Gospel Story Finder

Years ago our youngest child had a serious bone tumor in his lower back. When he was taken to the hospital for surgery, I overheard the doctors in the hallway talking about his condition. They said it was likely that nothing could be done to save our boy’s life.
When I went back in my son’s room, I tried to encourage him. I assured him that he was receiving the finest medical care. He said, “Daddy, I’m not counting on the doctors. I’m counting on my blessing. You laid your hands on my head, and you blessed me. And I have faith that the blessing will be fulfilled.”
My son was healed. His life is an example of the power of a priesthood blessing. One of the lessons I’ve learned through my Church service is that our Father in Heaven loves little children. He loves to bless them, and He often blesses them through His priesthood servants.

Our son, Spencer, has tried to learn to fast since his baptism nearly two years ago. We have not made him feel he must fast at this young age. He may not fast as long as we do on some Sundays. In fast and testimony meeting some time ago, he whispered to me, “I think I’ll go up and bear my testimony.” I smiled and nodded my approval. His sincere testimony touched me. He was feeling something. So did I.

I was barely two years old when my mother became seriously ill. Because she had no one to leave me with, she took me with her to the hospital in Tupiza, Bolivia. She died shortly thereafter, leaving me all alone.
During my childhood and early teenage years, I was passed from one place to another, never knowing what it was like to have a family, never receiving any kind of gift—not even for my birthday or for Christmas.
Left on my own, I faced a lot of challenges and dangers while growing up. It was only later that I learned I was never really alone and that an invisible hand was watching over me.
When I was 15, I was invited to live with a Latter-day Saint family. Their daughter, slightly older than I, took me to Mutual. Everyone there welcomed me and paid attention to me. For the first time in my young life, people treated me with love and kindness.
I was introduced to the missionaries, who began teaching me. Soon I realized that I had a loving Heavenly Father, who had protected me throughout my life. I accepted the gospel and was baptized on Christmas Eve 1978. That evening I received my first and still most cherished Christmas gift: membership in the Lord’s Church.
Other gifts followed. Two years later I met a young man who was not a member of the Church. I took him to church with me, and after he made his own baptismal covenants, we were married. Later Heavenly Father blessed my husband and me with three children, who were sealed to us for time and all eternity in the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple.
When I was young, everyone called me “the poor little orphan girl.” When I recall this memory today, I feel grateful because I have the blessing of knowing that I have a Father, who has always loved me. I have also tasted of the Savior’s infinite love. He restored His Church through the Prophet Joseph Smith, who was chosen in the premortal world and labored diligently to translate the Book of Mormon. I know that it contains the fulness of the gospel.
I received my first and best Christmas gift at age 15 and have enjoyed the Lord’s tender mercies ever since. I still feel gratitude in my heart for that gift and strive to keep my gaze fixed on the next life, where I hope to thank the Father and the Son and live forever with my beloved family.

“Our next thrilling adventure was one pleasant afternoon as we were slowly traveling along. Suddenly, all the wagons in our company were flying in every direction with lightning speed over the plains. I don’t think the fastest horses could have kept up with our cows. Father sat in the front of the wagon, talking to and whipping his staid, old oxen to keep them going right along. He was afraid the cows might get mixed up with other teams that were running, or might turn around and tip the wagon over with us all in it. We went over hump and bump. Sometimes we would be thrown up so that our heads hit the top of the wagon bows, then we would alight anywhere it happened inside the wagon. Nobody can appreciate the situation without the experience. Again death was staring me in the face and again I covered my head. If I had to be killed I didn’t want to see the process. Mother soon snatched the covering off my head, and when we came to a stop she gave me a thorough lecture to always look out and watch for the best chance for escape.
“Well, after the cattle had run as long as they could they stopped. There were several accidents, and a woman was killed. She was knocked down and trampled to death. She left a family of children. How we all dreaded stampedes—there is something dreadful in a lot of panic-stricken cattle. Even human beings are not responsible when fright overcomes reason.”

