Gospel Story Finder

Lisa stood in the doorway of Grandpa’s bedroom. She wanted to talk to him, but he was sound asleep. There was so much to say and so little time. Grandpa couldn’t even get out of bed now.
“I’ll be thankful if I get to see another crocus,” he had said. Those words brought back vividly all the hurt and pain she had felt when Keekee, her pet hamster, died.
Now it is Grandpa’s turn to go, Lisa thought sadly. All the pain of parting came back again. Once more she looked over the garden. Every year she and Grandpa had planted bulbs along both sides of the walkway but now Grandpa was too ill. She remembered how one by one she had handed Grandpa the crocus bulbs and watched him place them into freshly dug holes. Then he covered them gently, almost with a prayer.
Lisa went back to Grandpa’s room. He seemed to still be asleep but then he opened his eyes. “Is that you, Lisa?” he asked.
“Yes, Grandpa, is there anything I can do for you? Anything you want?”
“Just sit and talk to me,” he said, taking her hand.
“The garden misses you, Grandpa. We don’t want you to go.”
“It will only be for a little while. In Heavenly Father’s time it will only be like a winter away. Plants sleep during the winter and wake up in the spring. So it is with people. We are parted for a while and come together again in a world where there is no more separation.”
Grandpa’s hand became limp and he fell asleep.
Lisa went out into the garden again.
“Grandpa loves you,” she spoke to the lilac tree and the rosebushes as though they could understand. “If you could give him a flower, it would make him so happy.” But only the silence and the cold wind answered her. Every day after that, Lisa carefully examined each plant, but there wasn’t even a sign of a swollen node.
Mother had asked Lisa to help in preparing the house for company who would want to visit with Grandpa. “Friends and relatives will come to see Grandpa often,” she said, “and you must keep the porch and steps clean.”
Many people did come to see Grandpa, and each day he seemed to sleep a little longer. Sometimes he didn’t know Lisa was there beside him. One day as she was sweeping the porch, the pain of losing Grandpa seemed to grow so big within Lisa that she thought it would burst. She began to cry. The broom slipped from her hand and fell beside the steps. As she stooped to pick it up, something caught her eye. It was half-hidden under the porch and behind the steps. She got on her knees and could hardly believe what she saw. In a sheltered place, well-protected from the wind and cold, was a purple crocus poking up from the dark earth. Although it was still winter, a flower had been born.
Lisa rushed to Grandpa’s bedroom where he lay sleeping. “Please wake up, Grandpa, and see what I found!” she cried. But Grandpa didn’t stir. Lisa waited and waited. She was about to leave the room when Grandpa opened his eyes.
“Look, Grandpa. Look what I have for you!” Lisa said softly.
“A crocus,” he whispered. “How wonderful!” He took the flower and held it to his face. “Where did you find it, Lisa? We took up all the bulbs last fall.”
“I guess we missed this one. It was in the corner by the steps.”
Grandpa smiled. “Lisa, did I ever tell you the story about the tree that began to sprout leaves in the winter? At the time, people called it a miracle. It brought new hope to many who needed it. Later it was discovered that a steam pipe near the tree had a leak and the warmth made the tree think it was spring—time to wake up and time to show its leaves. People talked about it for months afterward. Many felt it was a message from God, telling them that they should never despair.”
Lisa sat quietly thinking about the miracle tree. She looked down at Grandpa, who had fallen asleep again, the crocus still in his hand. Lisa stood beside the bed for a long time. Slowly some of the pain she felt began to ease. Grandpa’s going away didn’t hurt quite as much now. She knew that one day they would be together again.
“I love you, Grandpa,” she whispered, recalling his words, All else can fade away but love is forever.

Father was a commercial artist for a large advertising agency in New York City. On one occasion he was under tremendous stress to produce an advertising campaign. He had come home on a Friday evening and worked most of the night. Saturday morning, after a few hours working in the yard, he retired to his studio to create an advertising campaign for a new product. My sister and I found great delight in chasing each other round and round the dining room table, which was situated in a room directly over his head. He had told us to please stop at least twice, but to no avail. This time he came bounding up the steps and collared me. He sat me down and taught a great lesson. He did not yell or strike me even though he was very annoyed.
He explained the creative process, the spiritual process, if you will, and the need for quiet pondering and getting close to the Spirit for his creativity to function. Because he took time to explain and help me understand, I learned a lesson that has been put to use almost daily in my life.

