Gospel Story Finder

I was a newly arrived full-time missionary in Connecticut, and my companion and I were serving in a small ward during the first round of holidays I spent on my mission. I hadn’t yet learned the dietary value of becoming friends with a few of the members, and my first Thanksgiving resulted in no invitation and no dinner. Our mission president took pity on us, and we ended up being the only missionaries to spend Thanksgiving at the mission home. We were grateful but a little embarrassed.
We started putting ourselves out there early for the coming Christmas. Our shameful solicitations landed three full meals at three different homes. Pancakes for breakfast, Lithuanian food for lunch, and a Jamaican feast for dinner. Our stomachs were bursting. I was still an inexperienced missionary and thought that was what Christmas on a mission was all about.

After one of our lengthy temple meetings, when I had been a member of the Twelve for only a short time, President Kimball took hold of my arm and said, “Will you wait just a few minutes? I want to talk to you.” Of course I waited. When we were alone he said, “I don’t want the First Presidency or the other members of the Twelve to know, but I don’t feel very good today. Will you please give me a blessing?”
This thought came to my mind immediately: “Here am I, the least and last to be ordained, and he is asking me to give him a blessing.”
I was very nervous; I do not remember all that I said, but I shall never forget how pleased I was that he thought enough of me to ask for my assistance. He was asking the newest member to give him a blessing when he could have asked any of the First Presidency or other Apostles.
Why do I love this great man? In his hour of need he was exhibiting love for and confidence in me. He has learned the art of making people feel good about themselves. By his actions we know he loves us. “But whosoever will be great among you, let him be your minister; and whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant.” (Matt. 20:26–27.)

In discussing limitations of birth and circumstance, I remember the very famous story which Elder Marion D. Hanks told me as a missionary a dozen years ago and which I’m pleased to see recorded in his recently published book. With his permission, I repeat that little story for you because it’s a favorite of mine and I really believe in the principle that it teaches:

The famed naturalist of the last century, Louis Agassiz, was lecturing in London and had done a marvelous job. An obviously bright little old lady, but one who did not seem to have all the advantages in life, came up and was spiteful. She was resentful and said that she had never had the chances that he had had and she hoped he appreciated it. He took that bit of lacing very pleasantly and turned to the lady and, when she was through, said, “What do you do?”

She said, “I run a boarding house with my sister. I’m unmarried.”

“What do you do at the boarding house?”

“Well, I skin potatoes and chop onions for the stew. We have stew every day.”

“Where do you sit when you do that interesting but homely task?”

“I sit on the bottom step of the kitchen stairs.”

“Where do your feet rest when you sit there on the bottom step?”

“On a glazed brick.”

“What’s a glazed brick?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long have you been sitting there?”

“Fifteen years.”

Agassiz concluded, “Here’s my card. Would you write me a note when you get a moment about what a glazed brick is?”

Well, that made her mad enough to go home and do it. She went home and got the dictionary out and found out that a brick was a piece of baked clay. That didn’t seem enough to send to a Harvard professor, so she went to the encyclopedia and found out that a brick was made of vitrified kaolin and hydrous aluminum silicate, which didn’t mean a thing to her. She went to work and visited a brick factory and a tile maker. Then she went back in history and studied a little bit about geology and learned something about clay and clay beds and what hydrous meant and what vitrified meant. She began to soar out of the basement of a boarding house on the wings of words like vitrified kaolin and hydrous aluminum silicate. She finally decided that there were about 120 different kinds of glazed bricks and tiles. She could tell Agassiz that, so she wrote him a little note of thirty-six pages and said, “Here’s your glazed brick.”

He wrote back, “This is a fine piece of work. If you change this and that and the other, I’ll prepare it for publication and send you that which is due you from the publication.” She thought no more of it, made the changes, sent it back, and almost by return mail came a check for 250 dollars. His letter said, “I’ve published your piece. What was under the brick?”

And she said, “Ants.”

He replied (all of this by mail), “What is an ant?”

