Gospel Story Finder

One of my most insightful spiritual experiences occurred when I was thirteen or fourteen years old.
I grew up in Salt Lake City, Utah, and the Church was a large part of my life. One day the Aaronic Priesthood boys in our ward went to Welfare Square for a service project.
We were assigned to unload a large railcar full of lump coal. We were to climb up on the load and throw lumps of coal off to either side of the track.
At first, it was fun, a new adventure. It was fairly easy to toss the coal off.
However, as we worked our way down into the railcar, it became necessary to pick up the lumps, raise them over our heads, and throw them over the side. By then we were getting tired and very dirty. The lumps of coal seemed heavier and heavier. It became a difficult task.
I remember going home that night and taking a bath. I had coal dust all over me. It was in my throat and nose. I could taste it and smell it. I felt terrible and decided that I would avoid doing anything like that again.
A few weeks later my family celebrated the Thanksgiving holiday. Under my parents’ guidance, we had prepared little boxes of food for the widows in our neighborhood. My sister and I made popcorn balls and wrapped them in waxed paper. My mother made cookies. We also added fruit and some candies to the boxes. We took these gifts to the homes of five or six widows.
No lights were burning in the last home. We knocked and waited, but no one came to the door. Just as we were about to leave, we saw a light appear at the end of the long hall. Then we heard the footsteps of this elderly sister, who lived alone. She opened the door, greeted us, and invited us in.
As we walked down that long hallway, I felt the cold. There was no heat at all in the house except in the small room at the end of the hall, where she invited us to sit down. A fire was burning in the small fireplace there.
We presented the elderly sister with our gift, sang some Thanksgiving songs, then began to talk about the things for which we were grateful. When it was our hostess’s turn, she said, “One of the things I am grateful for is that you came tonight instead of last night. This afternoon I received a delivery of lump coal from Welfare Square, and so we are able to all sit here and enjoy this fire.” I realized that I had helped make the coal available to her.
That was an impressive experience for me. I sensed as never before the importance of the gospel principle of caring for others. I saw the earlier experience of unloading that coal in an entirely different light and with an entirely different spirit. That Thanksgiving experience has affected me the rest of my life.

When I was preparing to serve a mission, my bishop called me to teach the Sunbeams. I had never before learned to love others more than myself until I had served those children in such a simple assignment. With time and patience I learned how to keep those seven children in their seats and listening to a simple lesson.
One day I invited Mike* to come to church and visit my class. Mike was my age but had stopped attending church completely by the time he was 12. We had remained friends over the years as I had served as the deacons quorum president, the teachers quorum president, and first assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. He had been the topic of many fellowshipping discussions and was often part of my prayers. Once in a while Mike would accept my invitations to come to an activity. It always surprised me when he did, so I kept inviting him.
I don’t remember when I invited him to my Primary class, but one day he showed up. At that time, Mike had long, black hair and a beard.
“Class, I would like to introduce you to my friend Mike,” I said to begin my lesson. “He is visiting us today.”
Mike sat next to me in front. The children sat in a semicircle around us with their eyes fixed on Mike. They were much quieter than usual. I was about five or six minutes into the lesson when one little boy got up from his chair and walked across the room and stood directly in front of my friend. He paused for a moment and then climbed onto Mike’s lap. I watched the two of them as I continued with the lesson.
The boy stared into Mike’s face. Mike was quite uncomfortable but did not interrupt the lesson or turn the boy away. The other children watched the two of them for a few minutes.
Then one of the girls climbed off her seat and approached Mike. I was intently interested in seeing how Mike would react, so I did not ask the two children to return to their seats. The girl stood with her hand on Mike’s knee looking into his face.
Then it happened. The boy on Mike’s lap reached up with both hands and turned Mike’s face directly to his. I stopped my lesson to see what was about to unfold.
With the innocence of a child, he said to Mike, “Are you Jesus?”
The look on Mike’s face was total surprise. It seemed, as I glanced at the children’s faces, they all had the same question on their minds.
Mike looked at me as if to ask, Help, what do I say?
I stepped in. “No, this is not Jesus. This is His brother.”
Mike looked at me in shock.
Then without hesitation the boy on Mike’s lap reached up and wrapped his arms around Mike’s neck. “I can tell,” he said as he hugged Mike.
The rest of the children smiled and nodded in agreement as their question was answered. Mike blinked back tears in response to the love he felt from this small Sunbeam. The lesson went on, but that day the teacher who taught the most was a three-year-old child.
Mike spent more than a year getting ready to serve a full-time mission. It thrilled me to learn he left for the mission field a few months before I returned. When I think of those Sunbeams, I think of the scripture in Matthew 18:5: “And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.”