As a little girl, I would tag along with my father on our little farm, beg to work with him, and try to help him with his many projects. I loved riding in his truck and helping him shift the gears. I remember him reading stories to us children and taking us on sleigh rides, fishing trips, and camping adventures. Riding horses with Dad, especially in the mountains, will always be a special memory.
After I started high school, I began to wonder about things I had been taught about the gospel. Things some of my friends said created questions and doubts in my mind.
One night I stood in our living room looking out of our big window at the stars. It was late, and I thought everyone had gone to bed. But Dad came up beside me, and we started to talk.
I told him of my questions and concerns. In response, my father testified that he knew the gospel was true. We talked about getting hung up on “the mysteries” and how foolish that can be. Dad said I had to come to my own conclusions and that it might take me some time. Then he told me something I have never forgotten. He said that when I had questions or concerns, I could lean on his faith and testimony.
I loved my dad and knew he would never intentionally lead me astray or tell me something that was not true. If he felt sure about what he believed, I knew I could trust him.
So, lean I did.
During my working years, when I was exposed to many ideas, theories, lifestyles, and beliefs that challenged me, I looked to my dad and leaned. During my years as a wife and mother, as experiences have tested my faith, I have looked to my dad and leaned. Even now, as I think about current circumstances in the world, I look to my dad and lean.
I often think about that night long ago and my conversation with Dad. I wonder how different my life would have been without his calm assurance and steady example.
As a child, I never wanted for the necessities of life. My goodly parents took care of me. But of all the things my parents gave me, I am most grateful for the values they taught me, the firm foundation in the gospel they gave me, and the simple, exemplary life they led.
I am also grateful Dad was there for me to lean on—not once but always. He was and is a great example of the things that matter most. My dad is my hero.

Marusia Lawrence, longtime member of Aylesbury Ward lives in a small community on the outskirts of her town.
In 2018, she made a house-to-house collection hoping to raise enough funds to purchase a silent soldier (also known as ‘Unknown Tommy’, see https://rbli.shop/products/unknown-tommy), a black silhouette of a soldier armed with a rifle, which would be displayed permanently in the village. To her delight, these efforts raised enough money for two silent soldiers for the special 100 Year Centenary Remembrance Sunday in 2018.
For 2019, she organised a Remembrance Service for November of that year. She felt strongly that there should be a formal start prior to the two-minute silence and asked fellow Church friend—Richard Godivala—to play the “Last Post” on his trumpet, dramatically setting the scene for the rest of the programme.
All neighbours attending were able to sincerely reflect on a reading of “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae (Canadian poet, soldier, and physician, who died in 1918 in France) and then a reading of “For The Fallen,” written by Englishman Laurence Binyon in 1914.
The service finished by singing the national anthem. Afterwards attendees socialised and talked of their thanks for peace in Europe since 1945, sharing beverages and biscuits at local venue, Cooper’s Barn. Marusia said these quotes made by World War II soldiers truly resonated at this Remembrance Service:
“For your tomorrow they gave their today.”
“Attitude, gratitude and service before self brings happiness and fulfilment in life”
“Brave soldiers laid down their lives for everyone to bring peace into the world.”