Maren Nelson, 16, of the Alma Branch, was helping her mother make a salad for dinner. When the house started to shake, she automatically dove under the table, pulling her mother with her. Huddled together, they could see cupboard doors flying open, dumping dishes out. The refrigerator fell over, spilling food everywhere. The built-in oven was wrenched from the wall, kitchen cabinets tore loose and fell into a messy heap on the floor. A massive china cabinet tipped over against the table, crushing the chair between. “After the shaking stopped,” Maren said, “I remember the terror in my father’s voice as he yelled into the house to find out if we were safe.”
The Nelson home was one that was heavily damaged. Maren was grateful her family was uninjured. “Even though our home was destroyed, I have learned and continue to learn from the experience. The most important thing is that we are all alive and together.”

Here are our four older children posing for a picture during family home evening. Our favorite game was the sock-roll race. Each one was given a roll of stockings like this... Joyce and I and the children got on the floor in a line. The object was to push the roll using only your nose to the finish line on the other side of the room. One of my kids wrote recently that, "I suppose I loved this activity because we were all on the floor together. The big people were little people with us." There was lots of teasing and laughing. After a few races, it usually broke down into a tickling frenzy. I guess it was then I remembered my father's words, "You may never be closer to heaven than on the floor playing with your children at home."

At school there were many opportunities to be a good friend. I remember how hard it was when I was not chosen to be one of the first in the class on a baseball team or for some other activity. That experience reminded me that when I had a chance to choose, I should look for those who needed a turn. A good time to be friendly was when new students joined the class. I found that by helping them feel welcome and happy, I was happy too.

A few years ago I had the opportunity to work with a young girl named Addison. I met Addison at time in my life where things weren't going quite as I had planned. I was taking a semester off from school for various reasons and I felt as if my whole world was caving in around me. My life was not what I had pictured.
Addison was born with a brain deformity called polymicrogyria of the perisylvian region, which by definition, is a malformation of the brain. The doctors warned her parents and family that she could very well be a vegetable for the rest of her life. Because her mother needed to work for insurance purposes, I helped by taking care of Addison during the day. She was just four months old when I started taking care of her.
When I first met Addison I saw how beautiful she was, but I could immediately see some of the challenges that she faced. She had absolutely no control of her arms. As you picked her up, her arms would fall limply back behind her. It was heart breaking. As Addison grew they started to have physical therapists come and work with us on things we could do to help Addison gain the movement of her arms among other things. I had the opportunity to sit through many of these therapy sessions and would do things throughout the day that the therapist taught us.
Many months after Addison started these sessions I witnessed a miracle. She was laying on her back on the floor with toys hanging above her head. I watched in awe, as she was able to hit one of these toys with her hand. Something she was not supposed to be able to do. It was truly amazing, but her therapists and family did not stop there. She had many more therapist visits over the next couple of years. She had a therapist that worked on motor skills and speech, and many more doctor visits than someone her age should have to deal with. All of these many therapists and doctors were truly angels in her life. I watched as they work and cheered her on. Her family never gave up on her.
Today Addison is able to walk and communicate. She has become the happy, bubbly girl that you now see in this photo. Many challenges still lie in her path but she has been able to overcome so much of what life has dealt her.
I told you of the many people that served Addison, but I would like to talk today about how serving her helped me in my own life. I saw Addison's determination to do things her own way and to not let her disabilities stop her from what she wanted. Her disabilities chose her, but she did not let them stop her from developing and growing. As I saw her courage and strength, she strengthened me. I enjoyed my hours that I would spend with her reading, playing, and working on new things. She became, at the time in my life, one of my best friends. How someone so small can do so much for one person is beyond me. Her warm smile in the morning and happy laughter always brightened my day. She was able to help me make meaning out of my own life and give me the determination of overcoming the small things in my life that I needed to overcome. In serving Addison I found light in my life.

Nearly a year ago, we lost my older brother in a tragic automobile accident. John’s early years were full of promise and accomplishment. But as he grew older, a broken body and uncooperative mind made life very difficult. While the healing he hoped for didn’t come in this life, John nonetheless held to his faith, determined to endure, as best he could, to the end.
Now, I know that John was not perfect, but I have wondered what it was that gave him such endurance. Many voices invited him into the cynical fringe, but he chose not to go. Instead, he did his best to anchor his life at the gospel center. He lived his life there because he knew he would find the voice of his Master there; he lived his life there because he knew it was there that he would be taught.
Brothers and sisters, in a world with so many competing voices, I testify that our Heavenly Father has made it possible for us to hear and follow His. If we are diligent, He and His Son will give us the direction we seek, the strength we need, and the happiness we all desire. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Years ago, an elderly stake patriarch with two failing heart valves pleaded for then-Dr. Russell M. Nelson to intervene, although at that time there was not a surgical solution for the damaged second valve. Dr. Nelson finally agreed to do the surgery. Here are President Nelson’s words:
“After relieving the obstruction of the first valve, we exposed the second valve. We found it to be intact but so badly dilated that it could no longer function as it should. While examining this valve, a message was distinctly impressed upon my mind: Reduce the circumference of the ring. I announced that message to my assistant. ‘The valve tissue will be sufficient if we can effectively reduce the ring toward its normal size.’
“But how? … A picture came vividly to my mind, showing how stitches could be placed—to make a pleat here and a tuck there. … I still remember that mental image—complete with dotted lines where sutures should be placed. The repair was completed as diagrammed in my mind. We tested the valve and found the leak to be reduced remarkably. My assistant said, ‘It’s a miracle.’” The patriarch lived for many years.
Dr. Nelson had been directed. And he knew that God knew that he knew he had been directed.