How can 125 seminary students in a newly created stake get to know each other fast? Spend a Super Saturday at a branch president’s holiday resort—and that’s just exactly what the young people of the Asheville North Carolina Stake did, at the invitation of Branch President Jim Cooper of the Cherokee Branch. The participants were excited about meeting more young Latter-day Saints. President Cooper turned over his new recreation complex to the young people, and they were soon swimming, playing handball, dancing, playing foosball, Ping-Pong, and electronic games, and enjoying the saunas and whirlpool. After an enjoyable meal of Navajo tacos (fry-bread topped with chili, lettuce, tomatoes, and a mound of grated cheese) and a game of basketball, the group went to the Cherokee Branch chapel for a lesson on parent-youth relationships, a scripture chase, and role-playing activities. It was a great Saturday, and everyone made a lot of new friends!

Once there were two men—one whose name was Ef and the other whose name was Ez. This incident occurred some years ago in the back country where education was at a premium. Ef had a slate and a piece of chalk, and he was sitting under a tree in the shade on a warm day. As he was writing on this slate with his chalk, Ez sauntered up to him. Ef turned and said, “Look, Ez, I can write.” Ez was impressed. He replied, “That’s great. What does it say?” Ef answered, “I don’t know; I haven’t learned to read yet.”

May 15
Dear Sarah,
This is it! I’m really excited. Do you remember Mr. and Mrs. Trujillo over on Cottonwood Lane? I haven’t seen them at church, so I guess they’re not members. But remember how Mr. Trujillo always had that enormous garden in the field next to his house? He sells his vegetables at the farmer’s market.
Well, I went by there and saw him working and stopped and talked to him. He said he was having some trouble with his arthritis and couldn’t handle such a big garden this year. I told him I was looking for a way to earn money, and he said I could have some of the space there and raise some vegetables to sell. In return, I’ll help him irrigate and things like that. I should have some money for your mission by August.
Lindsay’s pretty scared about her operation, but if it’ll mean she can eat regular food, it’ll be worth it.
I loved your letter. Do you only teach Spanish-speaking people?
Love,Angela the Gardener

Examples of the enabling power are not found only in the scriptures. Daniel W. Jones was born in 1830 in Missouri, and he joined the Church in California in 1851. In 1856 he participated in the rescue of handcart companies that were stranded in Wyoming by severe snowstorms. After the rescue party had found the suffering Saints, provided what immediate comfort they could, and made arrangements for the sick and the feeble to be transported to Salt Lake City, Daniel and several other young men volunteered to remain with and safeguard the company’s possessions. The food and supplies left with Daniel and his colleagues were meager and rapidly expended. The following quote from Daniel Jones’s personal journal describes the events that followed.
“Game soon became so scarce that we could kill nothing. We ate all the poor meat; one would get hungry eating it. Finally that was all gone, nothing now but hides were left. We made a trial of them. A lot was cooked and eaten without any seasoning and it made the whole company sick. …
“Things looked dark, for nothing remained but the poor raw hides taken from starved cattle. We asked the Lord to direct us what to do. The brethren did not murmur, but felt to trust in God. … Finally I was impressed how to fix the stuff and gave the company advice, telling them how to cook it; for them to scorch and scrape the hair off; this had a tendency to kill and purify the bad taste that scalding gave it. After scraping, boil one hour in plenty of water, throwing the water away which had extracted all the glue, then wash and scrape the hide thoroughly, washing in cold water, then boil to a jelly and let it get cold, and then eat with a little sugar sprinkled on it. This was considerable trouble, but we had little else to do and it was better than starving.
“We asked the Lord to bless our stomachs and adapt them to this food. … On eating now all seemed to relish the feast. We were three days without eating before this second attempt was made. We enjoyed this sumptuous fare for about six weeks.”3
In those circumstances I probably would have prayed for something else to eat: “Heavenly Father, please send me a quail or a buffalo.” It likely would not have occurred to me to pray that my stomach would be strengthened and adapted to the food we had. What did Daniel W. Jones know? He knew about the enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. He did not pray that his circumstances would be changed. He prayed that he would be strengthened to deal with his circumstances. Just as Alma and his people, Amulek, and Nephi were strengthened, Daniel W. Jones had the spiritual insight to know what to ask for in that prayer.