PING!
At the faint, bell-like sound, Wanda’s eyes opened in the dark. She had been half-awake already, too excited to really sleep. But it’s too early to get up, she realized with disappointment. The family rule was that nobody was to get up before daylight and no gifts were to be opened before breakfast.
What a different kind of Christmas this will be, she thought sadly, listening to the steady patter of the California rain. For the first time since she could remember, there would be no snow and no sled to share with her three brothers. Maybe we’ll get a wagon this year, Wanda hoped.
Ping! Wanda sat up and clutched the iron armrest of the old-fashioned daybed. A drop of water fell on the back of her hand. Quickly she snatched her hand from the armrest and rubbed it dry on her flannel nightgown.
Ping! Suddenly she knew what caused the sound—drops of water falling on the metal.
It would be just like this old place to have a leaky roof and spoil our Christmas! she thought with disgust. Daddy had rented the house before he had sent for Mama and the children. It stood on a sandy plain near a shallow river that was hardly more than a trickle. “I know it’s kind of run-down and old,” Daddy had said apologetically, “but it’s all we can afford till I’ve been on this new job a while longer.”
There were two small bedrooms—one for Mama and Daddy and one for the three boys. Wanda slept on the daybed in the living room. She slipped out of bed now, shivering as she picked her way over the cold, bare floor to the window. She strained to see past the rivulets chasing each other down the windowpane and willed daylight to appear through the dark clouds.
Plink! A new sound joined the familiar ping! Another leak, Wanda realized. When she returned from the kitchen, where she’d gotten a couple of bowls to catch the dripping water, she bumped her shin on the table.
Do I dare turn on the light? she wondered, her shin still smarting. She hesitated for just a moment, then groped for the dangling light chain.
Click! The one bare bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling shone dimly on the little Christmas tree with its homemade decorations. It wasn’t actually a tree, but a rubber plant Mama had gotten to brighten the room. “We’ve always had a Christmas tree,” Mama had declared, “and we’re not doing without one this year just because we don’t have much money.” Then, with a wink at Wanda, Mama had said, as she often did, “Money can’t buy everything.”
This year Wanda felt that she was beginning to understand what Mama meant. She remembered the fun that they had had making the tree decorations. While Wanda and the boys had worked with paper, scissors, crayons, scraps of cloth, fruit jar lids, and homemade flour paste, Daddy had transferred the rubber plant to a large tub of dirt and set it in a corner of the room.
A board creaked, interrupting Wanda’s thoughts. She stopped abruptly, listening for sounds of awakening from her parents’ bedroom. In the silence she became aware of a rhythmic orchestra of sound: ping! plop! plink! splat! Drops of water were falling in several places. Glancing up, Wanda was alarmed to see that the ceiling sagged noticeably just above the table where Daddy had stacked the presents when they hadn’t fit under their little tree. Most of the gifts had come in the mail from Grandma and Uncle Walt the day before. “Just in time,” Daddy had remarked, “to save us from a very skimpy Christmas.”
As Wanda watched, horrified, the bulge seemed to dip lower. The ceiling’s full of water! she realized. It could burst any minute and ruin all the presents! Uncertain about waking her parents, she prayed silently, then decided to wake her older brother, Blaine. He would know what to do.
She slipped into the boys’ bedroom and tugged on Blaine’s pajama sleeve. “Wake up, Blaine!” she urged in a hoarse whisper. She shook his shoulder. He moaned in his sleep and turned away from her. But when she said in a low, tense voice, “Merry Christmas, Blaine!” his eyelids fluttered open.
“Wake up. We have to do something. The rain’s going to ruin all our presents from Uncle Walt and Grandma!”
“What?” Blaine mumbled sleepily. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor.
“Shh! Don’t wake the other boys. And watch where you step. There are puddles everywhere.”
Blaine’s eyes widened when he saw the bulge in the ceiling. He was fully awake now and ready to take charge.
“First thing to do is to move this table. You grab one end, and I’ll take the other. Careful you don’t knock off any presents.”
“I can’t lift it!” Wanda wailed. “It’s too heavy.”
“OK, you drag your end, and I’ll lift mine. But we have to move fast.”
The table legs rasped against the floor as Wanda tugged. “Oh,” she gasped, almost in tears, “if that ceiling breaks, the whole house will be flooded!”
Suddenly Daddy appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Look, Daddy!” Wanda pointed to the sagging ceiling.
“Oh no!” exclaimed her father. “Blaine, bring that big bucket from the back porch. Wanda, get your mother’s canning kettle from the kitchen. I’ll go get my screwdriver.”
Wanda nested several smaller pots and pans inside the big canner, then hurried back to the living room.
Daddy held the bucket under the bulge and poked a hole in the ceiling directly above the bucket. A small stream of water shot into the bucket.
“That will relieve the pressure on the ceiling,” Daddy explained. He directed Blaine to watch the bucket and empty it outside before it got too full to carry. Wanda was to replace the bucket immediately with the empty canner.
“Larry and Andrew can tend the other pans,” said Mama, “and I’ll mop up the water from the floor.”
Wanda hadn’t noticed that her mother and the two younger boys had joined them. Already the smaller pans were positioned around the floor, catching drops.
Soon everyone was dressed and eating hot cereal between quick trips into the living room to check the pans.
Wanda helped Blaine carry the first bucketful to the back porch.
“We could have used a wagon for this job,” she grumbled.
“We should have asked for a boat instead,” Blaine joked as he emptied the bucket.
Then Wanda saw that the boardwalk leading to the woodshed was surrounded by puddles. Wanda’s sense of humor dispelled her gloom. “We don’t need a boat,” she said with a giggle. “Our house is the boat. It’s just like being on Noah’s ark, but without the animals.”
The presents were unwrapped amid general merriment as the family tried to avoid the wet spots in the room. Finally they took the presents into a bedroom to keep them dry.
The children played with their toys for a while, then Mother read the Bible story of the first Christmas—with frequent interruptions as someone raced into the living room to replace a full pan with an empty one.
As Wanda helped Blaine empty the canner for the third time into the “lake” outside, she realized that she had never thought too much about Jesus at Christmas. Other years her mind had been on Santa Claus and what he might bring her. Now, thinking of her family in this rundown house—in a city far from their old home—Wanda felt a kinship with the little family who had spent that first Christmas in a stable far from their home.
We didn’t really need the presents, she thought, to have a good time together.