When he returned from Asia, he moved to southern California, where he began working and attending college. At a Church dance, he met Clara (Claire) May Jeffs. After dating for three years, they were married in the Salt Lake Temple on June 10, 1931. Howard decided to give up his band, for he felt that working as a professional musician would interfere with what was more important—his family and the Church.

I remember a case in my life a few years ago. I was in my office on the second floor. A young man came in. He was bedraggled, he looked pretty bad. His clothes were hanging loose, and I was afraid he was going to jump out my window. He was desperate. He told me he had just lost his wife. She had left him and taken his two sons with her. She did not leave anything to pay the numerous bills that they had. And life looked pretty desperate. He had even gone to drinking a little bit.
I finally said to him, “Well, now, I am going to help you if you would like me to. I will get you a job. It won’t be a very good job. It won’t be maybe the thing you have been used to doing. It won’t bring in the amount of money you have been used to spending, but if you need a job I will get you one and I will help you with the problems that come to you.” I got him a job at the hospital for eighty dollars a month.
“Oh,” he said, “I can’t live on that.”
And I said, “eighty dollars will be better than what you are getting now.” He agreed and finally he went to work. It was temporary, but it took care of the situation.
And I said to him, “Now, why don’t you, Bill, take your car and put it on blocks and walk to work because that will be good for your health as well as you will finally get caught up on your indebtedness. Why don’t you go to the music store and tell them you will pay out the cornet for your boy at two dollars a month and go to this other store and pay this much on your gas, you will pay this much on something else.”
He said, “Oh, they would laugh at me. They wouldn’t take that.”
And I said, “You try them.”
And when he came back after the first week, he said, “Well, they surprised me. Those people said, ‘That’s wonderful, I appreciate what you are paying. We will assist you.’”
And so when he came back the first week, he gave me a list of the things that he had been spending for, and I said, “What is this newspaper here? Costs ten cents a day, doesn’t it? That is seventy cents a week. You pay that on your obligations instead of buying the paper. There are several of them at the hospital. You can read them. And what is this shoe shine every day.”
“Oh,” he said, “I have to have my shoes shined.”
And I said, “Yes, you do, but you can shine your own shoes. Why don’t you use a few cents and get a can of polish and shine your own shoes?”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” he said. “I never have done it. My father didn’t do it.”
But here and there we finally got him to be willing to do this. And it was only a matter of a few months until he had a better job, paying twice as much with prospects of even doubling, and doubling again. And he was getting along fine. He had a little cheap room, he had a little hot plate. He cooked his own egg every morning, and he ate bread and milk at night, and he ate at the hospital at noon for free. And it was amazing how quickly he was out of debt, though it had run into thousands of dollars.

Four years ago, during my preparation to serve a full-time mission, I went to Asi Ukpo hospital located in the city of Calabar, Nigeria for my medicals. After paying for my medical test, it was time for my X-ray. I was directed to the laboratory and there I met with the doctor. He looked at me and asked the following questions:
“Your name?”
I replied “Bassey Thomas, sir”.
He asked, “Are you a Latter-day Saint?”
I said “Yes, I am.”
He smiled and asked, “Have you been to the temple before?”
I said “Yes, I have”.
He then asked, “Have you been baptized for the dead before?”
I again replied, “Yes, I have”.
Next, he asked, “Are you going on a mission?”
I said “yes, that’s why I am here, for my medicals.”
He smiled again and asked me to wait. He then invited his colleague to join, and they began trying to prove my faith wrong and my decision as well. I was quiet while they spoke. They opened scriptures and started teaching me. They challenged me to go look for a Bible-believing church and join. They also promised to cancel my medical test and refund my payment so that I can go and look for something meaningful to do.
After their challenge I began testifying to them:
That God and His Son, Jesus Christ live.
That The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true.
That the temple and temple ordinances such as baptism for the dead are ordained of Him.
My decision to serve as a full-time missionary is to help others to know this truth.
They told me that they didn’t have any option other than to obey my choice. He then proceeded to carry out the test.
After some months, I was called to serve and labor in the Ghana Cape Coast Mission. There I was able to learn, teach, grow and develop a strong testimony of my Heavenly Father, my Saviour and His restored gospel. The experience I had in that hospital has strengthened my testimony, whenever I think back on it. Indeed God “will not suffer [us] to be tempted above that [we] are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that [we] may be able to bear it” (1 Corinthians 10:13).

