In their adobe home Mama was busy cooking the noon meal. As she stirred the stew of beans and meat, the door burst open and two excited voices cried, “We found a baby peccary, Mama! May we keep him?”
Mama turned from the stove and stared at the children. “What is this? You are sent to gather cactus fruit, and instead you return with this little wild one? Are not a lame burro, a blind rooster, and an orphan lamb enough?” she asked.
“But he’s been hurt!” Pepe declared.
“And he must be hungry and thirsty,” Maria added in a pleading voice.
Mama sighed. “All right. Put him in one of the empty pens. He can have some fresh goat’s milk from the jar on the shelf.”
“Oh, thank you, Mama!” Maria and Pepe cried. Then they took the little peccary outside to get acquainted with his new home and the other animals.
The children’s new pet soon learned to come when he was called. Sometimes Pepe and Maria would scratch his head and rub his belly. The little peccary would grunt softly, flop down on the ground, and beg for more. Though the peccary made whimpering noises if he was left alone very long, he seemed content.
Soon he began to grub for his own food, using his snout to plough up the ground in search of buried roots, bulbs, insects, and worms. To keep himself clean, he rolled in the sand and dirt. Every once in a while he would stop whatever he was doing to lift his head and sniff the wind. Every day he grew bigger and stronger. And every day Pepe and Maria were kept busy adding mesquite branches and rocks to weak places in the sides of his pen.
One morning when the children went to feed their animals, the peccary was gone. Tracks led away from a hole in the corner of his pen. Pepe and Maria followed the tracks to a spot in the desert where they merged with many others.
“The little peccary has probably found his mother.” Maria said, her eyes filling with tears. “We’ll never see him again.”
“Don’t be sad,” Pepe said, trying to comfort Maria. “That is the way it should be. Come on—I’ll show you where a roadrunner with a broken wing hides in the chaparral.”

In a non-gospel setting, one of the most moving pieces of video footage related to this theme that I recall involved a scene that many of you may remember previously encountering. This was several years ago and involved the Olympic games. A young athlete from one of the African countries had qualified to run in the marathon, 26 miles and 385 yards, not your typical weekend stroll. When I saw this footage for the first time it moved me to tears and likely still would even though I must have seen it more than a dozen times. Along the race route, this runner had had a catastrophic collision and had injured his leg badly with the bulk of the race remaining to be run. Any normal person would have limped off the course and made his way back to the athletes' village. But this person had spent years preparing for this race, had toughened himself for the long course, and was absolutely determined that he would finish the race. He applied some bandages for his wounds and continued to limp along the roadway, by this time miles behind his competitors. He would lope awkwardly for several paces and then walk a few, and continued this sporadic method over the long course. Hours after the other runners had finished the race, he came in sight of the stadium where the final 2 laps were run. By this time other events were taking place on the stadium field, but there was still a crowd in the stands, as Olympic events are typically sold out years in advance. As he pulled himself along toward the stadium, the pain and the effort were both visible in the runner, but he held it together and began to jog up the final access to the stadium, where the p.a. system announced that he was about to enter. The track was cleared and this young man in all the pride and determination he could muster overcame his pain long enough to break into a full jog as he entered the stadium to begin his final laps. Somehow this moment caught the crowd, and waves of applause crescendoed for the athlete as he fought to hold on and finish his race, his distress being apparent to the large audience. He crossed the finish line and I can't help thinking there would be a smile of satisfaction somewhere in the midst of the pain and frustration of that moment.