One morning several years ago I was driving with my family to Disney World in Florida. Our four young daughters were excited as we approached the turnoff to that famous park. The laughter and happy chatter stopped suddenly, however, as our rented station wagon sputtered and chugged to an unexpected stop on the exit ramp. Many cars sped by us in the rush-hour traffic as I tried to get the car running again. Finally, realizing there was nothing more we could do, we got out of the stalled car and huddled together off the road for a word of prayer.
As we looked up from our prayer, we saw a smiling, handsome man and his son maneuver their bright red sports car through the lanes of traffic and pull off the road beside us. For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon these men cared for our needs in many kind and helpful ways. They took us to the park. They helped me locate a tow truck; they drove me to the rental agency to get a replacement vehicle. They bought refreshments for my family and waited with them until I returned several hours later.
We felt that these men were truly an answer to our prayer, and we told them so as we thanked them. The father responded, “Every morning I tell the good Lord that if there is anyone in need of help today, please guide me to them.”

Not long ago, a young missionary stopped by my wife’s office at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, to make a special personal request. Since he knew that we were personally acquainted with his parents, he wondered if Sister Christensen would call his father and find out when his mother was going to have her surgery. He explained, “When my youngest sister was born, my mother almost died. All of us, including my five-year-old sister, fasted for her and she got well. Since that time, I worry when I think of operations. They make me nervous. I need to know when the surgery is going to be scheduled so that I can begin my fast.”
My wife willingly dialed his father’s telephone number and asked the elder if he would like to speak personally to him. He felt he should not because he knew it was against the policies and he thought it would make him homesick. When his father answered and learned that the call was from the Missionary Training Center, his first question was, “Is anything wrong?”
“No,” he was told, “not at all, but your son needs to know when the surgery on his mother is going to be so he can begin his fast.”
“Oh,” he said, “he’s going to be disappointed, because he can’t fast before the surgery; she already had it yesterday. It lasted for five hours and she is doing very, very well. We are so thrilled.”
The elder’s face brightened as he realized what was being communicated on the telephone.
“Tell my father I love him and send him a hug and a kiss. Tell him to give my mother a hug and a kiss from me and to all the family.”
After the telephone call ended and the details about the surgery were explained, this great young elder said, “Oh, I’m so thankful; I will fast anyway for gratitude!”
My wife, Barbara, wrote in her journal, “We shook hands and he left my office, and I sat down and cried!”

In her April 2014 General Conference address, Jean A. Stevens said, “As we develop greater faith and trust in the Lord, we can access His power to bless and deliver us.” This truth became real to me five years ago when my life drastically changed.
I went from being an active parent and church member to being unable to leave my house, gripped by panic attacks and constant anxiety. After a heartfelt prayer one night, I felt the Spirit whisper, "Do all you can." With the support of my husband and a priesthood blessing, I sought medical help and made lifestyle changes aligned with the Word of Wisdom. Spiritually, I focused on daily prayer and scripture study, particularly on the Atonement.
As I was studying one night, one message stood out: “Fear not; I am with thee.” This simple reassurance brought peace during a moment in my life where I felt so lost and alone.
Like everything in life, my anxiety and panic comes in waves. After several calm years, it has resurfaced this past year. Thankfully, I now have tools to manage it and this time I have felt even closer to the Saviour. I’ve been making a greater effort to make sure I start my day with a sincere prayer, reading something of spiritual nourishment whether it’s a chapter of scripture, a General Conference talk or sometimes just the “quote of the day” in the Gospel Library app.
I’ve always tried to shift my focus to what this trial is teaching me and how I can help others. Being open about my anxiety and panic attacks has connected me with others who face similar challenges, reminding me once again, that none of us are alone.
I love the peace that the Gospel of Jesus Christ brings. I can’t imagine facing these challenges without the Saviour’s help. He is always with us; we need only to reach out and ask for His help.

Julio Cesar Merlos of the Arlington Texas Stake writes: “I remember when my brothers and sisters and I were growing up. We were new members of the Church, and our family didn’t have many financial resources, but we had faith in the gospel. My father set the example for us by his scripture reading. For him, family home evening was an opportunity to teach us what he himself was learning.
“One of my father’s family home evening lessons really made an impression on me. That was the time he taught us about agency. I remember the words my father spoke: ‘I want to give you a piece of advice to remember for the rest of your lives. When you are tempted to disobey the Word of Wisdom or the law of chastity or any other commandment of God, think about whom you are sinning against. Is it God, the Church, your parents, your family, or yourself? I want to tell you that the one you are sinning against the most is yourself.’
“As I grew up, tests came to me that were as serious as the ones my parents warned me about. I tried to remember the advice my father gave us that night. Twenty-five years after hearing my father’s counsel, it still fortifies me greatly and makes me stronger. Now my children are hearing the same advice from me.”