Jan slammed the hot iron down on the pillowcase and grudgingly slid it back and forth until the fabric was smooth. I’m sick of ironing pillowcases! I’m sick of ironing everything! she thought as she glanced at the pile of clean but wrinkled clothes. There’s too much to do!
The relentless howling of the fierce wind outside was punctuated only by the rhythmic sound of Jan’s iron thumping the ironing board. She glanced out the window at the raging blizzard and shivered. I wish I weren’t the oldest. Then I wouldn’t have to do all the work while Mom’s sick.
Just an hour ago her mother had said, “When you’re finished with the ironing, honey, come to my room and we’ll decide what to fix for dinner.”
Jan groaned just thinking about dinner and dishes. Why does it have to be me? It isn’t fair! Tears filled her eyes, and her long brown hair brushed her pale cheeks as she smoothed the pillowcase with her hand, folded it neatly, and added it to the growing pile of finished ironing. She thought of her mother resting in bed and the other four children playing quietly elsewhere in the house. The storm seemed to put a hush over everyone, as if they were just silently passing time until it was over.
Later, with a sigh of relief, Jan picked up the last item to iron—one of Dad’s handkerchiefs. I know Mom can’t help having to stay in bed so she won’t lose the baby, she reasoned as she ironed. I can tell she’s trying to act cheerful, but I know she’s pretty worried. And when Dad looks at her, he seems worried too.
Glancing outside, Jan could see that the storm was getting worse. The wind shrieked louder and tore at the house, adding more gloom to her mood. Suddenly the laundry room light flickered and went out. It was still early enough so that, despite the storm, the snow reflected plenty of light through the window.
Jan became aware of a faint, musical sound. Where’s that coming from? she wondered. It can’t be the radio, because the power’s off. She moved to the doorway and listened.
“It’s really beautiful!” she whispered, still listening. She began to walk from room to room, following the flutelike sound and trying to discover where it was coming from. She wondered who could be playing it. No one in the family played the flute. The haunting sound was peaceful, smooth. It stopped, then started again, faded, then rose again.
Still following the sound, Jan came to the door of her own room! What’s going on? she wondered. The door was ajar. Her ear tuned to the clear, gentle sound, she quietly entered. The reflection of the white snow swirling and drifting outside her window brightened the pinks and whites of her room. She followed the sound—louder now—to the window. Afraid of disturbing whatever was making the unusual music, she very cautiously reached up and moved the white, frothy curtain aside.
“Well, what do you know!” Jan exclaimed. The music she heard was being made naturally, and simply, by the raging wind! The wind was blowing so hard against her window that the air being forced through the cracks was making a delightful tune.
Jan stood there in awe, gazing at the window and the bright, drifting snow. Then, interrupting her reverie, she turned and ran to her mother’s room. Delighted to find her awake, Jan’s discovery tumbled out excitedly.
Mother’s dark eyes sparkled, and her tired mouth widened into a smile. She lifted her hand for Jan to take. “Show me!” she said with excitement.
Jan supported her mother as they went to Jan’s room and quietly lay side by side on her bed. The only sound was the music of the wind.
“It’s lovely!” her mother whispered.
After listening in silence for a few more minutes, Jan said, “I’d really be scared to be out there in that blizzard all alone!”
“Yes, so would I,” agreed her mother. “But isn’t it wonderful how that wild storm can whistle through a tiny crack and provide us with such an unusual musical treat?”
“Uh-huh.” Forgetting her fear, Jan snuggled closer and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. Her thoughts drifted back to earlier in the afternoon. It had seemed like the end of the world then. But maybe things weren’t so bad after all. A feeling of peace and well-being swelled within her.
“Honey?” Her mother’s voice broke the silence. “With the power off, what shall we do for dinner?”
Jan giggled. “Well, we could have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches! Seriously, though, I think we have enough stew left over from last night. I’ll put it in the dutch oven and warm it up in the fireplace. Then we can sit around the fire and eat like the pioneers did!”
“Like the pioneers!” her mother echoed.
Jan remembered the peace and contentment she’d felt when she’d heard the music in the wind. She knew her life was a lot easier than that of the pioneers. She smiled and went to get the stew ready.