As a new General Authority one of my first assignments was to serve in the North America Northeast Area. The area included the eastern portions of the United States and Canada and was under the supervision of Elder M. Russell Ballard. During my period of service a decision was made to hold a training meeting for all of the stake and mission presidents, together with their wives, serving in the area. Under the leadership of Elder Ballard permission was obtained from the Reorganized Church, now known as the Community of Christ church, who are the owners of the Kirtland Temple building, to hold a sacrament meeting in the temple which would be presided over by Latter-day Saint Melchizedek Priesthood holders. This permission came with some reluctance on the part of several influential members of their church and with the stipulation that monitors from their church would attend the meeting to insure that nothing would occur which might be out of harmony with its sacred nature. I was later told that never before had such permission been granted, which meant, if correct, that this was the first time since the Church moved from Kirtland in the late 1830s that a meeting of our Church members under our priesthood authority had been held in this temple.
On the day of the meeting the hall filled to overflowing. The General Authorities who had been invited to attend were present on the priesthood pulpits located on the west end of the main floor assembly room. We sang the hymn "The Spirit of God," one of the hymns sung at the original dedication of the temple in 1836. The sacrament was administered and invited testimonies shared. It was evident that this was no ordinary meeting. Eyes filled with tears. Testimonies were uttered with emotion packed voices. Something different and unusual was happening. My own emotions were almost overpowering. The presence of the Savior, to me, seemed a reality. It was so real I could not bring myself to open my eyes during the sacrament. I felt as though I could reach out and touch him. It was one of those rare, powerful experiences that stays with you a lifetime and is always remembered with the same clarity as though it had happened yesterday. Following the meeting I talked with several who had similar experiences and heard one General Authority say, "Something special happened there."

The military experience is like other forays into secularism that LDS youth are facing today. They are away from home with carnal options on every hand—gambling, profanity, pornography, immorality, and bug-out-ism. Such crass enticements successfully ensnare the uncommitted, but thousands of others choose to swim against the current. One young priest, during his first week away from home, confronted some returned missionaries in his barracks who appeared more sophisticated. Why weren’t they saying their prayers, he queried. His challenge encouraged them all to overcome their smoothly disguised fears of censure. They joined after lights out for a family prayer each night. Soon they discovered that their Mormon compatriots throughout the post were doing the same in small scattered groups; they even included their fellow nonmember squad members. The result was a brotherhood—blessing when sick, counseling when troubled, and bolstering each other during competition—instead of the harassing, cutting, and undermining that are so common in basic training. This higher life occurs without leaders or instructions; it emerges from being “anxiously engaged in a good cause,” from conviction, from feeling the power of God within. All over the globe, many Mormon youth seek out each other. Their spiritual adventures are legion. They often reach out to friends who have followed the carnal path into deprivation. Their example, caring, and persistence have supported many through a transformation that has led them into the Melchizedek Priesthood, the temple, sometimes mission calls—in other words, into their eternal potential.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do. Not. Cry.
This was the pep talk I recently gave myself the day before my 30th birthday. (It was a melodramatic day, to say the least.) But crying about my birthday is not out of the ordinary for me. I’ve never been a fan of growing up.
(And, in case you’re wondering, my pep talk didn’t work.)
Shocking, really.
I would turn 30, and the world would keep spinning.
So why did I feel like it was about to end?
Well for one, I struggle with anxiety. So there’s that. But I always felt like turning 30 would seal the door to my youth forever. I felt like I hadn’t accomplished enough during my 20s. And after facing challenges during that decade, I was scared of the new responsibilities and trials heading my way (possibly motherhood, a worsening chronic illness, and who knows what else).
As my anxious thoughts spiraled, I said a prayer asking God for comfort, and I started to ponder my past decade of life as a young adult.
What had I accomplished? What had I learned? How had I changed?
And that’s when I focused in on the most important thought that came to mind:
“How did I deepen my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ during this time?”
This changed my perspective.
Being a 20-something-year-old can be a very confusing, heartbreaking, and just plain hard time. Many seem to be thinking the same thing: “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
My early 20s consisted of an ebb and flow of feelings of aimlessness, fear, loneliness, and sometimes even a sense of abandonment from Heavenly Father when my life wasn’t going the way I thought it would.
When I was 24, I felt like I was in the darkest season of my life. But words from Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf struck my soul and triggered the start of a deep change in me.
At a worldwide devotional for young adults, he said:
“When I was your age, I had no idea where my life would take me. I definitely didn’t see any dots connecting in front of me.
“But I did trust God. I listened to the advice of loving family and wise friends, and I took small steps of faith, believing that if I did the best I could in the moment, God would take care of the big picture.
“He did. …
“In Proverbs, we find this great promise: ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths’ [Proverbs 3:5–6].
“I don’t believe there is a question mark at the end of that verse. No, I think there should be an exclamation point!”1
After hearing Elder Uchtdorf’s words at 24, I committed to using this time of life to trust in the Lord.
And, six years later, on the day before I turned 30, I was hit with the profound truth that, despite the melodrama (and the actual, difficult drama) this is what young adulthood has been for me:
Sacred.
We can make young adulthood one of the most sacred seasons of our journey in mortality. It’s a time for discovery, deepening faith, true conversion, and realizing our divine identity and potential.
I can see that as I made choices to seek Jesus Christ and to keep choosing faith (especially when it was difficult), this season helped me start to understand what He has done for me—and continues to do for me.
It’s the season where I’ve had to take responsibility for my testimony.
It’s the season where I received my endowment, cherished my temple covenants, and witnessed the power that comes from attending the temple.
It’s been a season of facing questions and wrestling with Heavenly Father to find answers (even if that answer is to trust Him).
It’s a season where I may not have always recognized the Savior and Heavenly Father in my life but later saw that They were always with me.
It’s been a season of learning that the grace of Jesus Christ can always make up for my sins and imperfections as I turn to Him in humility and sincere repentance (see Ether 12:27).
It’s a season of unknowns and learning to “press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope” (2 Nephi 31:20).
Yes, young adulthood is filled with hardships. I faced stressful college courses, struggles in my career path, the heart-wrenching pains of dating, family difficulties, and other challenges that could have filled up an “end-of-the-world”–themed bingo card.
But I’ve learned that it was these hard moments that gave me an opportunity to cling to truth, choose faith, and seek the healing and enabling power of Jesus Christ—all things that ultimately made this a beautifully sacred time of life. This season is about allowing Him and Heavenly Father to refine us and help us start building the masterpiece of a life we desire.
That doesn’t sound so bad.
With our focus on Jesus Christ, we can make young adulthood—and every year beyond—a sacred space full of hope, triumph, and true joy.
That is what it’s been for me.