She went to work and this time she was excited. She found 1825 different kinds of ants. She found that there were ants that you could put three to the head of a pin and still have standing room left over. She found that there were ants an inch long that moved in armies half a mile wide and destroyed everything in their path. She found that some ants were blind; some ants lost their wings on the afternoon they died; some milked cows and took the milk to the aristocrats up the street. She found more ants than anybody had ever found, so she wrote Mr. Agassiz something of a treatise, numbering 360 pages. He published it and sent her the money and royalties, which continued to come in. She saw the lands and places of her dreams on a little carpet of vitrified kaolin and on the wings of flying ants that may lose their wings on the afternoon they die.

Part of being worthy to enter the temple is obeying the Word of Wisdom. Seth Robinson, a teacher from Reno, Nevada, decided to share the benefits of the Word of Wisdom as part of his Eagle Scout project.
Seth—at left with fellow Scouts Greg Handlon and Caleb Sumrall—set up a display on the dangers of tobacco in a busy shopping mall near his home. He then talked specifically to teenagers walking through the mall, answering questions and distributing information.
“Meeting with the general public made me aware that many people think the use of tobacco will not harm them,” says Seth, who spent a lot of time telling people that nothing could be farther from the truth. “I think this project was a success.”

In those days, too, the Church did not have a family home evening program like we have today, but my family did have family nights. One of my fondest memories is of sitting on Dad’s lap during family night as he read us stories from the Book of Mormon. It was the beginning of my testimony of the Book of Mormon, and my love for my father and mother grew as well.
After we spent this time together, we played games like Hide the Thimble, and Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button. We played basketball, too. In the winter, when it was too cold to play outside, we’d bend a metal coat hanger into a circle and wedge it above a door. As a ball, we’d use some wadded up stockings. Of course, we couldn’t dribble the ball, but we could shoot it at the hanger-basket, and we could pass it to each other. We loved playing together.

Twelve-year-old David gripped his video game controller. He was going to do it! He was finally going to beat this level!
And then it all came crashing down. He missed the last tricky turn on the racetrack. His car fell behind. He lost. Again.
"Nooo!" he said. The opening screen of the video game flashed in front of him. He’d been so close! And all his friends said the next level was the coolest in the whole game too.
I bet I could do it. Just a few more tries. He reached for the start button on his controller.
Then he glanced out the window. Did he really want to spend his whole Saturday morning playing video games?
Not really. But he just knew he could beat the level.
He reached again for the controller. And then David remembered the pile of boards waiting in the backyard. He glanced back at the sun shining through the window. Today would be the perfect day to start on the tree fort he and his friends had planned.
He turned off the game and walked outside. A soft breeze blew through his hair. Sunlight warmed his face.
He filled the red wagon with spare boards Dad had given him. He told Mom where he was going and then tossed a hammer and nails into the wagon before heading to Sam’s house.
"What’s up?" Sam said, opening the door. He noticed the wagon and tools. "Great idea!"
Sam and David stopped by Ty’s house. Soon the three of them were taking turns hauling the wagon up the steep hill in the woods behind their neighborhood.
"This is heavy!" Sam said.
"And it’s hot today," Ty said.
David nodded. Pulling those boards up the dirt trail wasn’t easy. Every so often the wagon wheels caught on a big rock or fell into a crack.
"But it’s gonna be awesome," Sam said as he yanked the wagon out of a deep crack.
David pushed from behind. "Yup. Our very own tree fort."
"With a rope swing," Ty added. "And a lookout tower!"
Talking about their plans got them excited again. Before long they finished the steep climb to the tree they’d already chosen. It had the perfect tangle of big limbs and smaller branches.
"First we need to build the ladder," Ty said. David and Sam nodded. They had already drawn plans. They would nail some short two-by-four pieces of wood sideways onto the tree for the ladder.
The only problem was, building a ladder was harder than they’d thought. The nails kept bending. One board split in half. Their arms got tired.
After they had nailed only three steps in place, David checked his watch. They’d been there over two hours! It was already time to go home and help pull weeds in the garden.
They looked at the big pile of boards remaining.
"This is going to take a long time," Ty said.
David thought about how long it might take. But he wasn’t worried. And then he realized he hadn’t thought about his video game at all while they’d worked. He hadn’t even missed it! This fort might be a lot of work, but those ladder steps were going to last forever.
"Yeah," David agreed. "But I’ll bet we’ll be able to see all the way to the river once we finish the lookout tower."
The three friends headed home. They talked about how great their fort would be and decided to get an earlier start next Saturday.
The video games could wait.