My wife likes to tell the story of a friend of hers who, when she was a little girl, was left an orphan. She scarcely knew her mother. As she grew, she wondered about her mother: what kind of a girl, what kind of a woman was she?

One day she came across her mother’s old report card. The teacher had noted on that card, “This student is excellent in every way.”

When she read that, her entire life changed. She recognized that her mother was a woman of excellence. Her whole attitude changed. She took on the aura of excellence herself and became a remarkable woman in her own right. She married a man who is recognized in many communities, and their children have distinguished themselves for their excellence.

“Matt, let’s go to the Colorado River,” Dad suggested. I was seven years old, and my family was visiting both sets of grandparents in St. George, Utah. Eager to see the mighty Colorado, I yelled, “Great! Let me get my skipping stones.”
Little did I know that he meant we were going to the Grand Canyon traveling over cow trails. Yes, we would see the Colorado River, but we would be on a cliff about a mile (1.5 km) above it. There would be no skipping of stones.
Grandpa Holland loaned us his truck and gave us a homemade map and a set of directions to help us find our way on a little-used dusty path along the back roads of the Utah-Arizona border. As we turned off the paved road, lumbered through the desert, climbed a set of hills, crossed another desert, went up another set of hills, I wondered how Grandpa or anyone else ever found this place.
We reached the overlook of the Grand Canyon late in the afternoon. After looking at the spectacular view and launching a few stones as far as I could throw, we got back into Grandpa’s old truck and started the trek home.
It was dusk, and we had only gone a bumpy mile or two when we came to a fork in the road. We stopped. Dad was not certain which trail we had come in on. He knew he had to make the right decision. There wasn’t much light left, light he desperately needed to ensure he could make the correct turns the rest of the way home.
Wasting time on a wrong road now meant we would face the difficult task of making our way home in the dark.
As we did whenever we had a family problem or concern, we prayed. After we both said amen, Dad turned and asked me what I thought we should do. I answered and said, “All during the prayer, I just kept feeling, ‘Go to the left.’”
Dad responded, “I had the exact same impression.”
This was my first experience receiving and recognizing revelation.
We started down the dirt road to the left. We had traveled only about 10 minutes when our road came to a sudden dead-end. My father promptly whipped the truck around, roared back to that fork in the path, and started down the road to the right. Fortunately, there was still just enough light to help us navigate the web of dirt roads that would take us home.
We were almost back to St. George, now on roads my father knew well, and the thick darkness of the night was lit by pinholes of thousands of stars.
I was troubled. With my head resting on my dad’s leg and my legs stretched across the seat, I asked, “Dad, why did we both feel like Heavenly Father told us to go down the road to the left when it was the wrong road?”
My dad said, “Matty, I’ve been thinking and silently praying about that same thing all the way home, because I really did feel a very distinct impression to take the road to the left.”
I was relieved that my first experience with revelation had a “second witness.”
He continued, “The Lord has taught us an important lesson today. Because we were prompted to take the road to the left, we quickly discovered which one was the right one. When we turned around and got on the right road, I was able to travel along its many unfamiliar twists and turnoffs perfectly confident I was headed in the right direction.
“If we had started on the right road, we might have driven for 30 minutes or so, become uneasy with the unfamiliar surroundings, and been tempted to turn back. If we had done that, we would have discovered the dead-end so late that it would have been too dark to find our way back in totally unfamiliar territory.”
I understood and have never forgotten the lesson my Heavenly Father and earthly father taught me that afternoon. Sometimes in response to prayers, the Lord may guide us down what seems to be the wrong road—or at least a road we don’t understand—so, in due time, He can get us firmly and without question on the right road. Of course, He would never lead us down a path of sin, but He might lead us down a road of valuable experience. Sometimes in our journey through life we can get from point A to point C only by taking a short side road to point B. We had prayed that we could make it safely home that day, and we did.