“Andy, don’t forget your umbrella.”

“Aw, Mom, it’s not going to rain,” Andy said. “I’ll look silly carrying an umbrella to school when the sun is shining.” But he took the umbrella and headed up the street.

“Why can’t this be the kind of umbrella that folds up small,” he grumbled as he neared the end of his block. “It’s too big to hide under my jacket!”

“Hi, Andy. Are you afraid it’s going to rain?” a group of fourth-graders greeted him as he entered the school playground.

“The weatherman said it would,” Andy defended himself.

“Oh, sure—but this kind of rain is called sunshine,” Kenny teased him with a big grin. The other children laughed.

At recess, the sky was still sunny, and Andy was glad when no one mentioned the umbrella. However, after lunch Kenny appeared on the playground with the umbrella in hand! He held it out to Andy. “I thought that you might want this,” he said. “There’s a cloud in the sky now!” Kenny broke out in a fit of laughter. Other classmates joined in.

Andy was angry, and he bit his lip to keep from saying anything.

But Kenny wouldn’t leave it alone. He jumped up onto the steps of the school building. “Come on, everybody—see the one and only Andy and his famous umbrella,” he shouted. “Step right up. The show’s about to begin!”

Andy felt his face turn red as a large group of children turned and stared at him. “What’s so famous about it?” they asked.

Suddenly Andy remembered what Mom always said: “Try to make the best of things. Don’t let anyone or anything get you down.”

OK, he told himself. I’ll go along with them! He stood up and made a sweeping bow toward his audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “This may look like a common, ordinary umbrella, but it happens to be very special. Watch—I’ll show you.”