After surveying the many travelers in the closest coach section of the train and finding no empty seats, I decided to sit in the quiet solace of the luggage car. The solitude would give me a chance to reflect and prepare for my new assignment as a missionary in Amsterdam, Netherlands. Since leaving Sint–Niklaas, Belgium, I’d made several train transfers with armloads of luggage, and I was relieved this train would be taking me all the way to my destination. With a little more than four months left as a missionary, I anticipated this would be my last transfer.
My stomach growled as the train thudded along. I had left Belgium early and without breakfast. There were vendors on the train platforms selling snacks, but after crossing the border, I realized I had forgotten to change my money and carried only Belgian francs.
Lost in thought, I hardly noticed as the train lurched to a stop between stations until the luggage car door screeched open. I looked up to see a Muslim woman enter, followed by her three young children. Her scarf covered her hair, and her black dress reached the ground, covering everything but her hands. She found the orange vinyl seat closest to me, flipped it down, and sat. Her children followed her lead and sat facing me. My secret hope that they would leave me to my pondering vanished. They were here to stay, so I smiled politely.
“Are you going to Amsterdam?” she asked.
I told her I was and learned they were going there as well to see her sister. Neither of us had been to Amsterdam before, and we were both curious about what we might find there.
Then she read my name tag aloud slowly: “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Yes, I have heard of Him,” she told me, referring to Christ, “but we worship Allah and follow the teachings of Muhammad.”
“Yes, I know,” I answered, nodding. “I mean, I can tell.”
She smiled knowingly, turned to her children and then back to me. “Are you hungry?”
“No, I’m fine,” I answered as my stomach growled. She gave me a disappointed look, and I saw the faces of her children fall.
“My children are hungry,” she replied as she pulled bread, cheese, and juice from her bag. “And it is rude in our culture to eat without sharing with others,” she explained. “So you must eat with us. Otherwise, we do not eat. If you do not eat, we do not eat. And my children are hungry.”
The children looked at me with pleading eyes.
Then their mother laughed and added, “Why do you think we sit in here? We cannot share with so many,” she nodded toward the crowded coach section, “but with one, it is easy to share.”
I laughed too, her point well taken. I spent the rest of the train ride accepting gifts of chewy chunks of Turkish bread and red, wax-covered pieces of Gouda cheese from her children. We sipped apple juice from cardboard cartons with Arabic writing and spoke both English and Dutch as we conversed. The children wanted to know if I wanted more bread, more juice, more cheese, more crackers, or more cookies.
When we parted on the platform we felt like old friends, wishing each other luck and hoping we would see each other again. We waved good-bye, and they disappeared into the crowd. As I watched them go, I was reminded of Matthew 25:35: “For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.”
I felt enriched because of our brief encounter. Our differences of religion, culture, and race were overshadowed at the moment by our common destination, a common meal, and her common courtesy.

I recently attended the funeral for one of my boyhood friends. This brother was genetically challenged from birth. He could understand concepts quite well but could not read or write. His speech was limited to a very few identifiable words, along with a jargon all of his own. Some in our group could recognize a few words he spoke. However, we could usually tell from the tone of his words whether he was expressing his concerns or his great capacity to love. Much of Lynn’s early life was spent in a special school away from home. He spent his summers and many holidays at home with his family. For the past 17 years, Lynn, who outlived all of his family, lived in a care center where his many needs could best be met.
Upon Lynn’s death, one of his special friends arranged a funeral to be held in the meetinghouse we attended as boys. Present at the funeral were his dear friends, the staff from the care center, a few ward members who remembered him from many years ago, and about a dozen boyhood friends and their families. Several brethren who had stayed close to Lynn during his long, often lonesome stay at the care center offered tender remarks.
All of our memories were refreshed during the course of the service. One friend recalled that on one occasion our Sunday School teacher invited us to bear our testimonies in class. As he sequentially called upon us, he passed over Lynn, perhaps feeling he could not respond with understanding. With all the righteous indignation Lynn could muster, he let the teacher know he expected his opportunity to express himself. Though we didn’t understand much of what he said, we felt his love and the depth of a great spirit tragically locked in a body that could not fully function. The spirit in that class was very strong!
As the staff and the special friends from the care center expressed their unconditional love, it was very evident that Lynn, in his humble way, had reached out and touched their lives. During the course of the funeral, it was apparent that at least three of our boyhood friends and their families had reached out to minister to Lynn in ways that included regular visits, long automobile rides, invitations to dinners on special occasions, and birthday parties.
When the stories and recollections were complete, we all realized that our physically challenged, loving angel of a friend had given us and the wonderful compassionate families who reached out so often in love, far more of real value than he had ever received.

