Gospel Story Finder

I was just a young child when my father died of pneumonia. My 14-year-old brother died just a few days later from an unrelated illness. It was the early 1930s, the middle of the Great Depression in the United States. Jobs were scarce and so was money. My mother, a nurse, struggled to provide a living for the five remaining children. It wasn’t an easy life for any of us, and I often wondered how it would all work out.
But one thing happened during those tough times that I remember as well as if it had happened yesterday, something that made me look forward with courage and hope.
About a year after my father’s passing, his cousin came to visit our home. Israel Bennion came, not just on a social call, but as the stake patriarch. Each of us children, scrubbed clean and dressed like we were going to church, waited in turn to have this dignified man place his hands on our heads and give us our patriarchal blessings.
I was only seven, not old enough to understand the significance of all that was going on. (Today, the Church advises you to wait until you’re older to get your patriarchal blessing.) But I felt a great reverence, the same sort of feeling I felt during fast and testimony meetings. I remembered his instructions, although they were brief, that my blessing should be a guide to me, something I could use to chart my course through life.
Although I was young, I was impressed by the statements Brother Bennion made as he gave me my blessing. He told me that the Spirit of the Lord would be with me as I was growing up, that the gospel would be in my heart, that I would love the work of the Lord, and that the Lord would bless me.
He spoke of the future, that I would someday be a judge in Israel, that I would have children, that I would have a strong body and a sound mind.
But most of all, he stirred something in me. He helped me to begin to realize how literally I was a son of God. The Lord knew who I was and what I was doing. If I lived the right way, the Lord would help me.
My patriarchal blessing is only 263 words long. But it has always made a deep impression on me. As I have read and reflected upon it through the years, that impression has never diminished.

Years later, our family had grown to five children, including our youngest, Spencer.
Once, when Spencer was six years old, my wife and I went away for just a few days and left the children with a babysitter. When we returned home, I sat down with Spencer and asked him how everything had gone while we were away.
He told me that he’d had a hard time sleeping. When I asked why he didn’t sleep well, he thought about it and said he did not know.
Later that evening our family began our nightly routine of reading the Book of Mormon together.
Suddenly Spencer exclaimed, “That’s it!” I asked what he was talking about. “That’s why I couldn’t sleep very well at night.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” I asked.
“We didn’t read the scriptures at night while you were gone, and I like how the scriptures make me feel.”
Spencer had learned that reading the scriptures every day brings us the comfort, peace, and guidance of the Holy Ghost.

On an afternoon in April 1989, Pablito, one of the many children who live in my apartment complex, came running to me for help. He had been robbed and mistreated by three thirteen-year-old boys, he said, and he wanted me to help him recover his watch and chain that they had taken. When I walked up to the boys, they did not run away as they normally did. I asked them to return Pablito’s watch and chain. They ignored me. I then searched them, but I didn’t find anything. They were upset because I had searched them, and as they left the complex, they insulted and threatened me. But I didn’t take their threats seriously.
Two days later, some friends of mine told me that several young men had been looking for me.
The next Monday, a group of about twenty-five young men came toward me. I could not imagine what was happening until one of them lunged forward and punched me in the nose. I tried to escape, but it was too late. It was impossible to get away from them. At first they hit me all over, but then they started to slash me with broken bottles. Suddenly I felt something cold in my left side. One of them had knifed me close to the ribs.
The attack ended, and the gang ran away as two police cars arrived. A friend helped me up, but because I had lost a great deal of blood, I was very weak and kept losing consciousness. In addition to the knife wound, I had gashes on my head and thigh, and my face was badly bruised and swollen.
I was taken in one of the police cars to a local hospital. Although the doctors there were able to stitch my wounds, they had to send me to a larger hospital for X rays to check for any internal damage.
After examining the X rays, the doctor said I needed emergency surgery so he could properly assess and treat possible damage to my internal organs.
While I was waiting to go into surgery, my father asked for a few minutes with me. The doctor told him to be brief. Then my father and another priesthood holder placed their hands on my head and gave me a blessing.
After I had been in the operating room for a while, the doctor came out and told my father, “The knife wound in your son’s side is very deep, but the blade did not touch any vital organs. I only had to clean out the wound. I don’t know what you did when you placed your hands on his head, but whatever it was, it worked.”
I was in the hospital for four days and then in recovery for three months—delaying my anticipated mission call. I quickly regained the blood I had lost, my wounds healed, and soon I could stand up and walk.
I know it was because of the power of the priesthood and faith in Jesus Christ that I am alive today. I know the Lord wanted me to serve where I am now, in the Venezuela Maracaibo Mission. I am grateful that he spared my life so I can work in his vineyard.