“I fared much better at fast-pitch softball. My most memorable experience in softball was a thirteen-inning game I pitched in Salt Lake City on a hot Memorial Day. The game was scheduled for just seven innings, but the tied score could not be broken. In the last of the thirteenth, with two men out and a runner on third, the batter hit a high pop fly to left field. The catch was certain, I thought. And yet the ball fell through the hands of the left fielder. For thirty-eight years I have teased my friend who dropped the ball. I have promised myself I will never do so again. I’m not even going to mention his name. After all, he, too, remembers. It was only a game.”1

The first is illustrated by an experience of several months ago. A stake president and I took the opportunity to visit a young woman in her home near Atlanta, Georgia. She was twenty-nine years old; her husband had been killed in a car accident; she was living in a modest apartment with her two young children. I suppose we expected to find her upset and discouraged at having received a “bump” not of her own making. On the contrary, she was cheerful; she was calm; she was very gracious. She thanked us for coming and then said, as nearly as I can recall: “Brethren, I want you to know I believe in the plan of redemption. I am grateful to my Savior for the promise of a glorious resurrection with my husband. I am grateful for His redeeming sacrifice.” Then, putting her arms around her two children, she said, “Our faith in Jesus Christ will see us through.”

We came expecting to comfort and strengthen, and we left humbled, buoyed, and blessed by her wonderful expression of faith.

On 24 October 1986, Sage’s father, Michael Volkman, decided to take his two children camping. [Only six days earlier, Michael, his wife Denise, and their son, Avery, had been baptized into the Church. Their five-year-old daughter, Sage—a bright, green-eyed child who loved soccer and was developing a talent for drawing—had been disappointed that she couldn’t be baptized, too; but she was content to know that one day she would be old enough.]
There was ice forming on Bluewater Lake that morning when Michael and eight-year-old Avery left Sage asleep in their camping trailer and went fishing. Michael regretted that Denise couldn’t be with them but she was a kindergarten teacher and hadn’t been able to find anyone to substitute for her at school.
As the early morning sky grew lighter, Michael walked back to the trailer to check on Sage. All seemed well. Five minutes after he rejoined Avery at the lake, dogs began to bark, and Avery turned to see smoke rising above their campsite 140 meters away. Michael’s heart pounded as he ran back to camp. The trailer was engulfed in flames. Inside, Sage was still in her sleeping bag.
Throwing open the trailer door, Michael was beaten back by smoke and flame. Taking a gulp of air, he ran into the trailer, gathering up handfuls of burning sleeping bags until he found Sage’s still body.
Ignoring the burns on his face and hands, he dragged Sage out of the trailer and immediately started artificial resuscitation. Almost three minutes passed. Sage remained lifeless. He continued pushing on her chest so hard he broke one of her ribs. Finally, he heard a little sound coming from her and saw her chest heave.
Avery, who had been praying desperately, suddenly remembered the containers of flammable propane gas stored at the side of the trailer. “Dad,” he yelled, “I think we’d better move!”
Michael nodded and painfully pulled Sage farther from the trailer. Seconds later the propane containers exploded.
Then followed a confusion of events: The twenty-minute race against death with another fisherman who drove Michael and the two children over a rough, unpaved road to a forest ranger station where they radioed for help; the ambulance trip to Grants, New Mexico, from where Sage was flown to the University of New Mexico’s burn unit; then Michael’s own 110-kilometer ride with Avery to Albuquerque, New Mexico, in an ambulance he could neither see nor touch because his eyes and hands were wrapped in bandages.
When Sage was first wheeled into the burn unit, the medical staff had little hope that she would survive the night. “They gave her a ten percent chance of living,” Michael remembers. She had third- and fourth-degree burns on her face, arms, chest, and legs. Her nose and one ear had been melted off. Her fingers were so charred that they would have to be amputated. She lost thirty-five percent of her eyelids. One lung had collapsed, and another was barely functioning; a liter of soot would be extracted from them.
She was also in a coma.