Andy held the closed umbrella by the handle, and with head held high, he strutted around the center of the circle made by the children. “It’s a fancy walking cane,” he explained. “Only very important people use them.”

Then he held the handle close to his face and pointed the tip end toward the sky. “Now it’s a telescope,” he announced. “I see Jupiter and Mars and all the stars, even in the daylight.”

“On guard!” he yelled as he bent his knees in a fencer’s stance. With his other arm held high, he slashed through the air with his “sword.”

The children began to clap. “More! More!” they called out.

With big dramatic motions, Andy opened the umbrella and held it over his head. He stepped along carefully as he pretended to be a circus tightrope walker.

As he neared one of his classmates, he closed the umbrella quickly and poked the pointed end through a piece of paper on the ground. “You see,” he said, “it’s also a good trash picker-upper.”

His classmates were laughing with him now, not at him. “That’s great, Andy,” they said. “What else can you do with it?”

Andy grabbed the middle of the closed umbrella and began to whistle “Yankee Doodle” while he strutted around like a drum major waving a baton. When he stopped, he twirled it around and around in his hand.

Finally, he opened it and placed it handle up on the ground and said, “It’s a TV satellite dish!” Then he turned it over and crawled underneath it. “It makes a good tent or fort too.”

Just then the bell rang. The children filed back into the classroom.

About fifteen minutes before school ended, the rain began. The light sprinkling had turned into a heavy drizzle by the time Andy got outside. He opened his umbrella and smiled to himself. Mom was right, as usual, he thought.

He passed the cars that were lined up in front of the building. Up ahead Andy saw Kenny with his shoulders hunched forward and his head down. Knowing that Kenny’s mom was still working and would not be there to give him a ride home, Andy hurried to catch up with his classmate. “I forgot to show you the most important thing this umbrella can do,” he told Kenny.

Andy held the umbrella so that it covered both their heads. “It’s really good for keeping a friend from getting wet too.”

Kenny stood up straight and smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Andy,” he said.

Marvin the Moose lived in the forest. Every morning when Marvin awoke, he would run down to his favorite pond for a nice breakfast of green moss. Green moss was Marvin’s favorite food. This was a good way to begin the day, because all Marvin’s friends came to eat their breakfast with him.
Mother Beaver and all her little beavers would be finishing their breakfast of tender bark by the time Marvin came by. “Good morning, Marvin,” Mother Beaver would say. “Good morning, Mr. Moose,” all the little beavers would say.
Bennie Bear was usually picking berries on the hillside nearby. He would stand up on his hind legs and call, “Marvin, I saved some berries for you.”
Perry Pelican was a good friend. After flying high above the pond, he would tell Marvin where the best moss was growing.
Then there was his friend Oliver Otter. He was always playing tricks when Marvin was trying to eat his breakfast. Oliver would swim right up and splash water all over Marvin’s face. “Wake up,” Oliver would laugh.
One morning as Marvin hurried down to his favorite eating place, he was surprised to see that none of his friends were around. But he shrugged his big shoulders and put his nose into the water for some moss. “Oh, no!” he cried. “There’s no moss!” It was true—there was no moss in the pond for Marvin.
Soon Oliver Otter came scurrying through the marsh. Marvin asked him if he knew what had happened to the moss. “I can’t talk now, Marvin, I have to hurry over to Mother Beaver’s house,” answered Oliver, and away he ran.
Was that some moss hanging out of Oliver’s pocket? Marvin wondered.
Just then Perry Pelican flew over Marvin’s head. Marvin couldn’t believe his eyes. Perry Pelican’s pouch seemed stuffed with Marvin’s moss.
Before Marvin could call out to Perry, Bennie Bear bumped into Marvin. Marvin noticed that Bennie’s arms were loaded with fresh moss.
“Aha!” Marvin exclaimed. “What are you doing with my moss?” Bennie Bear was so surprised that he hugged the moss tighter and ran off as fast as he could go.
Marvin was confused. “I’m tired of everyone ignoring me and then running off with my moss,” he grumbled. “I’m going to follow Bennie Bear and see what’s going on.”
Soon Bennie Bear ran into Mother Beaver’s house and slammed the door behind him. As Marvin came near the house, he could smell fresh moss cakes baking. And Marvin just loved fresh moss cakes! He knocked on the door. When it opened, he saw all his forest friends sitting around the breakfast table. As Marvin stepped into the room, they began to sing, “Happy birthday to you.”
Marvin had completely forgotten that it was his birthday. But Mother Beaver and his other friends had remembered. They had gathered the fresh moss, and Mother Beaver had baked fresh moss cakes as a birthday surprise for their friend Marvin!

