Gospel Story Finder

The young women from a ward in Virginia, USA, wanted to create these shirts for Mutual and then wear them to school. Emily C., 14, had recently moved from out of state. Many of her friends at school didn’t yet know she is a member of the Church. “A lot of my friends pointed out my shirt and thought it was so cool,” Emily says. “They asked a little bit about the Church, and I told them about the temple.”

My Primary class and I watched the Friend to Friend where Elder and Sister Bednar gave a message on service. We wanted to plan our very own service activity.
Our Valiant 10 class met up after church to plan and came up with a lot of different ideas. After talking through all the ideas, we decided to make Easter bags for kids who do not have as much for Easter as we do.
My classmates and I made flyers, and on Sunday we passed them out and told everyone about the activity. We also delivered flyers to people’s houses.
Once everyone knew about it, we put out donation boxes for people to leave items for the Easter bags. After just a few days, we had lots of items!
Finally we had our activity. I said the opening prayer and asked Heavenly Father to bless the children getting the bags to know how much love we put into them. Then we got to work. We decorated bags using markers and stickers, then filled them with gifts. We made over 100 Easter bags! I felt the Holy Ghost tell me that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were happy.
I know that my Primary class did the right thing by helping other kids. I know Heavenly Father and Jesus are proud of us. And I encourage everyone to serve others.

We started meeting with the Reverend and put together a proposal to the church to secure some funding. All Saints was opening their doors to asylum seekers twice a week for drop-in sessions where an individual could get a cup of coffee and cake, needed clothing, as well as advice, ESOL support, someone to listen to them, or just an entertaining round of chess to break up the monotony that they feel. They had recently run out of funding. The Church agreed to give £15,000 to provide much needed warm clothing and toiletries as well as vouchers for underwear, school uniform and shoes. We were all thrilled.

The case of a young man, the father of four children, whom we called upon to speak in a stake conference in eastern Utah, emphasizes the desirability of family traditions, special occasions, and warm family relationships.
On each anniversary of their marriage, this couple planned something special to do. Now they had looked forward as a family to observing their tenth anniversary. The father arranged his vacation to cover that period of time. But suddenly it became necessary for his wife to enter the hospital for surgery. He and the children felt sorry for her because she was in the hospital. At the same time she was sad, thinking that her husband and the children would be disappointed. But when she read the little note that came with a bouquet of flowers, she felt better, for it read: “Sweetheart, ten years with you have seemed like ten days, but ten days without you have seemed like ten years.” Signed, “Bill.”

“I’m sorry to be leaving our home, too, but there is something even more precious that we are leaving behind.” Her mother led Elizabeth to the window and pointed outside.
Elizabeth saw the roses and petunias first. Though she knew it hurt Mama to leave the flowers she had so painstakingly nurtured, she also knew that Mama was pointing higher, at the Nauvoo Temple.
Elizabeth remembered how Mama had sold her piano and given the money to help raise the walls of the temple that now gleamed softly in the late afternoon sunlight. When Elizabeth had asked Mama how she could sacrifice her beautiful piano, Mama smiled. “It’s no sacrifice, Elizabeth, to give up something precious for something even more precious.”
“What could be more precious than your piano?” Elizabeth had asked. “You loved that piano, Mama.”
“The temple,” Mama had said simply. “I loved that piano especially because my mother gave it to me. But I love the Lord’s house much, much more.”

“One day I was in school when a huge airplane was hit, and we saw the soldiers jumping out, their parachutes opening. The airplane crashed close to the school and flattened two or three houses. After class, some of us went to the crash site and sat down and watched the fire. What I remember most, however, was my grandmother coming up to me and grasping me by the back of the neck. I was three hours late coming home, and my mother had everyone searching for me. After that, I always kept my promise to come straight home from school.”