One day I went to the beach with my brother and my mom. When our mom sat down to rest for a minute, she told us to wait for her, but my brother and I kept walking. Suddenly, we realized we were lost. We went back to where Mom had been, but we could not find her. I started to cry, and some people tried to help us. Finally our aunt found us.
While we were lost, I said a prayer. Our dad taught us that if we do not know what to do, we can say a prayer. I said one, very quietly, and then we were found. I learned that we should always obey our parents. And I know Heavenly Father hears us when we pray.

For some, there will come the temptation to dishonor a personal standard of honesty. In a business law class at the university I attended, I remember that one particular classmate never prepared for the class discussions. I thought to myself, “How is he going to pass the final examination?”

I discovered the answer when he came to the classroom for the final exam on a winter’s day wearing on his bare feet only a pair of sandals. I was surprised and watched him as the class began. All of our books had been placed upon the floor, as per the instruction. He slipped the sandals from his feet; and then, with toes that he had trained and had prepared with glycerin, he skillfully turned the pages of one of the books which he had placed on the floor, thereby viewing the answers to the examination questions.

He received one of the highest grades in that course on business law. But the day of reckoning came. Later, as he prepared to take his comprehensive exam, for the first time the dean of his particular discipline said, “This year I will depart from tradition and will conduct an oral, rather than a written, test.” Our favorite trained-toe expert found that he had his foot in his mouth on that occasion and failed the exam.

It was many years before I could conscientiously feel gratitude to my father for some of the lessons he taught me. I still remember the summer day when a group of us young people living in Spring Coulee had planned to meet our friends in Cardston for a picnic. My heart was set on it; it seemed most desirable. Just before it was time to leave, Father said, “Hugh, I want you to go bring in the cows from the east slope.” That was several miles away, and obviously I could not attend the party and obey my father. Although I was inwardly angry and resentful, I knew what I had to do. As I rode out toward the east slope I philosophically confided to my horse, “Sometimes the bitter cup is our portion when the sweeter cup may have been detrimental.” Similar lessons throughout my lifetime have served to emphasize that not only our earthly fathers but our Heavenly Father might reprove betimes with sharpness (see D&C 121:43) for our eternal welfare.

The would-be football player stood five feet one. Seen among the padded knights of the gridiron, the slender freshman looked like the answer to a “what’s wrong with this picture” puzzle. But when Dene Garner’s father Norman had taken his infant son in his arms 15 years earlier in Dewsbury, Yorkshire, England, he had blessed the child that he would always “walk tall,” and now Dene stood straight and strong. If there were only 105 pounds (including pads) on his whipcord frame, there was thunder in his left foot, and he knew it. He had often seen it launch soccer balls screaming into the net. Now he was here to prove that it could send a football arching away like an artillery shell.

The coach only had to watch him kick a few to realize that there were game-winning points stored up in that foot, and he didn’t waste any time starting to mine them. Since that decisive day, Dene Garner, 17, has been the first-string placekicker for the Alta High Hawks in Sandy, Utah.

This time, I would like to humbly add a comparison inspired from an area in the field of my professional preparation. I am referring to the world of civil engineering. From the beginning of my university studies, I dreamed of the day when I would complete the requirements to be qualified to take the class that would teach me how to design buildings and other structures that could then be considered “anti-seismic.”

The day finally arrived for my first class on this subject. The first words from the professor were the following: “You are surely anxious to begin this course and learn how to design anti-seismic structures,” to which many of us eagerly nodded our heads. Then the professor said, “I am sorry to tell you that this is not possible, for I cannot teach you how to design a building that is against, that is ‘anti-’ or that is opposed to, an earthquake. This makes no sense,” he said, “because earthquakes will occur anyway, whether we like it or not.”

Then he added, “What I can teach you is how to design structures that are seismic-resistant, structures that can resist the forces coming from an earthquake, so that the structure remains standing without suffering any serious damage and can then continue offering the service for which it had been conceived.”

Although more than 40 years have passed since that first class in seismic-resistant engineering, I perfectly remember the moment when I began to acquire a deeper, more complete understanding of the vital importance that this concept would be present in the structures that I would design in my future professional life. Not only that, but even more important—that it would be permanently present in the edification of my own life and in those over whom I might exercise a positive influence.