When Joseph Smith, Sr., was dying, his children gathered to receive his final blessing. After first blessing his wife, Father Smith began with Hyrum, his eldest, and gave each child what he called a “dying blessing” (see Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, ed. Preston Nibley, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1956, pp. 308–13; Pearson H. Corbett, Hyrum Smith, Patriarch, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1963, pp. 240–41).

For as long as I can remember, my family has read scripture stories every night. We started with the books that have lots of pictures, then gradually moved up to books with more words and fewer pictures. It wasn’t until my mom read the requirements for earning a Gospel in Action award that we made the jump from scriptures stories to real scriptures.
“‘Read the scriptures daily for at least one month,’” Mom read from the award form. “We could all do that together,” she said enthusiastically.
“You mean scripture stories, don’t you?” my little sister, Crystal, asked.
“I think that you’re old enough to read the actual scriptures,” Dad said.
Crystal and I looked at each other.
“I don’t think Crystal’s ready for scriptures,” I said. After all, she was only seven and hadn’t even been baptized yet.
“I am, too, ready!” she shouted, offended. She didn’t understand that I was just trying to keep Mom and Dad reading from the scripture story books.
“Then it’s settled,” Mom said. “We’ll start tonight.”
So we started reading the Book of Mormon. Dad suggested that we try to read one chapter per night. Each of us took a turn reading three verses at a time. Then we finished up by reading the chapter heading. I like the chapter headings. Sometimes that’s the only part that I understand.
We began, of course, with 1 Nephi, and after a few days, I decided that the actual scriptures weren’t as tough as I thought they’d be. We read about how Lehi’s family left Jerusalem. Then Nephi and his brothers, Laman, Lemuel, and Sam, went back and got the brass plates. I already knew the story, but it was interesting to read it the way that Nephi himself told the story. Then Nephi and his brothers went back to Jerusalem to get Ishmael’s family. And after a long time, they all sailed to the promised land.
I learned things that I had never known before, like how the Lord taught Nephi to build a boat. And how some of the sons of Ishmael were just as mean to Nephi as Laman and Lemuel were. And I had never realized how long they all lived in the wilderness before they sailed to America.
Toward the end of 1 Nephi were a few chapters that were very hard for Crystal and me to understand. The chapter headings always ended with a note that said to compare them with a chapter in Isaiah. Dad explained that Isaiah was a prophet from the Old Testament who Nephi really liked. I didn’t think much about it until we got to 2 Nephi, where we read chapter after chapter that didn’t make much sense to me. There were even parts where Mom and Dad just shook their heads and said that we’d understand them better when we’re older.
I was just about ready to tell Mom and Dad that I didn’t think I was old enough to read real scriptures, when Nephi started to use words that I understood again.
Then one Monday night we read 2 Nephi 31. Crystal was reading when we came to verse 20. She read, “‘Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men.’”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “That sounds familiar.”
Crystal, who is usually annoyed when I interrupt, added, “I’ve heard it before, too.”
“Where do you think you heard it?” Mom asked.
It popped into my head: “In Primary, in singing time!” I started to sing, “‘Press forward, Saints, with steadfast faith in Christ.’”
Crystal joined in. “‘With hope’s bright flame alight in heart and mind, With love of God and love of all mankind.’”
Mom and Dad sang the last line with us. “‘Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!’”
“Well done,” Dad said after clapping. “We’re impressed!”
“It’s out of the Hymns book,” Crystal said, trying to impress them a little more.
“That’s right, and I think it’s hymn number eighty-one,” I added.
I could tell that Mom and Dad were surprised, so I went over to the piano for our hymnbook. “Look it up,” I said, handing it to Mom.
She turned to hymn number eighty-one. I was right. There it was—“Press Forward, Saints.”
“We learned this hymn for the Primary program last year,” I reminded Mom. “And the words are almost the same as in the Book of Mormon.”
Mom pointed to the bottom of the page in the hymnbook. It said, “Text: Marvin K. Gardner, b. 1952; based on 2 Nephi 31:20.” Then she explained that the words to the song were written by a man named Marvin K. Gardner, who was born in 1952. He took the scripture that we had just read, and wrote it as a poem to be sung.
Mom played the piano, and together we sang all three verses. Then we went back and finished chapter 31.
“Nephi wrote those words a long time ago,” Dad said as he closed his scriptures. “But they mean as much now as they did then. We still need to ‘press forward.’”
I went to bed that night understanding that the scriptures are more than just a story about people who lived a long time ago. The scriptures are here for us to read and learn from. I felt that night as if the scriptures were talking to Crystal and me. It was as though Nephi was telling us to always press forward and do our best. I could use that kind of encouragement every day. I plan to keep reading the scriptures every night. Someday I’ll even understand the parts from Isaiah.