In the performance of our responsibilities, I have learned that when we heed a silent prompting and act upon it without delay, our Heavenly Father will guide our footsteps and bless our lives and the lives of others. I know of no experience more sweet or feeling more precious than to heed a prompting only to discover that the Lord has answered another person’s prayer through you.
Perhaps just one example will suffice. One day just over a year ago, after taking care of matters at the office, I felt a strong impression to visit an aged widow who was a patient at St. Joseph Villa here in Salt Lake City. I drove there directly.
When I went to her room, I found it empty. I asked an attendant concerning her whereabouts and was directed to a lounge area. There I found this sweet widow visiting with her sister and another friend. We had a pleasant conversation together.
As we were talking, a man came to the door of the room to obtain a can of soda water from the vending machine. He glanced at me and said, “Why, you are Tom Monson.”
“Yes,” I replied. “And you look like a Hemingway.” He acknowledged that he was Stephen Hemingway, the son of Alfred Eugene Hemingway, who had served as my counselor when I was a bishop many years ago and whom I called Gene. Stephen told me that his father was there in the same facility and was near death. He had been calling my name, and the family had wanted to contact me but had been unable to find a telephone number for me.
I excused myself immediately and went with Stephen up to the room of my former counselor, where others of his children were also gathered, his wife having passed away some years previous. The family members regarded my meeting Stephen in the lounge area as a response by our Heavenly Father to their great desire that I would see their father before he died and answer his call. I too felt that this was the case, for if Stephen had not entered the room in which I was visiting at precisely the time he did, I would not have known that Gene was even in that facility.
We gave a blessing to him. A spirit of peace prevailed. We had a lovely visit, after which I left.
The following morning a phone call revealed that Gene Hemingway had passed away—just 20 minutes after he had received the blessing from his son and me.
I expressed a silent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for His guiding influence which prompted my visit to St. Joseph Villa and led me to my dear friend Alfred Eugene Hemingway.
I like to think that Gene Hemingway’s thoughts that evening, as we basked in the Spirit’s glow, participated in humble prayer, and pronounced a priesthood blessing, echoed the words mentioned in the hymn “Master, the Tempest Is Raging,” which I cited at the beginning of my message:
Linger, O blessed Redeemer!
Leave me alone no more,
And with joy I shall make the blest harbor
And rest on the blissful shore.

As children living in Argentina, Andrea Veronica Muñoz and her older sister attended a Catholic school. They had never been exposed to other religious teachings until Andrea was nine years old. That’s when Latter-day Saint missionaries began teaching her family about the restored gospel.
Soon after the missionaries finished their lesson and left, Andrea’s mother explained that there was more than just one religion. Andrea asked her mother what church she thought best represented God. Her mother replied, “I think it is this one”—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, about which the missionaries had just taught them.
All her life, Andrea had always “wanted to please God,” so she worried about embracing a new faith. The feeling lasted only a few minutes, however, and was replaced by a desire to learn more about the Church.
The family was baptized, “and we started a new life,” Sister Spannaus said. “It was really wonderful the way our family life changed for all of us.”