Merrill saw Kathy and her friends after his mother made the comment she did about Christmas. It was bad enough seeing Kathy at all. But if a different set of mind wheels hadn’t been reluctantly pushed into a slow, rusty motion, it would have been more than bad—devastating in fact. He knew this and was glad he had let his resentments out of their tight bindings. They were still there, but, like so many helium balloons, they now tugged gently from a less painful position.
“Wipe Bobby’s mouth,” he heard his mother say, and for perhaps the millionth time in his 16 years, he automatically pulled out the big piece of flannel tucked in the back of the wheelchair and bent to soak up the drool from the grotesque, twisted face of his brother.
“He’s too excited,” his mother rationalized. “It’s so beautiful and magic-like. I knew we had to make the effort to bring him here.”
Bobby thrashed his useless arms. The red-knitted, thumbless mittens Sister Arnold had made hid the twisted bones that should have been workable fingers, but weren’t. A cruel accident at birth or before had ruined the control system for his muscles, and an intelligent spirit was imprisoned in a physical body that jerked spastically and made communication with the outside world a tortured affair at best. Sometimes, like tonight, the effort became too much, and he could accomplish nothing but a ridiculous flailing about, accompanied by unintelligible, animal-like sounds. Merrill knew the sight was distressing to anyone unfamiliar with the situation.
And all this Kathy and the others saw. There had been the usual giggling comments and the quick exodus away from the ugly and unpleasant.
Merrill shuddered and bent his arms around his brother. “Hold on there, buddy,” he whispered. This was a familiar reenactment of a familiar routine, one which was usually successful in calming the worst of the unwanted movements.
He stood that way, quiet, between the Tabernacle and the visitors’ center and let the below-freezing air pool around him. The millions of tiny lights pricked the starry night and caused it to back up and hover just beyond the thick, gray walls. It hung there, its own distant light spectacle forgotten as human attention was trapped in the canopy of electric glow. Temple Square at Christmas was spectacular to see, no doubt about it. It was more than even Merrill expected. He could imagine Bobby’s rapture.
Merrill felt something swell in the lonely part of him. It tangled with those feelings that had been dominant for a long time, those feelings of resentment because his life seemed destined to be circled by people, like Bobby, who could never bring opportunities his way.
He loved his mother but knew she, too, would never introduce him to the kind of people he longed to know. His mother’s life centered around Bobby, with her job in the evenings at the library only a necessary part of her circumstance. To expect another man to be big enough to tolerate the presence of a severely handicapped son would never occur to her—not after the boys’ own father couldn’t take it, and an accident in the oil fields ended his life before he had time for a change of heart, and before she was convinced it could be possible.
Between him and his mother the care of Bobby was divided. It held them both out of the reach of opportunities, at least that was the way Merrill saw it, and not without this awful resentment pulling his young features into a perpetual scowl. Tonight his mother had been objecting to that scowl when she said, “But Merrill, Christmas isn’t just for the whole and the beautiful.”
Maybe it was the million lights winking all around him, but for some reason he had been touched with a corner of what she said—just nudged enough to make his resentments back off a little. It was good to get some relief from the anger.
He thought about Jesus. How he had been subject to an imperfect world. A world where he had to deal with terrible things like leprosy and every kind of human misery.
Then he had seen the kids from school. Had he known they would be here, the group he secretly longed to be part of, had he known that, no way would he have consented to come.
Beautiful, blond Kathy. New at school this year, she sat by him in algebra and made his life painful. Each day he both dreaded and longed for the hour. Always he was too shy and couldn’t say anything but answer the few questions she sometimes asked. He always came to class boned up on the day’s assignment in case she did need help. She was one of the leaders in the straight crowd—the fun, respectable group. The ones who didn’t need cigarettes, drugs, or alcohol to give them confidence.
Now that Kathy knew he didn’t have a normal kind of family, would she ever ask his help again? He looked up at the likeness of Jesus looking down from the window of the visitors’ center and reminded himself that even though the eyes seemed to be looking directly down at them, it was just made of stone.
The Nauvoo Bell struck the hour, rolling the clear sounds through the cold air and causing a small vibration to answer back from deep inside where resignation grows. He straightened up and sighed, repositioning Bobby’s bright, red-knit hat. Oh well, it had happened. She had seen them. Might as well get this night over with.
Bobby quickly became frantic again. “Oh, he’s going to hurt himself,” his mother cried. “Can’t you do something?”
He tried, but it was too awkward pushing the wheelchair and keeping his arms around the struggling form at the same time.
“He wants to go in the visitors’ center. I know that’s what he’s trying to tell us,” his mother insisted. She was usually right in guessing what Bobby wanted. Watching his brother jerk his body and bang his head around made Merrill also think Bobby would end up hurting himself and make their holiday that much more difficult.
“Okay. I’m going to carry him,” he told his mother, after looking all around to be sure Kathy and her group had gone. “Here, help strap him on. You know, like we used to.”
Though Bobby was ten years old, he only weighed 60 pounds. Merrill opened his coat, picked him up and waited while his mother arranged the wild arms and legs inside the coat, all the time muttering soft, silly endearments. Then she used the straps from the chair to bind the two boys tightly together. Soon the jerking subsided, and Merrill relaxed the pressure that held Bobby’s face pressed into his shoulder. It was like strength from the one went into the other and brought control. “Don’t talk,” Merrill kept saying. “We know how you feel. Relax, I’ll take you in there.”
“You’re so wonderful when you’re like this,” his mother said. Now she was wiping something besides Bobby’s drooling. Merrill was surprised at her tears.
“Oh, come on, Mom. I’ve carried him around a lot like this.”
“I know, I know. But it’s been a long time.”
Yes, it had. Merrill was glad to welcome back the love he used to feel for his brother. It made him walk taller.
As they climbed the ramp to the second floor, music from some hidden source was playing, “We three kings of Orient are; Bearing gifts we traverse afar.” Merrill felt like asking Jesus how he would like what he was carrying. The thought held some of the old resentment. He stood angled so Bobby could see the Christus over his shoulder without raising his uncontrollable head. The view from the window, with Christmas declaring itself so dramatically, let a thought materialize. It gathered in small waves to gradually push into his mind and be recognized. He smiled as it put itself together. “Yes, Jesus would like the gift he carried. Locked up like this, Bobby was a spirit pure in heart and innocent. Oh yes, Jesus would like that.”
The music changed to “Silent Night,” and he turned to let Bobby see the lights out of the window. Then he saw her. Kathy, standing alone in the hall to the left. It seemed she had been watching, for now she smiled and moved toward them. Merrill watched her approach, too stunned to move. His heart raced, and he increased the pressure on Bobby’s head so hard he cried out.
“Merrill?” said the soft voice, and Merrill felt as if he were connected to a million little hot lights flashing at odd intervals. His face burned, and he wanted to run.
She acted like she didn’t notice. “Merrill,” she repeated. “I’m so glad I saw you here. I wanted to invite you to a Christmas party tomorrow night. Just a fun, game-playing time at my house with the gang—no big deal. I promise no algebra.”
Merrill knew his voice would crack and cleared his throat before trying to answer. Then he couldn’t put together anything sensible.
“I … gee … sure … sounds okay.” He felt stupid for not introducing his mother, for Kathy turned and asked, “Is this your mother?”
He tried to gather his wits and made the introductions.
“I know this is your brother,” she said, smiling with eyes that glistened with something that reflected the tiny lights. “The kids told me.” Then she turned to leave but paused with one hand on the railing. “Hey, you know, you holding your brother like that is the most Christmasy thing I’ve ever seen.” Then she hurried down the ramp.