Alex’s testimony was strengthened further following a dream he had in which he was called on a full-time mission. He began preparing but didn’t wait until he was 19 to begin sharing the gospel, starting with his own family.
“Alex always prayed for and encouraged his family,” says Bishop Sayas. “And he would always encourage his older brothers to attend church. The effort to bring his family back succeeded because of Alex.”
“It was Alex who was always working with us and with ward members on our behalf,” Carmen says. “They told us he was always praying for his parents to return to church. We’re grateful he didn’t give up on us.”
If Latter-day Saints are good examples, Alex says, others will eventually take notice. “If we are happy and content in the Church, others are going to want to partake of our happiness. If we endure and move forward, miracles can occur.”

In 1816 the French physician René Laënnec was convinced that if he could listen carefully to the sounds made by his patients’ lungs and hearts, he would hear many clues to their conditions. But he found it difficult to isolate the swish of the lungs or the lub-dub of the beating heart. Many of his patients were so fat that the sounds coming from their chests were lost.
One day Dr. Laënnec was watching children play on a pile of timber. He saw one boy put his ear to the end of a long beam while another tapped on the opposite end. The sound traveled along the wood. At once Laënnec saw the answer to his problem. He hurried back to his hospital, took a paper-covered book, and rolled it tightly into a tube. To everyone’s astonishment, he then put one end of the tube to a patient’s chest and applied his ear to the other. As he expected, he heard the heart sounds clearly. Then he made little wooden “listening trumpets” on a lathe, and the stethoscope was invented.

I learned the power personal agency can play in the lives of others when I served in a stake young men's presidency. We gave everything we had to the youth of that stake: knowing their names, investing in their lives, and serving them in every way we knew how. This is a picture of that young men's presidency taken at 2:00 in the morning as we prepared on the eve of a youth event. But there is one thing that is wrong with this picture (besides the fact that it is 2:00 in the morning). There are no youth in the room. In our desire to serve, we had excluded the youth from the very activities that would have lead to their greatest growth. Fortunately, we soon ran into an experience that would change our service forever. In planning for a youth conference, we wanted to explore how perceptions of "what is cool" can be shaped by media and popular culture. Well, try as we might, four married men working at desk jobs were not going to tell the youth "what was cool." We were forced to involve the youth in developing the themes, writing the content, and leading the discussions. Our responsibility to direct and sharpen the experience did not diminish. But the youth were engaged in a role we had never experienced. By doing less, we had allowed our youth to do more. For me this story had implications not only for my service in the stake, but as a parent, a leader, and a teacher. Preach my Gospelexplains, "While learning from a good teacher is very important, it is more important for you to have meaningful learning experiences on your own."[18]