When Sally was about eight years old, she lived in Salt Lake City. President David O. McKay (1873–1970) was the prophet. Sally had heard many stories of people having the chance to see him. After general conference, he always came out a back door of the Tabernacle and climbed into a big car. A huge group of people waited outside the Tabernacle to see him, hoping to shake his hand, say hello—even just see him in person instead of on television. Sally thought it must be wonderful to actually meet the prophet.
She decided she would ask her parents if they would take her to Temple Square during general conference. But she did not tell them that she wanted to wait with all the other people and maybe have the chance to talk to President McKay. This was her special secret.
It was a beautiful day—not too hot, not too cold—when Sally’s family went to Temple Square during an afternoon session and listened to conference on the Tabernacle grounds. Large speakers carried the meeting to everyone outside, because the Tabernacle—every bench, every seat—was filled with people.
As Sally walked by the open doors, she caught a glimpse of the Tabernacle Choir and the General Authorities. Her heart leaped with excitement as she thought, “Today’s the day! Today’s the day! I’m going to meet President McKay!”
She could see people starting to gather at the back of the Tabernacle. After receiving permission from her parents, she joined the group and struggled toward the front. She wasn’t very tall, so if she didn’t stand right in front, how would she meet the prophet?
At last, with a wriggle here and jostle there, she reached the front of the crowd, where ropes blocked off a pathway between the Tabernacle and the road. There, just as she had heard, waited the big shiny car.
“Not much longer to wait,” she thought. She could hear the closing hymn being sung. “Sing faster! Sing faster!” she silently urged. After the closing prayer, the organist began to play the powerful Tabernacle organ once more. It was really time!
The crowd around her pressed forward, pushing against the ropes a bit. People were pouring out of the building, many of them joining the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the prophet too.
The big car started and pulled forward a little. A large door at the back of the building opened.
But much to Sally’s dismay, now that the car had moved, she couldn’t see a thing but the car! She could also see the heads of a few men. But President McKay was not well, so although he was a tall man, he now sat in a wheelchair. Sally couldn’t see him at all—not even catch a glimpse of his wheelchair’s rubber wheels. How was she supposed to see the prophet, let alone meet the prophet, if she couldn’t see anything?
She wanted to dash under the rope and run to the car. She wanted to climb in the car and shake his hand, say hello—something.
But all too quickly, the door slammed shut and the big car pulled slowly onto the road. It was over. He was gone.
Sally stood stunned. Her dreams! Her plans!
The crowd scattered, leaving her standing alone, staring at the ropes that had been dropped to the ground after President McKay left.
Then, a quiet whispering thought entered her mind: “Why do you want to meet him, anyway?”
“To see him and to know for myself that he is a prophet,” she almost said aloud, feeling the sting of tears.
Suddenly, she sensed a warm feeling in her heart. It was sweet and loving and slightly reproving. The thought came: “You do not need to see him to know. All you need to do is ask.”
Ask?
It was so easy, so simple! Before she could even begin to say a quick prayer in her heart, an incredible warmth filled her from the top of her head down to her toes. She knew. The man in that car, the one who had sat so quietly all through conference, the one who seemed so frail—who, to her, seemed like he must have lived forever—was without a doubt a prophet of the Lord. She didn’t need to meet him. And she didn’t need to shake his hand. He didn’t need to pat her on the head or speak to her. She just knew.
And now she understood that for the rest of her life, she could always find out that the man who became the prophet and President of the Church was called of God. All she had to do was ask.

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

Things were all set for a really fun weekend. My friend Tara and I had set up a girls-ask group date with some young men in our stake, and we were excited. A popular movie had just been released from theaters to DVD, and we were going to watch it all together at a friend’s house.
And then Nathan, my date, called.
“You know, Jennifer,” he said, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should do something else tonight.”
A panicky feeling gripped my chest. Was Nathan backing out of the date?
“Umm, what do you mean?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Well,” he continued, “I think that movie is just going to be watching hours of battles. Could we do something else instead?”
The panicky feeling left as I realized he was right. The movie, even though it was popular and didn’t have a bad rating, did have a lot of violence in it.
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “You got it.”
I called Tara, and we decided to have a board game night instead. It ended up being much more fun and social than staring at the TV for a couple of hours.
I feel so grateful that Nathan was willing to tell me how he really felt about the movie. His high standards were a great example to me and pushed my standards even higher. Since then, I’ve avoided a lot of other movies that, when I stop and think about it, aren’t very uplifting or fun, even if the rating isn’t that bad or if they’re really popular. I also never felt offended that Nathan didn’t like our original activity. That has given me the strength to speak up in situations when my standards are at stake. Nathan didn’t offend anyone by being honest about his feelings, and so I learned that, even if some people do take offense, I shouldn’t worry about standing up for my values either.