During my last year of high school, I decided I had to strengthen my testimony before I left for college. I studied all I could about the Savior’s life and His atoning sacrifice. As I did so, the reality of His love struck me so powerfully that it brought me to tears. I realized that I am indeed a beloved daughter of God. As the magnitude of this sank deep into my very being, I realized that dressing modestly is not just to prevent the boys from thinking bad thoughts. It is a way to show our appreciation for one of the most wonderful gifts God has given us: a body.
May I suggest that Church members be taught to be modest because they love and respect themselves and the Lord and they want to honor His gift. I never had a strong testimony of modesty until I learned to love Heavenly Father and the Savior more deeply.
Brenda Petty, Idaho, USA

In our afternoon sessions, we had been working on the second movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata. The notes on the page seemed deceptively simple, but it never felt quite right when I played it.
“This time, Maria,” he said, “don’t hang on the notes like you own them. Let them sing through you. Pathetique doesn’t mean ‘pathetic,’ like in English. It means great, powerful emotion. Listen as you play. This second movement is flooded with hope. Remember, you and the piano are the instruments for the master.”
After that speech, what could I do? I thought of the master Beethoven penciling in the notes; then I closed my eyes and began. The feel of this movement had always eluded me. But this time the sounds told my fingers how to play, and the music shimmered in the room forming a momentary blanket against the coldness in other parts of my life. When I finished, I looked at Todd. A tear trickled down his cheeks.
“I can’t tell if that was for the master of the universe or from him, Maria.”
The Master he was talking about wasn’t Beethoven. I remembered Papa’s pain and said, “If you mean God, it was neither.”
“Then you know nothing of gifts,” he said.
“I know there is no God.”
He hesitated before he spoke. “Can I share something?”
“If it’s more of your Mormon religion, I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
I told him about Papa, about his singing, about his pain.
“Perhaps Mormon missionaries can help—him and you,” he said.
“Don’t count on it.”
Sunday evening Todd showed up with two college-age young men. I didn’t think Todd and his friends could help Papa, but after our visit in the music room the day I mastered the Pathetique, I was willing to try. Todd talked that day of what he called eternal things, and although Todd’s words were strange to me, they were full of hope. Even if there was only a slight chance they could help Papa, I wanted to try. I had not told Papa, though. I was afraid he’d say no if I asked.
I let Todd and his friends in, and Papa entered from the kitchen, two drinks already down and another in his hand.
“Papa, this is Todd. I’ve told you about him. He helps me with my music.”
“Ah,” Papa said, crossing the room to shake hands. “You are the boy with fingers of gold, Maria says.”
“She’s kind. But she has gold of her own, Mr. D’Alesso.” Todd stepped back. “Mr. D’Alesso, this is Elder Sals and Elder Warran.”
“What, you have the same funny first name?” Papa asked, grinning.
“No,” Elder Sals smiled. “That’s what missionaries in the Mormon church are called.”
Papa’s lips tightened. “You have a business here? In my home?”
Todd looked at me.
“I forgot to tell you, Papa. I invited them over to talk to us about their church.”
“They go.” Papa turned, and over his shoulder he said, “Now,” and walked back to the kitchen.
I apologized to Todd and the elders, and they left.
Papa came back into the room. I wanted to yell at him for being so rude, but I knew most of it was my fault for not telling him.
“These boys. They fill your head with the funny ideas, and you believe them. Then you find out the truth, and you be bitter. Eh, I know. You listen to your Papa. There is no God. You stay away from that boy and his friends.”
“Okay, Papa. I won’t talk religion with him.”
“No. No more practice with him. He’s bad.”
“No, Papa. I can learn more from Todd in one afternoon than I can from Mrs. Talesworthy in ten years. I won’t quit my lessons.”
“You will stay away,” he shouted. “Final.”
“Please, Papa.”
“Final!” he screamed.
Where my relationship with Papa had been cool and distant before, it now became icy. To disobey Papa was unforgivable, to not work with Todd on my piano, unbearable. In the evenings I went to the library, to a friend’s house, or I occupied myself in my room doing homework or reading.
A few weeks passed, and Pauly came home from college for the weekend. We ate a quiet dinner where Papa asked questions, the same questions Papa always asked—How’s school? You keeping your grades up? You don’t do nothing to let them take your scholarship away? Then later, alone, I told Paul what had happened.
“Papa chooses to pine away his life,” Paul said. “We buried our mother; he buried his joy. Do what you have to do to live your life, Maria.”
Monday, as we walked together between classes, I told Todd I was ready to start piano lessons again.
“Did your father say it’s okay?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter what my father says. It’s my life.”
“You should obey your father.”
“Then I’m destined to take lessons from Mrs. Talesworthy for the rest of my life.”
“There are worse things.”
“Yeah,” I smiled, “like watching you sight-read Chopin without even one mistake.”