When the bishopric handed me a list of young single adults for the ward, I was flabbergasted.
I had graduated from high school a year early, and as soon as I did, I was called as the young single adult Relief Society representative in my ward. Not even 18 years old, I was excited but somewhat daunted.
On Sundays, a handful of young single adults would drift into our Sunday School lesson. Of varying ages and interests, they had very little to do with each other outside of church. My aim, together with the priesthood representative and our YSA advisory couple, was to strengthen and enlarge our group. We wanted the YSAs to become friends who supported and strengthened each other in their efforts to live the gospel.
And then I received the list. Page after page of names stared back at me; the percentage of active YSAs seemed tiny. I realized that this record was made up of real people who were working, studying, and struggling through the decisions inherent to young adulthood. They needed the gospel in their lives. Not only that: we needed them, too.
I set a goal to contact a certain number of people every month and started to work my way down the list. Every name was foreign to me; so, where better to start than at the top? I would report my progress at ward council each month. Phone numbers were incorrect; numbers would ring eternally; people would politely tell me they weren’t interested. My ‘progress’ consisted of informing the clerk that someone had left the ward or that we needed to track down new contact details.
One day, as the bishop listened to my report, he suddenly asked: “Have you contacted Karen?” (Name has been changed.) Surprised, I said no; Karen was quite a way down the list, and I hadn’t got that far. “I think you should call her,” he said. I noted her name along with a few others.
The month flew by, and the Saturday before the next meeting I looked at my notes and realized I hadn’t yet called Karen. No doubt it would be another failed attempt, but the bishop would want to know.
I dialed the number and jumped when she answered. Nervously, I introduced myself.
“Hi!” she said. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you!” Karen explained she had recently looked up the number of the local chapel in the telephone book and tried to phone a few times. Each time she called it just rang. I knew that feeling.
We chatted easily for a few minutes, and then I invited her to church the next day.
“Sure!” she said. “See you then!” I almost leapt with excitement!
The following morning, I was filled with trepidation. A large part of me expected Karen to get cold feet. But a few minutes before church, in walked a beautiful, smiling young woman with sparkling eyes. She greeted me with a hug. I couldn’t stop beaming.
Karen came to church every week after that. She became an active, contributing part of our young single adult group and a good friend. As we grew into a large, united group of friends, she helped to strengthen and lift others with her testimony.
All it took was the influence of the Spirit. And one—just one—phone call.

Soweto seminary students know the Lord helps them through the scriptures. Lucky Ndhiela knows his faith spared him a severe beating.
“One day our school teacher was very angry with our class,” says Lucky. “He said he had explained a science principle to us, and the other students said he had not. A still, small voice whispered in my ear, ‘You know it, Lucky—the teacher did teach us that.’
“So I raised my hand and said in front of the whole class, ‘You did teach us that.’ I felt so happy to say it.
“But the whole class shouted, ‘He did NOT!’ The teacher became very angry and started to give them all hidings, one by one. I sat near the back of the class, and while he was busy punishing the students in front, I bowed my head and began to pray.
“I remembered my scripture mastery, Proverbs 3:5–6, and said to myself, ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’ [Prov. 3:5–6]
“When the teacher came to my desk, his voice changed. His face changed. He said, ‘Lucky is praying to his God. I forgive him.’ He did not punish me, nor any others that day. That is how I know it is important to apply the scriptures in my life. My prayer was answered!”

It was a hot day. I was excited and a little nervous. Today was a big day for me and other members of the Royal Canadian Military Force. It was the day of the endurance test.
We’d heard a lot about this test. It was tough. Sixty-pound packs would be strapped on our backs; then we would have to run five miles without stopping! And that wasn’t all. Next, we would have to turn around and walk/run five more miles back to camp.
But I was in good shape. I had been a starter on the high school basketball team. I also enjoyed many other sports. I had grown up active and healthy. But the best thing that I had done to prepare for this big test was to obey the Word of Wisdom.
The officers conducting the test signaled the beginning of the run, and we were off. Several men dropped out before we had gone two miles. As I ran on, I saw many of my friends quit. Some even passed out. They all had to be taken back to camp in a truck. But I was determined to do my best. I was tired, but I ran on.
When I reached the five-mile mark, I was exhausted. Sweat dripped down my face and drenched my clothes. Then I had to turn around and head back to camp. Even though those of us remaining were allowed to walk occasionally, it was arduous!
I had always tried to do what was right. I tried to listen to and obey my parents and Primary teachers as I grew up. They taught me that smoking, drinking, and drugs would hurt my body, and I believed them. (See D&C 89.)
I know that the Lord blessed me with the health and strength to pass that test because I kept the Word of Wisdom. Obeying the Word of Wisdom—and all the Lord’s commandments—is important for everyone. If we are obedient, the Lord will bless us.