It all started when my sister Grace and I were spending the day with Uncle Harry and Aunt Jane on their farm. Aunt Jane was a terrific cook, and I always looked forward to eating my fill of her good cooking.
My sister and I would do small chores around the place, and on that particular day we were helping Aunt Jane clean out the turkey coop. She and Uncle Harry usually raised about sixty turkeys each year for the market.
I was only five, and Grace seven, so we naturally had a lot of questions about how turkeys were raised. Aunt Jane was patient with our questions, and she showed us a turkey egg and explained that the mother turkey sat on the eggs for about twenty-five days before the baby turkeys hatched.
When we got ready to go home that evening, with full stomachs and smiling faces, Aunt Jane gave us two turkey eggs. She told us that if we put them under a setting hen, we would soon have two little turkeys of our own to raise.
Papa put the eggs under an old setting hen when we got home, and we sat back, hoping that the baby turkeys would soon appear. Twenty-five days seemed like a lifetime to us, and every morning we’d lift the old hen to see if our baby turkeys were there. By the end of three weeks we were sure that the eggs had gotten cold and weren’t going to hatch.
On the morning of the twenty-sixth day, as we entered the chicken coop, the old mother hen was down on the floor, scratching in the straw. Right behind her were two balls of fluff, chirping and looking bewildered! As the days passed and the young birds lost their fuzz and started sprouting feathers, I noticed the mother hen looking at them quizzically, as if to say, “I never had any babies that looked like you two before.”
The baby turkeys were hatched in mid-April, and by the end of May, you could tell that one was a tom and the other a hen. We named them Tom and Alice.
We had an old doghouse that wasn’t being used, so Grace and I cleaned it out, placed fresh straw on the floor, and moved the old hen and two poults into it. Tom grew rapidly, but Alice hardly grew at all. Papa told us that turkeys were hard to raise and caught many diseases and that they were the dumbest birds there were. He’d heard it said that sometimes they’d tip their heads back in a rainstorm, open their mouths, and drown themselves. I don’t know if that’s what happened to Alice or not, but one morning after a hard rain we found her dead in the mud.
When Tom was about three months old, he chased the old hen out of the doghouse and took it over for himself. He wouldn’t associate with our flock of chickens, but went off by himself to feed. He liked to ramble in the woods and scratch around the rotted logs for grubs. There were still some chestnuts that the blight had missed that year, and Tom ate his fill of them. He grew into a magnificent bird with a long wattle, and he strutted around importantly.
Papa kept telling us that we would have Tom for Thanksgiving dinner, but we never fully realized just what he meant until the first of November, when Mom told Papa to pen Tom up and feed him nothing but corn so that he’d be nice and plump for butchering the day before Thanksgiving. This really upset my sister and me, and we went around with long sad faces, thinking of Tom’s fate. Papa explained to us that turkeys were raised for people to eat and that next year we would raise a whole bunch of them. But this explanation didn’t make us feel any better.
One sunny afternoon Grace and I sat under Tom’s favorite chestnut tree, making plans on how to save Tom from the dinner table. Suddenly Grace snapped her fingers and said, “What if Tom wasn’t here the day before Thanksgiving?”
I said, “What do you mean?”
Grace replied, “You know that small cave back in the woods that we play in? Why don’t we hide Tom there till after Thanksgiving?”
So that’s what we did. We prepared for Tom’s abduction by rolling up a piece of chicken wire to put over the mouth of the cave and filling a sack with corn for Tom’s feed. There was a small stream of water running through the cave, so we didn’t have to worry about him getting thirsty. Late the next afternoon, when Tom was feeding in the woods, we herded him to the cave.
We put an ample supply of corn and some chestnuts in the cave with Tom, then secured the chicken wire across the front and piled brush over it so that anyone passing by would have a hard time even seeing the cave. Nobody missed Tom till the next evening, when Mom asked if anybody had seen him. Finally she and Papa came to the conclusion that Tom must have wandered too far into the woods and that a fox probably got him.
Every day after that, Grace and I would tell Mom that we were going out to look for Tom; then we’d head for the cave to feed him and talk to him and pet him for a while.
A couple days before Thanksgiving there was a big snowstorm, and Grace and I worried about how Tom would manage without us feeding him each day. The storm continued, and it was cold and windy into December. On the first warm day, Grace and I hurried to the cave with some corn for Tom. When we got there, we discovered that the brush had blown away, the chicken wire had been pushed aside, and Tom was missing.
I started to cry. “A mean old fox has found Tom and eaten him.”
Grace said, “No, he broke out himself. See how the wire is pushed out from the inside?”
We decided that Tom had become so hungry that he went hunting for food and had probably joined a flock of wild turkeys and was all right. When we returned to the house, Mom told us to wash up for dinner. When we told her that we weren’t hungry, she said, “All right, kids, what’s troubling you so much that you don’t want to eat?”
Tears started running down our faces, and we told her the whole story.
Papa laughed and was proud of our ingenuity. He tried to ease our minds by agreeing with us that Tom had, indeed, probably joined a flock of wild turkeys and would probably make it through the winter.
The cold winter months passed, and we had all but forgotten Tom. Then one day in early April, when everything had turned green once more, Mom was in the yard getting her flower beds ready to plant. As she straightened up to rest her back, she looked out toward the woods. “Come quick!” she called.
We all ran outside and looked where Mom was pointing. There was Tom! And with him was a fine-looking wild turkey hen. You could tell that Tom had taken her for his bride by the way he was strutting around her and displaying his fan-shaped tail feathers.
Grace and I yelled, “Tom! Tom! You’ve come home!”
Tom looked at us, then put his head next to the hen as if he was telling her to follow him and let him do the talking. With the hen behind him, Tom headed straight for his old home in the doghouse. The hen waited outside while Tom went in and scratched out all the old, wet straw. Grace and I quickly ran to the barn and brought back fresh straw for the honeymoon cottage. After we’d spread the straw in the doghouse, Tom stepped aside to let his bride enter first.
To make a long story short, Tom and his mate raised twelve young turkeys that year, and dozens more in the next five years.
One day when Tom didn’t come back from the woods, we went looking for him. We found him dead under his favorite chestnut tree. He had died of old age. Grace and I buried him by the side of the cave where we had hidden him so long before.