A number of years ago I attended a branch conference that taught me a lesson I will never forget. The branch president and the first counselor had spoken. Now it was the second counselor’s turn. I glanced at him as he moved, with obvious self-consciousness, to the pulpit.
As he looked down at the congregation I let my eyes follow his. Two or three of the brethren had their eyes closed, apparently in sleep, and several mothers were unsuccessfully trying to quiet their restless children. Only the mission president, who had chosen to sit with the congregation, was looking directly and attentively at the speaker, with an expression of interest and anticipation.
“My brethren and sisters,” confessed the second counselor, blushing, “speaking in Church is very difficult for me.” He paused awkwardly. “I’m doing it today because the president has asked me to say something. I think this is the second talk I have ever given in my life, and since I don’t feel too strong in explaining gospel doctrine, I have copied down a talk from a book we have at home.”
His powerful, calloused hands fumbled in his suit coat pocket. Heavy drops of perspiration suddenly began to bead his brow; the talk was not there. Nor was it in any of the other pockets. I felt sorry for him.
“Bear your testimony.” I thought, hoping he would somehow get my message, but for him it was apparently either the copied talk or nothing. Not finding it in his pockets, he stepped from the pulpit and walked down the aisle toward the coats that were hanging at the rear of the hall.
For one moment I thought he was simply going to put on his coat and leave, but it was his talk he was after. It was there in a pocket of his overcoat. Slowly he retraced his steps up the aisle, carefully unfolding the handwritten pages as he came. Standing once more at the pulpit, he began to read nervously and with obvious embarrassment, sometimes correcting his mistakes, sometimes not.
I was uncomfortable with him, and I was uncomfortable for him. But mostly I was aware of his inadequacy. And yet, the Spirit was about to teach me a great truth.
It began with a kind of pricking inside myself that seemed to translate itself into a small voice, and for the next few minutes I carried on a dialogue with myself.
“You could certainly do a lot better,” I heard my “other self” say.
I squirmed uncomfortably but conceded that I probably could.
“If you had a chance you could certainly teach this man something,” persisted the voice. “You have a doctor’s degree from the university, you are a seventy, the district mission president …”
This voice was too frank. I looked at the audience. Most, out of politeness and embarrassment, weren’t looking at the speaker. Only the mission president was still looking intently and respectfully at him.
“It’s ironic!” the “other” continued. “The good speaker is sitting here and the poor one is up there at the pulpit.”
The discussion was becoming unbearable. I tried shutting the voice out by desperately trying to follow the talk, but the awkwardness and mistakes made it difficult.
“What are you going to learn from him?” asked the little voice, determined to keep needling me.
“I don’t know,” I answered impatiently, “but chances are I can learn something if I listen.”
“You mean you haven’t been listening?”
“No, I’ve been involved in this silly discussion, for one thing!”
“So you’ve learned nothing from him so far?”
“No.”
“And since he started to speak you haven’t contributed anything to the spirit of this meeting?”
“No …”
“Do you think this speaker needs help?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to help him?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then do it,” said the voice. “Listen, and contribute …”
At that point I stopped the dialogue. Considerably disturbed by this silent discussion with myself, I closed my eyes and prayed earnestly to my Father in Heaven, acknowledging that I was the one who needed help, and pleading with him to let me contribute to the spirit of the meeting. “Help me,” I asked, “to listen as I ought to listen.”
Then I raised my head, looked at the speaker, and concentrated every effort to do as much as I could to see that my prayer was answered.
In the remaining few minutes of the man’s talk an unusual thing happened. For ten years one problem had bothered me, a question of doctrine. I ought to have known the answer: my experience in the Church and my study of the scriptures should have given it to me. It wasn’t anything to shake my faith or undermine my testimony, but it had eluded me for ten years. I heard my answer that day. I had often sat in conferences within the sound of a prophet’s voice, but perhaps I had never really listened until that day when the answer came to me from the second counselor. He read it falteringly, unsure of himself, but the message burned itself into my soul as if it had been etched there with fire.
I am now convinced that he taught me by the Spirit. But I am equally convinced that I would not have benefited from his talk had I not made an effort to listen by the Spirit. Above and beyond receiving the answer to the question that had bothered me for ten years, I learned that the call to listen is every bit as important as the call to speak or teach. Jesus himself taught in his native Nazareth; but hearing they heard not, and it profited them nothing.