It was 7:45 a.m. on a rainy August morning here in Freetown, Sierra Leone, West Africa. We (the full-time missionaries in the Freetown District) had planned a baptismal service and were determined to hold it, rain or shine. It was then I received a call from Brother Allieu, a member from our branch, but I could not totally understand what he was saying, as he was speaking rapidly in Krio, the local language. I told him to take a deep breath and speak slowly. He did so and said, “Elder Naeata, there is no water for the baptismal font. I am sorry. There is no water.”
I thanked him for the call and then announced the bad news to the other elders. Immediately we began to think of how we could still perform this sacred ordinance. It was then that Elder Agamah reminded us of the waterfall and pond up the mountain nearby in a place called Mellow. The elders all agreed we should try and hold the baptism there, so we obtained permission to do so.
As everyone gathered later that morning at the bottom of the mountain, the group came to a stark realization of the formidable task looming ahead. However, the determined company had no sign of hesitation to press forward. Men and women and even children walked and talked happily up the wet and slippery trail. Gradually ascending, we took a short detour to cross the river.
As we hiked, the zeal of some in the party began to fade when the rain picked up, but we pressed forward with hope. Still, the rugged path seemed to have no end. Finally we arrived at our destination. Our hearts were happy, but the rain persisted to beat down upon us. As we prepared for the baptismal service, we took refuge from the rain under a large mango tree.
We opened by singing the hymn “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2). After the opening devotional we went to the baptismal site. The water was rushing off the falls and into the pond where we would perform the sacred ordinance.
A father entered the pond and helped his son into the water when, suddenly, the rain stopped. The rays of the sun broke through the clouds and illuminated the pond. We could feel the presence of the Spirit. After the father baptized his son, a husband baptized his wife, and then the elders baptized their investigators. The sun continued to shine, as did the smiles on our faces.
We closed the service by singing “Come, Follow Me” (Hymns, no. 116). Yes, indeed, we did follow Him. We followed our Savior up and down the mountain, across full, flowing creeks, up the steep and wet trails, and through the rain. And those who were baptized truly followed the Savior’s example as they entered the waters of baptism.