When I was a mission president in Central America some years ago, two of the elders brought a Catholic Benedictine monk into my office.

He had noticed the elevating nature of the Church due to an in-depth study he and others had been commissioned to do of 243 different churches. This study had been ordered by the Catholic church with honorable intent; they wished to know the similarities of the 243 churches to see the possibilities of more union and brotherhood.

After researching for over five years, they came to at least these two conclusions:
There were only two churches that had high moral values; one was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
There was only one church that followed all the prophetic utterances of old—in other words, accepted and followed all the Old and New Testament—that was the Mormons.

This monk accepted the challenge to study the Book of Mormon and prayed to have divine verification of its truthfulness. As a result, he accepted the Savior by being baptized into this, His church.

He is now an active teacher in a high priests quorum in Central America.

He saw by investigation the edifying, lifting influence of the Church and hearkened unto the voice of the Lord.

First, may I tell you about Arthur. He had blond, curly hair and a smile as big as all outdoors. He stood taller than any boy in the class. I suppose this is how, in 1940, as the great conflict which became World War II was overtaking much of Europe, Arthur was able to fool the recruiting officers and enlist in the navy at the tender age of 15. To Arthur and most of the boys, the war was a great adventure. I remember how striking he appeared in his navy uniform. How we wished we were older or at least taller so we too could enlist.
Youth is a very special time of life. As Longfellow wrote:
How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams
With its illusions, aspirations, dreams!
Book of Beginnings, Story without End,
Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!2
Arthur’s mother was so proud of the blue star which graced her living room window. It represented to every passerby that her son wore the uniform of his country and was actively serving. When I would pass the house, she often opened the door and invited me in to read the latest letter from Arthur. Her eyes would fill with tears; I would then be asked to read aloud. Arthur meant everything to his widowed mother.
I can still picture Mrs. Patton’s coarse hands as she would carefully replace the letter in its envelope. These were hardworking hands; Mrs. Patton was a cleaning woman for a downtown office building. Each day of her life except Sundays she could be seen walking along the sidewalk, pail and brush in hand, her gray hair pulled back into a tight bob, her shoulders weary from work and stooped with age.
In March 1944, with the war now raging, Arthur was transferred from the USS Dorsey, a destroyer, to the USS White Plains, an aircraft carrier. While at Saipan in the South Pacific, the ship was attacked. Arthur was one of those on board who was lost at sea.
The blue star was taken from its hallowed spot in the front window of the Patton home. It was replaced by one of gold, indicating that he whom the blue star represented had been killed in battle. A light went out in the life of Mrs. Patton. She groped in utter darkness and deep despair.
With a prayer in my heart, I approached the familiar walkway to the Patton home, wondering what words of comfort could come from the lips of a mere boy.
The door opened, and Mrs. Patton embraced me as she would her own son. Home became a chapel as a grief-stricken mother and a less-than-adequate boy knelt in prayer.
Arising from our knees, Mrs. Patton gazed into my eyes and spoke: “Tommy, I belong to no church, but you do. Tell me, will Arthur live again?” To the best of my ability, I testified to her that Arthur would indeed live again.

Once, at the Jordan River Temple, Elder Ashton was approached by a young man about to be married. “Do you know where you met me last?” the young man asked. “At the Utah State Prison. You spoke to the inmates at a Christmas gathering there.”
“Oh,” responded Elder Ashton, a little surprised. “What did I say to help you?”
“I don’t remember what you said,” the young man replied, “but afterwards you came down among us and shook my hand. When I realized that an Apostle of the Lord would shake the hand of a man like me, I knew I must be worth something.” This experience had marked the beginning of repentance and forgiveness for the young man.