Grandpa had a great desire to serve, and no matter what the job, he was dedicated to it. He served as stake clerk for many years. When age made the shaking of his hand so severe that it became difficult to write, the stake president asked him if he would like to be released. Without hesitation and with a smile, Grandpa replied, “You know, President, it’s not writing I have a problem with. It’s fishing. Whenever I go fishing my hand gets to shaking so badly that I can’t tell if I’ve got a fish on the line or if it’s just me.” Grandpa continued to serve as stake clerk almost until his death.

Nearly 200 years ago, the American short story “Rip Van Winkle” became an instant classic. The main character, Rip, is an unambitious man who is very good at avoiding two things: work and his wife.
One day, while wandering in the mountains with his dog, he discovers a group of strangely dressed men drinking and playing games. After accepting some of their liquor, Rip becomes drowsy and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens his eyes again, he is surprised to find that his dog is gone, his rifle has rusted, and he now has a long beard.
Rip makes his way back to his village only to discover that everything has changed. His wife has died, his friends are gone, and the portrait of King George III in the tavern has been replaced by a portrait of someone he does not recognize—by General George Washington.
Rip Van Winkle had been sleeping for 20 years! And in the process, he had missed one of the most exciting periods in the history of his country—he had slept through the American Revolution.

But think of the day when you must know what God would say and what He would do. It has already come for us all—wherever you are in your calling in the priesthood. I grew up in the mission field in the eastern United States during World War II. The members of the Church lived far apart, and there was strict gas rationing. I was the only deacon in the branch. The members gave their fast-offering envelopes to the branch president when they came to fast and testimony meeting in our home.

When I was 13 years old, we moved to Utah to live in a large ward. I remember my first assignment to walk to homes to collect fast offerings. I looked at the name on one of the envelopes I was given and noticed the last name was the same as one of the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon. So I knocked on the door with confidence. The man opened the door, looked at me, scowled, and then barked at me to go away. I went away with my head down.

That was nearly 70 years ago, but I still remember the feeling I had that day on the doorstep that there was something I was supposed to have said or done. If only I had prayed in faith as I went out that day, I might have been inspired to stand a moment longer on that doorstep, smile, and say something like: “It is good to meet you. Thank you for what you and your family have given in the past. I look forward to seeing you next month.”

Had I said and done that, he might have been even more irritated—and even offended. But I know now how I might have felt. Rather than feeling sadness or failure as I walked away, I might have felt the soft commendation in my mind and heart: “Well done.”

A year ago at Flagstaff, Arizona, a special banquet for Eagle Scouts was held. There were 1,150 Eagle Scouts. John Warnick, the director of Mormon Relationships, invited all those who would commit to go on a mission to stand. All 1,150 stood.
Later, one of the young men, a Catholic boy, went to the bishop and said, “I am not a Mormon, and I committed to go on a mission. What do I need to do?”
The bishop said, “Let’s talk to your parents.” During the visit with the family, it was decided that the family should hear the discussions. The family, including the Eagle Scout, are all members of the Church now.

Renee was born in Haiti, a small country on an island in the Caribbean Sea. When she was eight years old, she and her mother moved to Utah to be closer to Renee’s aunts, uncles, and cousins.
After the move, Renee’s family and friends told her and her mother about the gospel. Soon the missionaries started teaching them.
At first, Renee wasn’t sure that she wanted to be baptized. Then one day the missionaries read something special from the Book of Mormon—words of the prophet Nephi. He said that baptism is like a gate to a path that leads to Heavenly Father. He also talked about the blessings of the gift of the Holy Ghost that come after baptism.
Renee felt a warm, happy feeling in her heart. She knew that she wanted to return to Heavenly Father. And she wanted the gift of the Holy Ghost. She thought that the Holy Ghost would be a good friend and companion to help her throughout her life. She and her mother were soon baptized.

Many years ago, I took my sons, Josh (6) and Jared (5), on a fishing excursion in the Tarawa lagoon. I had previously taken the boys on fishing trips to some beautiful lakes and creeks in Utah while attending BYU, but fishing in an ocean lagoon was a completely new experience for them. With a narrow canoe I had inherited from my father, I sat Jared in front of me and Josh behind my back. Then, with glittering moonlight on the horizon, we paddled out into a deeper part of the lagoon. The boys were excited to be with their father on an outrigger canoe.