One afternoon as our family drove out of town, we passed a chapel of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Jokingly, my father said, “You’ve not tried there yet.” I asked what kind of church it was, and he said it was the Mormon church. I remarked that the name on the front of the Church didn’t say that, and he responded, “Mormon is only their nickname; but don’t try them. They’re an odd lot.”
Since the church building was some four miles from my home, I decided to write and ask about their beliefs. The following week, a letter arrived for me from the branch president, inviting me to attend their meetings. I felt excited, yet nervous, as I read it—something I had never felt before while investigating a church. I decided it was time for me to ask my Heavenly Father about this.
I wasn’t quite sure what to say, since the Lord’s Prayer was the only one I had said before. However, as I finished a simple prayer asking the Lord to show me the way, I heard my mother call me. I went downstairs to find two men sitting in the front room. They had come to our door to see if our family would like to know more about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My mother had asked them if they had come in answer to my letter, but they said they had never heard of me.
I sat silently while the three spoke together, and for the first time in my life all that my mother said seemed confusing, yet these two men made everything so clear. That night I thanked the Lord for sending the truth to me.

My assistants recently had an experience that bears this out. Occasionally they go to a Vietnamese restaurant close to our office in Honolulu.

Being the good missionaries they are, they contact everyone, including every waitress who ventures close. They had been served by a young woman and had attempted to share a gospel message with her on a few occasions, but she had not shown any interest.

One day a few weeks ago, these elders were eating dinner when this waitress came over to their table and simply said, "OK, I'm not happy! Why are you so happy?" She could tell there was something different about them; that they had something she didn't have. She is currently attending church and being taught by missionaries in Honolulu.

Once, in company with Elder Gene R. Cook and the mission president, we traveled in a very remote region on the Altiplano, or high plain, in Bolivia. We had traveled much of the day in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. We had crossed an arm of Lake Titicaca on an ancient ferry. We followed mountain roads first built by the ancient Incan Indians.
Once, we had to build a stone ramp to emerge from a river bed which formed something of a road in the dry season. Lifting stones at an altitude of more than thirteen thousand feet is no small task.
We came eventually to our destination, Huacuyo. It is really not a village so much as houses scattered about the mountains, as high, I suppose, as men live anywhere on earth.
There we found what we were seeking—a little adobe and stone chapel. The few Saints in the region had built it themselves with no help from the Church.
The distance and forbidding terrain made this, I’m sure, as remote from Church headquarters as any place on earth.
The chapel had a dirt floor and rude hand-hewn benches. The interior walls had been whitewashed. Hanging on the front wall were three pictures: the President of the Church and his two counselors—the First Presidency.
I repeat the words of Paul:
“Continue thou in the things which thou hast learned, … knowing of whom thou hast learned them.” (2 Tim. 3:14; italics added.)
Even in that remote little branch the members could identify those who hold the keys of authority.

I saw something else on the wall of that little chapel in Huacuyo. It was a rudely printed poster. I could not hold back the tears as I read the heading “preparacion para ser estaca”—preparation for stakehood.
There followed a list of qualifications for a stake of Zion. A stake of Zion there in the remotest village atop the Andes Mountains? Oh, yes! That will be one day. And when it comes, one of us will be there to give authority to the leaders. When a stake of Zion is organized anywhere on earth, a man sitting on this stand must be there to confer the keys of presidency. Only from those who have the authority and it is known to the church that they have authority can they receive them. There is yet a further witness. Any seeking soul—any member—has the right to know by the gift of the Spirit about the call of our leaders.

As you know, President Monson absolutely loves Canada. He considers himself part Canadian. The Canadian Saints consider him to be their own, too. This was very evident in May 2010, when he traveled to Vancouver, British Columbia to dedicate the temple there. The night before the dedication, a youth cultural celebration was held in a local ice hockey arena. This gathering began as a regular Church meeting with song and prayer.