“Oh, there are mistakes. You just don’t hear them, yet. But your ear’s improving. Look, there has to be a way to reach your father. I feel responsible for bringing up the idea of talking religion to him in the first place. Maybe I should visit him, apologize, tell him I won’t discuss religion with you, and ask him to let us work together again.”
“No. That’s hopeless, and maybe unwise—especially if you came when he was drinking.”
“Is he mean then?”
“No, not really. Just more stubborn.”
Todd seemed stumped. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “If it’s supposed to work out, it will.”
I stopped walking and grabbed his arm. “People can’t just hope things will work out. They have to do something, Todd.”
Todd turned to face me. “So, what are you going to do?”
“Men!” I said and whacked him on the shoulder.
We both laughed, but I knew he was right about obeying Papa.
The warning bell rang, and Todd started to walk away, then turned around. “You might pray,” he grinned, and was off.
The thought that I could pray had never occurred to me. I’d only seen it done by preachers on TV, or in the movies. I had to do something, though. I thought about Todd’s suggestion the rest of the day and decided I would try it.
That night I poured out my heart at my bedside and after a half-hour climbed in bed. There was no flash of light, no inspiration, no singing angels, nothing. But the melody of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata playing in my mind and an understanding that I must do something.
I stared at the dark ceiling and made a mental list of my options. I could try to persuade Papa to see a doctor. That hadn’t worked before; perhaps, though, it was worth another try. I could leave things as they were and hope that in time he’d heal. But Papa was growing more sullen each week. I could talk to Uncle Ricard and ask him for help. But he was a thousand miles away. I could let Todd talk to Papa, but that hadn’t gone over too well before. I had tried to bring Todd’s name up on two occasions since the missionaries’ visit, and Papa got angry. I told him I wanted to know more about what Todd believed, and he didn’t like that.
Of course I could confront Papa and insist that we either work together or threaten to move out. Chances were, though, I’d end up on the street. And if he threw me out, I didn’t know what would happen to him or me. What I really wanted to do was take responsibility for my own life, let Papa do with his what he would, and secretly start lessons with Todd again.
But that’s not what I did.
It was after dinner the next evening. We had eaten and cleaned up, mostly in silence. When we were through, Papa headed for the bottle of scotch and the TV.
“Papa?” I said.
“What?”
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” His eyes grew darker.
Oh, how I longed to see the brightness in them again. Why did Mama have to go? “Papa, I’m dying.”
“What? You make a joke?” His eyes widened.
“I don’t have a disease or anything, but I’m dying. My music is dying, and so are you.”
“Look. I don’t need you to tell me what I am doing.”
“Papa, I remember one spring afternoon when we were barbecuing and Pauly asked you to sing. You opened your mouth, and the notes came out like the Creator himself had touched your voice. And the world stopped to listen. I asked you that day if you had always sung. Do you remember what you said?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. It matters to me, and it matters to Mama.”
“There is no Mama for you, Maria; no wife for me.”
“Papa, you said that you thought God sent music to give us joy and Mama to show us he loved us. Do you remember?”
Papa lifted his gaze and stared at the wall. “I remember.”
“I don’t know why she died, but you mock her life with your constant self-pity.”
He raised his voice. “I lost my wife.”
“And I lost my mother,” I shouted. “And now I’m losing you.”
“You will not talk to me like that.”
“Why not? If it’s not like this it won’t be at all.” I pounded the table. “The only talk you do these days is to the TV and your bottles of scotch.”
“You give your dad some respect. Hear?” He rose off his seat, his face flushed, and I knew I was close to a point of no return. I could stop now, and in a few days things would be more or less frigid normal. If I pushed him too far, I could lose him as surely as I had lost Mama.
“Papa, what if Todd is right? What if there is a God, and what if Mama is alive, living with him in another world, waiting for you? What if your being with her again depends on what you do here? What if your selfishness and self-pity kept you from being with her after you die?”
He looked as if each word was a well-aimed bullet. He sunk back in his seat. After a moment of silence, he said, quietly, “No one can know about these things.”
“Todd says he and a lot of other people do.”
For the first time in my life I saw Papa as a little boy, a frightened child who had lost hope.
“Father, may I play you a song?”
“You hate me, Maria?”
“No, I love you, Papa. Please, may I play for you?”
He nodded his head and followed me into the living room.
“Sit down, Papa, and listen.”
I closed my eyes and, this time, pictured the Master, like in a picture Todd had shown me. And Mama stood beside him.
I began the second movement of the Pathetique. When I finished, I looked at Papa, deep in his chair, and he said with a softness to his face, “You play like you want God to hear you.”
“I do, Papa. I want to play so well that he will tell Mama how beautiful it is.”
Papa came over and stood behind me. He put his strong hands on my shoulders. “This Todd. He taught you to play like that?”
“No, Papa. You did.”
I felt his hands tremble against my shoulders, and he said, “Tonight, you play for me, Maria, and inside I sing again.”