While watching the boys enjoy the experience, I noticed it was late in the evening, and I should head home before they got tired and sleepy. As I was preparing to pull the anchor in, I heard a sudden splash behind me. I turned around and found Joshua had fallen off the canoe! I had made the mistake of not putting life jackets on us. Josh went straight down into the water.I dashed in after him without explaining to Jared what had happened. I caught Josh by the arm and was pulling him up to the surface when, to my horror, I saw another splash directly over my head. My four-year old son, Jared, also sunk into the water—what a terrifying moment.We’re all going die!” I thought.

Frantically, I grabbed Jared with my left arm and Josh was on the other, then joggled my legs as hard as I could to the surface. Struggling under these circumstances, my legs began to cramp, and I was about to sink with the boys in my arms. But like young Joseph Smith, who was seized upon by some powers and called upon God to deliver him from the power of his enemy4, I also called upon God to deliver us from the dooming power of the ocean.

Thankfully and miraculously, the Lord came to our rescue. My boys, who could barely swim at the time, started acting like extraordinary swimmers. They moved their arms and legs in such a fashion which pushed us to the surface so we could all catch our breath. All of this happened within seconds. But our struggle was not over yet. We discovered upon reaching the surface that our canoe had drifted a few meters away. With feeble legs and two boys in my arms, a few meters seemed to be an unbearable distance for us. Would we make it there? I cried. However, through constant effort and prayer, we finally reached our canoe, and with gratitude, we thanked God for saving our lives.

Some years ago I was traveling in the Rosario Argentina Mission up in the northern part of Argentina. As we were traveling along the road, we passed a large herd of cattle being moved. The herd was moving peaceably and without difficulty. The herd was quiet. There were no dogs. Out in front leading the herd were three gauchos on horseback, each about fifteen or twenty yards apart. These three horsemen were slumped forward in their saddles, completely relaxed, confident that the herd would follow them. At the rear of the herd was a single rider bringing up the rear. He, too, was slumped forward in his saddle as if he were sleeping. The whole herd moved peacefully, quietly, and was subdued. From that experience it seemed obvious to me that leadership is about three-fourths show-the-way and about one-fourth follow-up.

As missionaries we have only so much spare time during our days, so I am gladly foregoing my dinner this evening to have enough time to write and thank you for the December New Era. Many times a missionary tends to feel that he is left out in right field while all the excitement and activities go on without him, even though he understands his special calling and is working to magnify it. These times often come during special family events, the changing of the seasons, and especially during the winter holidays such as Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve. With Christmas coming I found myself in such a state. When I received the December New Era and glanced through it, I felt more left out than even at first. But then I read the articles “The Spirit of Christmas” by Elder Thomas S. Monson and “Give Yourself Away” by Laurie Sowby. These special articles truly brought a great uplifting surge of enthusiasm to my spirit. It was sort of like getting into a spiritual elevator. At once all those negative feelings left, and I realized that I could really participate in the spirit of Christmas by giving myself away more and giving to people the best gift of all, the gospel of Jesus Christ. After that things really started to happen. Each day brought a special Christmas spirit. We are now helping a wonderful family to prepare for baptism as one of their Christmas presents. This has turned out to be one of the most wonderful Christmases that I have ever experienced. I’m sure that you were inspired to put those two very special articles in the December issue.
Elder Julius C. Blackwelder, IICalifornia Oakland Mission