Instead of singing the hymn on the program, President Monson directed that the congregation sing the national anthem, "O, Canada!" The crowd, including some 2,000 youth, erupted into cheers! As he got up to speak, President Monson gently touched the lapel pin on his suit coat and the Canadian Maple Leaf flag began to flash red and white! The arena went wild! The youth had made two huge cards for him with their greetings. When he held one of them up to show his appreciation, once again total pandemonium from the youth!

Three weeks later, in the town of Central, Arizona, situated between Pima and Thatcher, in Spencer W. Kimball country, President Monson dedicated a new temple, The Gila Valley Arizona Temple. You've probably seen the YouTube segment of him stopping on the desert highway to greet a group of members standing by the road with "We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet" signs held high in the air. He got out of the car and chatted with the members along the roadside in 90+ degree weather, seemingly unconcerned about the pressing demands on his weekend schedule! That evening during the cultural celebration, held at the outdoor stadium grounds of the College of Eastern Arizona, he marveled at the beautiful program of dancing and song.

If you haven't read, or are reading, To the Rescue-A Biography of Thomas S. Monson, I highly encourage you to get a hold of a copy and start coming to know the Lord's prophet. President Monson reaches out to the unheralded, the downtrodden, the depressed, the physically disabled, the aged and the lonely. His sensitivity radar is always on high alert for anyone who would not normally be singled out.

He loved the evening. A highlight of the pageantry was the segment on President Spencer W. Kimball. President Monson noted that the concept of the "smaller temple" was enthusiastically promoted by President Kimball. There was a strong spiritual connection that night with President Spencer W. Kimball. The next day, after the three dedicatory sessions, as he was leaving the temple, President Monson asked his security team, "Which way do we go?" As soon as they pointed the way to where his car was waiting in the parking lot, he turned around and headed in the completely opposite direction to go greet the throngs lined up behind the roped-off areas, waiting to catch a glimpse, or perhaps even shake the hand of the Lord's prophet! Thirty minutes later he got into the car and was off to the airport. Lives were touched, many tears shed, because the Lord's prophet tarried a bit longer among the people, in no hurry to catch the plane home.

I think often of people who quietly model legendary capacity. My wife’s grandpa, Ezra Stucki, was one of them. He was a Patriarch and worked for many years in the Dean of Students Office at Ricks College. In his later years, because of his health, he could not leave his home on his own. Yet every Sunday, he dressed up (Sunday clothes) and listened to General Conference on cassette tapes. He did this because he wanted to show the Lord he loved him; He wasn’t able to attend church. Nobody saw him—but heaven did. His faith, discipline, and devotion taught me that capacity is not limited by circumstances. Remembering people like him helps me stay grounded.

On 25 January 2000 my mother passed away. She was not a member of the Church, but she lived a good life. Many friends and relatives couldn’t be comforted and didn’t understand that death is part of life. My sister and I, who are members of the Church, had the opportunity to share the gospel with them and tell them about the plan of salvation. They were very interested and wanted to know more about our religion. I didn’t have much time then to explain, but I was able to give them copies of the Liahona (Spanish).
The missionaries are now teaching my nonmember sisters and their families. It has been wonderful to share the gospel and also to have a magazine with messages that are so comforting at difficult times.
Margarita de Oliva,Virreyes Branch, Buenos Aires Argentina Litoral Stake