One day on the bus on the way home from school, I was telling my friend James how much I enjoy going to church. When I mentioned prayer, James asked me, “What is prayer?”
“It’s a way of talking to God,” I said. He asked me how to pray, and I told him, “First you bow your head, fold your arms, and close your eyes. Then you start with ‘Dear Heavenly Father,’ thank Him for your blessings, tell Him about your day, ask for anything you need, and then end in the name of Jesus Christ.”
James said his own prayer while we were on the bus. I felt happy inside that I had taught my friend how to pray.

Once during the Chukwurahs’ mission, while Christopher was away on assignment, their young son Uchenna grew so sick that Florence thought he would die. “I had no hope anywhere except from the Lord,” she said. As she held Uchenna in her arms, Florence prayed fervently for healing and received impressions about how to care for him. As she followed the promptings, Uchenna’s health improved. “The Lord saved him,” she affirmed.

“You’re so little!” Sasha said. “We should call you Tiny Trina.”
Trina tried to smile. The other kids at school teased her a lot for being small. She had been born tiny, and she hadn’t grown as fast as the other kids. But she didn’t like the name Tiny Trina. She didn’t like being different.
“You’re so small you might never grow up,” Max said as they went outside for recess.
“I know I’m small,” Trina said. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. Let’s go play.”
Trina ran to play soccer with the other kids. They kicked the ball back and forth. They were all having fun together.
But soon Trina got really tired. She slowly walked away from the game and sat down on the grass.
Soon her friend Josie came over. Josie was in her Primary class at church too.
“Are you OK?” Josie asked.
“Yeah,” Trina said. “I just need to rest. My lungs get tired when I run a lot. They’re not very strong.”
Josie sat down next to Trina. They picked grass and made little rings and bracelets. They talked about school and friends and homework.
“I heard what Sasha said,” Josie said. “I’m sorry she called you Tiny Trina.”
Trina just nodded.
“But I think you’re just the right size!” Josie said.
Trina smiled. She handed Josie the grass bracelet she had made.
The next Sunday, Trina got ready for church. She put on her dress and brushed her hair. Then she frowned at her tiny shoes in the closet. She was sure no one else in her Primary class wore such small shoes.
Trina dragged her feet as she walked down the hall at church. When she got to her Primary classroom, Josie was waiting outside.
“We have a surprise for you!” Josie said. “Come see!”
When Trina walked into the room, the other kids and their teacher, Sister Bott, were pointing to a brightly decorated board. It had hearts taped all over it. There were notes on the hearts that said, “Trina has a big smile! Trina has a big heart!”
“Do you like it?” asked Josie. “Sister Bott helped us make it.”
“I love it!” said Trina. “Thank you.”
“We wanted to remind you of a big truth,” Sister Bott said. “Heavenly Father loves each one of us. Short. Tall. Big. Small. That doesn’t matter to Him. We are all His children, and He loves every single one.”
Trina looked up at the hearts on the board and smiled—big.
This story took place in the USA.