Michelle scooped potatoes onto her plate. She looked around the table at her family. She was the youngest of 10 siblings, and some of them were in college now. She liked to hear them talk about what they were learning.
“What do you want to study when you go to college?” her brother asked. He was studying to become an engineer.
“I don’t really know yet,” Michelle said.
“You can be an engineer too,” he told her. “You’re really smart.”
Michelle liked that idea. She loved math and science. She was good at them too. She knew God wanted her to learn. And she knew that He would help her.
When Michelle got older, she did go to college to become an engineer. She worked hard to learn. Some classes were difficult. But Michelle never gave up.
While she was in college, she shared the gospel with her classmate John. Later they got married in the temple. Michelle graduated and got her master’s degree. She became a mother. She even got her dream job helping launch rockets to explore space! She was a leader and organized projects for her team.

A short time before his 24th birthday, President Heber J. Grant accepted a call from President John Taylor to preside over the Tooele Stake. He said the appointment came as a great surprise to him, and he had many feelings of inadequacy, particularly in the area of public speaking. About his first speaking assignment, he said:

I remember preaching and telling everything I could think of, and some of it over twice, and [I] ran out of ideas in seven minutes and a half by the watch. . . .
The next Sunday I did not do any better. I ran out of ideas in six or seven minutes. The next Sunday I did the same.

This continued. There are no accounts to indicate whether the Saints in Tooele were really that disappointed, but obviously President Grant felt great distress. Then, in the little town of Vernon, he later recounted:

I got up to make my little speech of five, six or seven minutes, and I talked for forty-five minutes, with as much freedom and as much of the Spirit of the Lord as I have ever enjoyed in preaching the gospel, during the forty years that have passed since then. I could not restrain the tears of gratitude which I shed that night, as I knelt down and thanked God for the rich outpouring of his Holy Spirit.

Heber J. Grant’s story, however, does not end there; you need to hear about the next Sunday. He explained:

I went to Grantsville, the largest ward in the Tooele stake of Zion, and I approached the Lord with much the same attitude as Oliver Cowdery when he told the Lord, “I want to translate.” . . . But, failing, he was later told, he did not study it out, and he did not pray about it, and he did not do his share. I told the Lord I would like to talk again to the Saints [as I had done in Vernon]. I got up and talked for five minutes, and I sweat as freely, I believe, as if I had been dipped in a creek, and I ran out of ideas completely. I made as complete a “fizzle,” so to speak, of my talk, as a mortal could make. [Heber J. Grant, “Significant Counsel to the Young People of the Church,” Improvement Era, August 1921, 870–71; see also Preston Nibley, The Presidents of the Church (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1974), 224–26]

President Grant later wrote of his humble prayers that followed that meeting. He wrote:

I asked God to forgive me for not remembering that men can not preach the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ with power, with force, and with inspiration only as they are blessed with power which comes from God. [Grant, “Significant Counsel,” 871–72; see also Nibley, Presidents, 226]

Merrell: At the same time I was doing The First Vision, Kieth was doing Indian and trying to find an Indian to do the title song. Although I wasn’t Indian, I figured I had nothing to lose, and I sent him a 15-minute tape anyway. In my letter I told him that not only could I write the title song but I felt I could also write the rest of the music for the movie. He liked my tape and asked for more and eventually gave me the contract. That began our association together.

During my high school years I worked summers in the golf pro shop. It was obvious to me that with just a little more tournament experience and more hard work that I would be ready to make application to attend the Professional Golf Association tour qualifying school in Florida. Fame and fortune loomed just around the corner. At this time my good friends were all talking about preparing for their missions.
By the time I finished my Aaronic Priesthood ministry, my dad had completed his distinguished service as bishop. My goals included golf and college. My life was destined to be professional golf, or so I thought.
Our new bishop invited me to his office one Sunday. After the usual pleasantries, he recounted several incidents where bishops felt inspired to visit with individuals to help them correct the course of their lives. I wondered where the interview was going. My mind raced over the many practical jokes and a few of the dumb things I had done. Although I wasn’t an example of perfection, neither was I a rogue of immense proportions. With great humility the bishop explained that he felt inspired to tell me what the Lord wanted me to do with my life. At first I didn’t want to know what he felt the Lord wanted me to do, but the bishop’s sincerity made me feel he was really speaking for the Lord.
“David,” the bishop began, “it is far more important for you to serve the Lord in the mission field than it is for you to seek a career in golf.” He further said that he had prayed for direction in the matter and that he was certain that missionary service was what I needed to be about. In a very direct way, the Spirit readily confirmed to me that the bishop was, indeed, conveying to me the will of the Lord. How could I respond except in a positive fashion.
After two years of missionary service, I was surprised to find that golf was really not very important. It took an inspired bishop to help me understand the eternal implications of following the Lord’s plan, the great plan of happiness.