Because I love to teach, one night I cried in my closet because my companion and I walked the whole day without anyone’s receiving the Book of Mormon, after I had studied and prepared to contact people the night before. The appointment we had was also cancelled.
Sometimes people you meet can discourage you in the course of introducing the gospel to them, but when you trust the Lord, especially when our heart’s desire is to progress and serve Him, He shall prepare a way for you to accomplish what He wants you to do to save His children.3
When I came home from my mission, I began to study and to help others in my branch during the Sunday School lesson and and to help those preparing to go on a mission. My first calling after my mission was as the Sunday School president. I enjoyed this calling because I was able to study as I did when I was on my mission, applying the lessons to myself as I taught every Sunday.
I learned a lot from my branch members, and seeing them every Sunday smiling and looking good was my desire and my prayer to God, because I saw them as my responsibility, to minister and always remember them in my prayers as I was doing to my investigators on my mission. Honestly doing so, I came to realize that Heavenly Father has been with me every step of the way to magnify my calling as a Sunday School president.
Teaching others the gospel of Jesus Christ is an eternal gift from God, and it can only be understood when we show our commitment to assist God’s work and glory to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.4 My journey as a returned missionary has strengthened my testimony of serving and teaching others with joy. I have gained knowledge of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and I have grown in the confidence to teach the gospel with love and assurance from the Lord.
Teaching others provides a way to minister, to stand for truth and right, and to live a life as full of joy as our Heavenly Father wants for us. Because I love teaching, when I started my university education, I was called to be the elder’s quorum president in the Tamale Education Ridge Branch.
At school, the Lord blesses my efforts with good grades and better decisions to serve as an instrument in His hands. I enjoys the Lord’s infinite goodness always blowing towards me as I teach His gospel.
I came to know some the spiritual gifts I have when I had the desire to teach or share the knowledge I have of the restored gospel. Terryl and Fiona Givens once said, “God’s work is therefore first and foremost educative and constructive, not reparative. Life is pain but it is not punishment”5. This quote encouraged me to understand and to know the need for me to minister effectively to my less-active members and others when I returned from my mission because the restored gospel educates, constructs, and shapes humanity for good.
When it comes to the restored gospel, we should remember that we all have a role to play in someone’s life and with ministering we can achieve it.
I suppose that all returned missionaries regain their missionary energy to teach others the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and to feel the love and happiness from teaching after a mission. I know that love is why we are here on this earth and when we love to teach the gospel after our missionary work service, our Heavenly Father will ease our burdens as returned missionaries and replace them with a lot of blessings, more than we can comprehend because I am a witness of it.

The faith of the Korean Saints grew constantly but was often tested. Brother Chun Nak Seo, who after his baptism joined the army to fulfill his military duty, recalled some trying times: “During the three years of military service, my faith and testimony were tested. One day the company commander was drunk and brought a lot of liquor and pressed it on the company members. Because my colleagues knew that I was LDS, they always emptied the cup for me. But on that evening, the drunken commander was watching me carefully and commanded me to drink from the cup. I said that I didn’t drink alcohol, but he ordered me to do so. But I disobeyed again. He took out his pistol and aimed at me and ordered me to drink. Everyone was holding his breath and watching. I once again clearly said, ‘I do not drink alcohol, sir.’ I felt that moment was very long. He finally said, ‘I give up’ and put down the pistol. Everyone sighed with relief and came back to the barracks. The next morning, the company commander came to me and apologized for what he had done the previous night. Later he used to come to me to get advice on personal matters.”6
Brother Chun served as a full-time missionary in Korea and later as a bishop of the Alameda Ward in Maryland, USA.

Not long ago I went to school early on my bike as usual, because I am a crossing guard (skolepatrulje) at my school in Copenhagen, Denmark. We have to start at 7:45 A.M., and at 8:00 we go to our class. This particular day I took off my equipment in the basement when we finished and was the first to enter my classroom.
One of the boys from my class tried to block my way, and I fell. He fell on top of me, and my bike keys, which I usually carry on a chain around my neck, fell off.
Unfortunately, I didn’t notice that they came off. A girl from my class found the keys, took them, and put them in another girl’s bag. But she forgot to tell me. When the teacher came in, everybody forgot everything about the incident.
School ended at noon that day because my German teacher was ill. When I went to my bike, I found out my keys were not around my neck. I emptied my bag, but no keys. I tried to think when I could have lost my keys but didn’t remember anything. I felt sick, and it seemed as if my brain stopped.
I had to go back and ask one of the teachers to let me call my dad. He came and took me and my locked bike home. He wasn’t very happy that I had lost my keys.
When I went to bed that night, I was wondering if I would ever find my keys again. I was very worried, because if I didn’t find them, I would have to walk to school, and a new key was very expensive for me. Suddenly the thought came to me that I always could pray to Heavenly Father because He could help me and He knew where the keys were.
I got up, fell on my knees, and asked Him to help me find my keys.
The next day in school my math teacher asked me why I was so silent. I told him I had lost my bike keys.
Right then the girl who took the keys suddenly remembered that she had picked them up, so she asked the girl next to her to look in one of the small pockets in her bag. My keys were there.
I know to some people losing a set of keys may not seem very important. But to me it was very important, and I also think it was important to Heavenly Father. I know we can always ask Him for help when we need it.