The hollow feeling in my stomach slowly spread through my chest, and my throat tightened until I could no longer speak. The early winter drizzle even made the sky seem to weep as Amanda crept toward the car, her steps painful and faltering.
“I’ll get that,” I blurted, my mind jolted from numbness by her fumbling with the door handle. I opened the car door and watched in embarrassed silence as she maneuvered her body into the car. I shut the door after making sure her brace was completely inside. She looked at me through the rain-spattered window. “Thanks, Sara,” she mouthed. I nodded my reply and got in the other side.
My thoughts drifted back to another day. Summer sunlight had washed over the neighborhood that morning, soaking its warmth into our shoulders and the tops of our heads as Amanda and I rode our horses to the shopping center by our apartment. Well, they weren’t real horses. At least, they weren’t alive and you couldn’t see them. But they were real to us, and we rode them everywhere, always careful to tie them up before going inside. If we rode in a car, we tied them to the bumper and they followed behind. We even named them after our favorite ice-cream dishes at Gabby’s Ice-Cream Parlor: Starlight and Anastasia.
Amanda’s dad had picked us up later that afternoon in his car and dropped me off at home. It was the next morning before I learned that they had been in an accident and that Amanda had been severely burned.
The car jostled as it turned into the parking lot of Gabby’s Ice-Cream Parlor, bringing me back to the present. I had promised Amanda while she was still in the hospital that we would go to Gabby’s to celebrate her recovery. Now I wondered if I’d made the right decision.
Mom let us out in front of the plate-glass window that framed a row of booths. Amanda emerged from the car slowly. There were still some bandages on her arms, and one leg was encased in a metal brace. The spattering of freckles I had been jealous of was gone. In its place was whitish skin that stretched and pulled, as if there wasn’t enough to cover her face.
Heads turned and peered around the huge yellow and blue letters painted on the window. One little girl pointed at us. Her mouth moved in silent conversation. The woman beside her looked embarrassed and moved her away from the window. I squared my shoulders and returned their stares for Amanda’s sake. Defiance turned to surprise as I saw that their sad-eyed looks were directed at me too. I walked a few steps ahead of Amanda, my arms and legs swinging in exaggerated rhythm. Can’t you see there’s nothing wrong with me, I thought, my surprise turning to anger.
Finally we were inside and seated at a table. I studied the menu intently, as if it were directions to unearthing a million dollars in gold. I just about had everything memorized by the time our waitress got there. “I’ll have the Starlight Sundae,” I said, without looking up.
“I’ll have the Anastasia,” Amanda said quietly.
The waitress collected the menus. I counted the flowers in the pink flocked wallpaper and traced the marbled pattern in the tabletop with my finger until the sundaes arrived.
I usually lingered over every bite, enjoying the contrast of the smooth mint ice cream against the sharp bits of chocolate on my tongue. But today I only wanted to finish as quickly as possible. As soon as Amanda had taken her last bite, I wadded up my paper napkin and tossed it on the table.
“We’d better go,” I announced and added lamely, “I’m sure Mom’s outside by now.” Amanda offered no resistance.
I walked ahead to get the door. Amanda shuffled through, but instead of turning to the left, where Mom was waiting, she turned to the right and raised her burned hand slightly. I heard the familiar soft clicking noise that we used to call our horses.
“Come on, Anastasia,” she said softly. “Let’s go, girl”—her whisper was punctuated by a great, deep sob—“far away from here.” Her shoulders shook; her breath came in gasps. Tears dropped from her nose and chin onto the scarred hands she clasped tightly in front of her.
The hollow feeling in my stomach returned, and my throat tightened again. I felt helpless. I wanted to make people stop staring. I wanted to smooth her lumpy skin and give her back her freckles. I wanted to go back and change what happened that summer day and erase her pain.
I looked long into Amanda’s eyes for the first time since her accident. They shared the pain her physical body had endured. But there was more. Behind the pain were the eyes of the friend I had always known. Burned and scarred skin may have changed the outside, but Amanda would always be Amanda on the inside.
I put my arm around her shoulder. The rain had stopped. Despite the chilly air, the sunshine warmed the tops of our heads and our shoulders as we walked side by side to the car, oblivious to anyone else. Things would be different—and yet the same. I held on to Amanda’s hands and gently helped her onto the car seat. Then I picked up her leg by the steel bars that supported it and helped her position it in the car.
A smile appeared through her tears. “Thanks,” she said.
Our eyes met again, and I returned her smile. “Sure,” I replied. Then I added quietly so that only Amanda could hear, “I’ll tie the horses’ reins to the bumper so we can ride them when we get home.”

Walter and Ernestine Walser were called to Peru. Former Bishop Walser was soon called as a branch president in the remote interior mountains. With his limited Missionary Training Center Spanish, Elder Walser had to choose counselors, hold meetings, teach, train, reactivate, ordain, and so on. In fasting and prayer he received impressions from the Spirit and went about his work. Elder Walser wrote, “I learned that even with limited language, whenever it was needed, enough Spanish was given me to communicate, and I knew it was from the Lord.”

Like many adventures, there were hardships and sacrifices, but the Walsers said that the genuine love and affection of those wonderful Peruvian people and the feeling of being needed more than compensated. They are grateful for their spiritual adventure in serving the Lord.