During that era of primitive times our people detested Western education and hated anyone who talked to them about sending their children to school or taking them to church. They were always afraid of white men and never wanted to appear before them or go near them. They wanted their children to remain at home, farming on their plots of land. Only people who were regarded as unhelpful members of the family were allowed to go to school or church. It was very difficult to send girls to school, for their work added to the income of the family.
I was very fortunate, and little did I think how much God had in store for me. I was the fifth child. My parents sent me to school in 1937, when an English visitor spoke to my father and he could not understand him; so my father decided to send me to school. After I completed my standard six course in 1944, the second world war brought hardship to us. It was difficult to secure employment, so I left for Jos in northern Nigeria and took up teaching as my career. But when I was 17, a Catholic priest encouraged me to take correspondence courses from Wolsey Hall, Oxford. I was very interested in subjects like English, geography, economics, history, religion, and health science, and I did well at my courses.
In 1950 I married my dear wife Fidelia Njoku. She was born at Ibeku Okwuato in Aboh Mbaise Local Government Area in 1930, the daughter of Nkoku Ugonabo and his wife Ekeoma. Both parents died when she was very young, and as a result she was denied the opportunity of education. As an orphan with younger brothers and sisters to support, she was engaged in petty trading, covering many kilometers away from home to distant markets to earn a living. She had been converted to the Catholic religion and was appointed leader in many organizations. She told me that God was directing all her affairs because of the very strong faith she had in him, and that she did all she could to avoid the temptations of the devil.
During the early years of our marriage, we had a series of troubles as a result of miscarriages. All our hopes were placed in God’s protection and the advice from our doctors. Things were very difficult, so I became a trader, with my wife as the storekeeper. She was honest and deserved the honour and admiration of people around us, who regarded her as a worthy homemaker and example to other women. Her duty is ever to give sound advice to people in all walks of life whenever her attention is needed, and her family responsibilities are the first things in her life.
In 1952 I started teaching and struggled hard to further my education. My wife was patient enough to wait for me to go to teacher training college for four years. I had a marvelous teaching career. I did not know that God had a work for me to do, besides my small efforts in the teaching profession.
In November 1965, I was visited in a dream by a tall person carrying a walking stick in his right hand. He asked whether I had read about Christian and Christiana from A Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan. I told him that I had forgotten it and he told me to read it again. After a few months the same personage appeared to me again and took me to a most beautiful building and showed me everything in it. That personage appeared to me three times.
During the Nigerian civil war, when we were confined to the house, I picked up an old copy of the Reader’s Digest for September 1958. I opened it at page 34 and saw a picture of the same beautiful building I had been shown around in my dream, and I immediately recognized it. The heading was “The March of the Mormons.” I had never before heard the word Mormons. I started to read the story because of the picture of the building I had seen in my dream. I discovered that it was all about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
From the time I finished reading the story, I had no rest of mind any longer. My whole attention was focused on my new discovery. I rushed out immediately to tell my brothers, who were all amazed and astonished to hear the story.
By that time there was a blockade all over Nigeria, so I could not write any letter to the headquarters of the Church. At the removal of the blockade in 1971 I wrote a letter for instructions. Pamphlets, tracts, and a Book of Mormon were sent to me, including “Joseph Smith’s Testimony” about the restoration of the gospel. Brother LaMar S. Williams was in the Missionary Department at that time, and his instructions were that they had no authority to organize the Church in Nigeria then. I was totally disappointed, but the Holy Spirit moved me to continue writing. Many a time in dreams I saw some of the missionaries of the Church discussing matters about the Church.
Persecutions, name calling, and all kinds of abuses were rendered to me. I was persecuted in various ways but I kept deaf ears. I knew I had discovered the truth and men’s threats could not move me and my group. So we continued asking God to open the door for us.
Elder W. Grant Bangerter answered a letter I sent in the same way—that the Church could not be organized in Nigeria yet, but that the leadership had the desire to do so.
On 9 October 1976, I wrote to Elder Bangerter:
“I have received your letter of Sept. 24 with thanks. I have noted what you said therein. We are not discouraged anyhow but shall continue to pursue the practice of our faith which we have found to be true. …
“We are very optimistic that Our Lord Jesus Christ will make it possible in the future for the Church to take more direct action. We are well aware that our faith is being tried. We are doing everything we can to establish the truth among so many of Our Heavenly Father’s children in this part of the world.”
Brother Williams gave us a program to follow on Sundays. We continued praying always, until the 21st of November 1978, when the Church was officially opened for the black race (in Africa) with the authority to hold the priesthood and administer the ordinances thereof.
Nineteen members were baptized on the above date by Elders Rendell N. Mabey, Edwin Q. Cannon, Jr., and A. Bruce Knudsen. The Aboh Branch was organized, with Anthony Obinna as president, his brothers Francis and Raymond as his counselors, and his wife Fidelia as Relief Society president. When President Obinna expressed concern about the propriety of having his own family in these offices, Elder Mabey assured him that they had been chosen for their worthiness, not for their kinship. The new branch presidency promptly reported the event in a jubilant letter to the First Presidency:
“Dear Brethren,
“All the members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in this part of Nigeria have the pleasure to thank you and the Latter-day Saints throughout the world for opening the door for the Gospel to come to our people in its fullness.
“We are happy for the many hours in the Upper Room of the Temple you spent praying to the Lord to bring us into the fold. We thank our Heavenly Father for hearing your prayers and ours and by revelation. He has confirmed the long promised day, and has granted the holy priesthood to us, with the power to exercise its divine authority and enjoy every blessing of the temple.
“There is no doubt that the Church here will grow and become a mighty center for the Saints and bring progress enough to the people of Nigeria as it is doing all over the world.”
I am blessed with a humble and loyal wife, with seven fine and beautiful children who are all members of the true church on earth. My children are all educated. My first daughter and my first son are certified teachers. Bonadventure has completed secondary class five, Angella is in secondary class four, Stella Ego is in secondary class two, and Anastasia is in secondary class one. The youngest boy in the family is entering college in September 1980.
The most important talk and love in my house is about “our church.” As Christ is guarding his true church, membership is increasing daily, and I testify that in the future, the membership of the Church will be as great as the sand on the seashore. God is great and performs wonders. No human power can withhold God’s work in this world.