A priesthood quorum that is looking for ways to give service can combine the right plan with the right place and really make a difference.
Adapt to conditions.
Sam Welsh, 14, of the Wellington Ward, West Palm Beach Florida Stake, had his teachers quorum organized in a food drive for the homeless. Then things blew apart—literally. Hurricane Andrew hit southern Florida with a fury that tore homes apart, uprooted trees, and displaced thousands of people. The service project suddenly became a way for Sam’s quorum to give relief to hurricane victims.
“Our quorum or any other teenage groups weren’t allowed into the hurricane area to work,” said Sam. “We only got to go work with our parents.” But one way teens could help was working for organizations funneling supplies into the area. Sam’s food drive expanded beyond his quorum and ward to include the entire stake, other Scout troops, and his performing arts school. The school officials asked that students donate money instead of goods. Sam used the money to purchase items the food bank had run short of, such as baby formula and bottles, diapers and wipes. The quorum helped collect donations and deliver them to a central collection point. Because the quorum had experience working together, they were able to keep the drive organized and on schedule.
Adapt to needs.
But chances for service don’t always come on such a large scale. Paul Brown, 16, of the Fort Pierce Ward, West Palm Beach Florida Stake, was severely injured in an automobile accident. His recovery will be long and slow. Mark Settle, a friend and member of the same priests quorum, explained what the quorum did after hearing about Paul. “We wanted to go see him, but we weren’t allowed in intensive care, so we had a group prayer. And we remembered Paul in our personal prayers and in our family prayers.”
“Every Sunday,” Mark said, “we have our priests quorum meeting at his house so Paul can be with us. He’s a good person to be around.”
And they have plans for Paul’s return. “When he feels good enough to go to Church, we’re going to get a microphone so he can bless the sacrament even if he can’t break the bread yet.”

I grew up in the Church and had always planned on serving a mission. Yet as the time for me to serve approached, I longed to have a powerful conversion experience of my own such as I heard other people talk about when they described joining the Church.
I knew that leaving on a mission would require sacrifices. I had a good job that paid well, and I wondered if I would be able to find one as good upon my return. I worried about interrupting my education and leaving family and friends. But I knew deep down that serving a mission was right, so I continued to prepare.
As part of that preparation, I went with the elders in my area to their teaching appointments. One evening the missionaries and I were teaching a man about the Word of Wisdom, but he would not accept the principle. When we left his home, I could tell that the elders were discouraged, and I felt sad too.
I wasn’t sure why I should be sad though, because I didn’t really know this man. I kept thinking about it, and I realized that I had these feelings because I had felt the Spirit during the lesson. I was saddened that this man had rejected something that had brought me so much joy.
With that thought I realized I was truly converted. I knew the gospel was true, and I couldn’t wait to share it. I was soon called to serve in the Italy Rome Mission.
I was blessed abundantly for the sacrifices I had made in preparing for my mission. I taught the gospel to many wonderful people, I made lifelong friends, and I learned English. The blessings continued after my return home. I was hired at the same job I had before my mission and even received a promotion.
Perhaps the greatest blessing, however, was an increased testimony of the gospel. My mission was a period of unparalleled spiritual growth, for which I will always be grateful.