Entering the United States Navy in the closing months of World War II was a challenging experience for me. I learned of brave deeds, acts of valor, and examples of courage. One best remembered was the quiet courage of an 18-year-old seaman—not of our faith—who was not too proud to pray. Of 250 men in the company, he was the only one who each night knelt down by the side of his bunk, at times amidst the jeers of the curious and the jests of unbelievers, and, with bowed head, prayed to God. He never wavered. He never faltered. He had courage.

In stark contrast, consider the example of another young man. Through the years I have watched how his parents have taught him from infancy to unwaveringly live the commandments of God. By example and precept, they nurtured him, together with their other children, in truth. They encouraged the development of discipline and sacrifice to obtain worthy goals. This young man chose swimming to instill in his character those qualities. Early-morning practice sessions required discipline and sacrifice. Over time he excelled in that sport.
Then came the challenges—for example, a championship swim meet on Sunday. Would he participate? Would he rationalize an exception to his rule of not swimming on Sunday to help his team win the championship? No, he would not yield, even under intense peer pressure. He was called names, even physically abused. But he would not yield. The rejection of friends, the loneliness, and the pressure brought times of sadness and tears. But he would not yield. He was learning firsthand what each of us must come to know—the reality of Paul’s counsel to Timothy: “All that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution” (2 Tim. 3:12). Over the years this consistent pattern of righteous living—woven from hundreds of correct decisions, some in the face of great challenge—has developed a character of strength and capacity. Now, as a missionary, he is appreciated by his peers for his ability to work, his knowledge of truth, his unwavering devotion, and his determination to share the gospel. One who earlier was rejected by his peers now has become a respected leader of his peers. Is there a message for you in these examples?

In December 1996, my wife was close to the end of her pregnancy with our last child. It was a Sunday, and my bride requested that I give her a blessing. She was concerned with the well-being of our unborn child.

For some reason--and, brethren, do not make this mistake--I took her request lightly, thinking that she was just overreacting. She was so close to having the baby that everything was sure to be just fine. I predetermined what "I" was going to say in the blessing, instead of remembering that we need always to seek those warnings, promptings, and revelations that Heavenly Father wants us to pronounce when we have the privilege to exercise His priesthood. We never give a blessing. It comes from Him.

After visiting with family that Sabbath afternoon, we retired to our little apartment in Logan, Utah, and tucked our three children into bed. We then prepared for the blessing. I placed my hands upon her head and closed my eyes, and then the most incredible thing happened. I could not remember what I was doing. I opened my eyes and could see my beautiful bride sitting in the chair with her head bowed, waiting. I remembered that I was giving her a blessing and began once again. I placed my hands on her head and started over, when, to my surprise, the very same thing happened. I went completely blank. I could not remember what I was doing. I then sat down by my bride and said something like "You are right, my dear; something is wrong."

What I was experiencing can be described only with the Lord's words:

"But, behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right. But if it be not right you shall have no such feelings, but you shall have a stupor of thought that shall cause you to forget the thing which is wrong."[11]

I have never experienced a stupor of thought even remotely as strong since that cold day in December 1996. Heavenly Father taught me in such a powerful way and prevented me from making a mistake from which I might not have been able to recover. After that experience, I have become much more sensitive to "if it be not right you shall have no such feelings."

The remaining portion of the story is sacred and does not apply to this subject today. Let me just conclude the story by saying that we immediately called my wife's doctor, who is a wonderful priesthood man. When we told him what had happened, he explained that he had felt anxious the last time she was in the office, but with no evidence as to why. Now he felt that we should leave immediately for the hospital, and he would be there to start labor as soon as we arrived. About 48 hours later, and after several very crucial moments, our beautiful youngest daughter was born.

My young friends, Heavenly Father is here to keep us from making very costly mistakes if we are seeking His warnings, promptings, and revelations from all available sources--and if we heed and act upon them. We have the right to have the Holy Ghost always be with us, especially in crucial moments of life.

Rasha Stacey, a Laurel, sees how Personal Progress translates easily into opportunities to serve. She often helps other young women work on their Value Experiences. For example, another Laurel, Rachel Odom, set a goal of learning how to cut hair. “She cuts her own but had never done it on anyone else,” Rasha says. “So twice last year, my family invited her over. She cut all of the girls’ hair, including my mom’s. I really loved what she did, and we all had fun. It was a great learning experience—for me and for her.”