After Joseph Smith had completed translating the Book of Mormon, he still had to find a publisher. This was not easy. The complexity of this lengthy manuscript and the cost of printing and binding thousands of copies were intimidating. Joseph first approached E. B. Grandin, a Palmyra printer, who refused. He then sought another printer in Palmyra, who also turned him down. He traveled to Rochester, 25 miles (40 km) away, and approached the most prominent publisher in western New York, who also turned him down. Another Rochester publisher was willing, but circumstances made this alternative unacceptable.

Weeks had passed, and Joseph must have been bewildered at the opposition to accomplishing his divine mandate. The Lord did not make it easy, but He did make it possible. Joseph’s fifth attempt, a second approach to the Palmyra publisher Grandin, was successful.

Elder James E. Talmage, who authored Jesus the Christ, stated:
“I was called and ordained one Sunday morning, … and that afternoon was placed as a sentinel at the door of the house in which the Saints had met for worship. As soon as I had been ordained, a feeling came to me such as I have never been able to fully describe. It seemed scarcely possible, that I, a little boy, could be so honored of God as to be called to the priesthood. I had read of the sons of Aaron and Levi who were chosen for the sacred labors of the Lesser Priesthood, but that I should be called to do part of the service that had been required of them was more than my little mind could grasp. I was both frightened and happy. Then, when I was placed on duty at the door, I forgot that I was but [a] … lad; I felt strong in the thought that I belonged to the Lord, and that he would assist me in whatever was required of me. I could not resist the conviction that other sentinels, stronger by far than I, stood by me though invisible to human eyes.
“The effect of my ordination to the deaconship entered into all the affairs of my boyish life. I am afraid that sometimes I forgot what I was, but I have ever been thankful that ofttimes I did remember, and the recollection always served to make me better. When at play on the school grounds, and perhaps tempted to take unfair advantage in the game, when in the midst of a dispute with a playmate, I would remember, and the thought would be as effective as though spoken aloud—‘I am a deacon; and it is not right that a deacon should act in this way.’ On examination days, when it seemed easy for me to copy some other boys’ work or to ‘crib’ from the book, I would remember again,—‘I am a deacon, and must be honest and true.’ When I saw other boys cheating in play or in school, I would say in my mind, ‘It would be more wicked for me to do that than it is for them because I am a deacon’” (Incidents from the Lives of Our Church Leaders: Course of Studyfor the Quorums of the Priesthood: Deacons, 1914, pp. 135–36).

While packing to attend Especially for Youth at a local college campus, I felt as though I should bring an extra copy of the Book of Mormon to pass out. Thinking only members of the Church would be there, I didn’t understand why I would have such a prompting, but I followed it anyway and packed the book.
During several mealtimes, I happened to sit by some girls attending a jazz band camp that was on campus that week. They had a lot of questions about the Church, and I felt the Holy Spirit guide me on what to say. Much of my time was spent teaching instead of eating. I offered the girls the Book of Mormon that I had felt prompted to bring. One accepted it. Then I knew why the Lord had prompted me to bring it.
Be sure to listen to the promptings of the Holy Spirit and “trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding” (Prov. 3:5).