It was the Christmas season of 1994. Nine-year-old Jaron and his six-year-old brother, Parker, were excited. They had entered a reading contest sponsored by a grocery store in their hometown. The two students who read the most books would each win a brand-new bicycle. All they had to do was have their parents and teachers sign for each book they read. Two bikes were to be awarded, one for the first-to-third-grade levels, and one for the fourth-to-sixth-grade levels.
Parker was especially excited because this was a way for him to earn a bike. He really wanted one. He was tired of watching his older brother ride around on the new purple ten-speed bike he had earned by working at a yard sale. Parker thought that it would be great to earn a bike of his own by reading books. So he started to read books as fast as he could. He read Curious George, Green Eggs and Ham, and Brown Bear, Brown Bear. But no matter how many books he read, someone in his grade level had read more.
Meanwhile, Jaron had not been all that enthusiastic about the contest. When he went to the grocery store and checked the big chart with all the readers listed and how many books each had read, however, he could see that his younger brother had little chance of winning the contest.
Touched with the true meaning of Christmas, the joy of giving, he decided to do for Parker what he could not do for himself. So Jaron put away his own bike and, library card in hand, went to work. He read and read. He read when he wanted to ride his bike. He read as much as eight hours a day. The thrill of perhaps having such a wonderful gift to give kept him going.
The day came when the final lists were to be turned in. Jaron’s mother took him to the store, and he turned in his list, then admired the prize-winners bikes on display.
The store manager watched him admire the shiny red twenty-inch bike. “I suppose that if you win the contest,” the manager said, “you’ll want the larger bike, won’t you?”
Jaron looked up at the man’s smiling face and said very seriously, “Oh, no sir. I would like one exactly this size.”
“But isn’t this bike too small for you?”
“No sir—I want to win it for my little brother.”
The man was surprised. He turned to Jaron’s mother and said, “This is the best Christmas story I’ve heard all year!”
Jaron’s mother hadn’t known that he had worked so hard for his little brother. She looked at Jaron with great pride and joy as they went home to await the contest results.
Finally the phone call came! By reading 280 books, Jaron had won! With his parents’ help, he hid the bicycle in his grandma’s basement until Christmas Eve. He could hardly wait to give Parker his gift!
On Christmas Eve, the whole family gathered at Grandma’s home for a special family home evening. Mother told the story of Heavenly Father’s gift to the world of His Son Jesus Christ. Then she told the story of another older brother’s love. Although it wasn’t the great sacrifice the Savior has made for each of us, she said, it was a sacrifice, and it showed how much the older brother loved his younger brother. Parker and his family listened to the story of a brother who had read 280 books to win his little brother a bike.
“My big brother would do something like that for me,” Parker said.
At that, Jaron ran to the other room, where Grandma had moved the bike. The rest of the family proudly grinned while he wheeled out the two-wheeled treasure he had earned for his younger brother. Parker ran over to the bike, and the brothers hugged over the top of it.

Part of the family celebration this year was a little black treasure box with gold writing on it. It was empty at first. Each of the family members drew the name of another person in the family. “We would try to do a lot of nice things for that person, like give them a few treats, make their bed, clean their room, things like that. Then each time we did that, we’d secretly put a coin in the treasure box and try to fill it up with good deeds,” says Ian. On Christmas Day it was filled with golden shekels.

Once we moved to a new neighborhood where there were no playmates for our second son, Chris. He was either too young for the older children or too old for the younger ones.
One weekend we went on a camping trip together. I noticed him gathering armfuls of acorns. “Why so many acorns?” I asked. Chris said he thought they were terrific and he wanted to save them as souvenirs of the trip.
However, when he got home, Chris decided to do something special with the acorns. He shared them with all the kids in the neighborhood! The kids loved them, and Chris felt warm and happy about sharing and being a friend.

Emily the story detective kept searching. She heard stories about her mom, who was born in a house instead of a hospital, and about Tony the pony that Uncle Josh used to ride—when he could stay on! Tony liked to scrape Josh off by running under a tree branch. She found out about the time when Great-Grandad Ernest went to the store to get fresh brown bread. The baker wrapped the bread in paper so that Grandad could carry it home. On the way, he got so hungry that he poked a little hole in the crust and ate the soft insides. “Mother was sure surprised to have hollow bread,” Grandad said, chuckling.

What has helped your testimony grow stronger? Recently I had an experience that made my testimony grow and helped me realize that my Heavenly Father really does know me and love me. I was in a scary situation with my younger brother, and we prayed that the Holy Ghost would tell my mom to come and get us. She received a strong impression to come right away. When she showed up a few minutes later, we were so relieved and grateful that Heavenly Father answers prayers.