I have known many modern-day Samaritans. A friend of mine named Larry is an amazing example of showing love for others. He once shared:
When I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at age 35, one of the many things I quickly learned was that I needed to be willing to serve others. Whether it was to help someone move, offer lawn care, do repairs, or provide transportation, I tried as much as possible to respond to requests for service from my quorum or from individuals. . . .
. . . I had the opportunity to serve an older couple. Their small, old country home needed a lot of repairs, including its leaky roof. The couple, however, suffered from serious health challenges that prevented them from doing physical labor.
On a hot day in July, my good friend . . . and I were up on the roof putting down new shingles. We were uncomfortable [in the hot sun] and dripping with sweat. Suddenly, [my friend] stopped nailing, stood up, and looked at me.
“Do you realize how blessed we are to be the ones capable of being up here doing this work and not the ones inside who can’t?” he asked.
His question hit me like a bolt of lightning. It was literally a life-changing moment. My whole perspective on service took on new meaning. I realized how blessed I was to be able to do all the things that I could do.
. . . The Lord had blessed us with the ability to truly be His hands. With that realization, it was easy for me to feel love for those we were helping.36

But I was to go through a lot during my investigation of the Church. I fasted, I prayed, I read the scriptures. I wanted to get baptized. I was only 17, and my parents thought I was going through a teenage phase. They said I should wait. The elders challenged me to build my testimony anyway.
A few months later when I was 18, I was finally baptized. Little did I know that in 14 months I would go on a mission too.

1 At the edge of the Congo rain forest near the equator, where the days are hot and steamy and the nights are cool and damp, Little Gorilla sleeps snuggled next to his mother on the jungle floor. Night sounds around him of softly moving leaves and a far-off leopard’s roar soon become the morning noises of chattering monkeys and twittering birds.
2 Before long Little Gorilla and his mother are following their troop leader, Silverback, in search of food. Moving slowly through the forest, they nibble leaves, wild celery, bamboo shoots, and blackberries.
3 Little Gorilla’s mother discovers more fruit in a nearby tree. She is too heavy to climb the tree, so Little Gorilla climbs the tree and gathers the fruit for both of them.
4 At midmorning the adult gorillas stop in a clearing to rest. For a while Little Gorilla plays with the other young gorillas, wrestling, sliding down a log that is slick with moss, and playing tag. Then he goes over to his mother, and she grooms him. It feels good as she parts his fur with her fingers, cleaning him from head to toe before his nap.
5 At midafternoon it is again time to search for food. As the gorillas follow Silverback, he stops abruptly and begins hooting. He places a single leaf between his lips and beats his chest. The other gorillas run to hide in the underbrush.
6 Silverback’s usually gentle brown eyes now stare in anger from under the thick, bony ridge of his forehead. He thumps the ground with his hand and begins ripping up bushes and throwing them around.
7 Little Gorilla and his mother peer between the leaves of their hiding place and watch Silverback run sideways, then charge toward a leopard. The spotted cat snarls at Silverback but swiftly retreats. Cautiously the rest of the gorilla troop again fall in line behind Silverback in search of food.
8 As Little Gorilla follows his mother, he watches Silverback. He had been depending on his mother for everything, but now he is older and will soon leave her. Part of him wants to grow up and be a fearless leader like Silverback. And part of him wants to remain a baby and stay with his mother.
9 It is hard to let go for both Little Gorilla and his mother, but tonight Little Gorilla is to sleep by himself, up in the trees. He has been practicing how to build his nest of twigs and leaves, and he can do it very well. Sitting in his nest, he hears the sound of the distant river. He is lonely.
10 Climbing down to be with his mother, he finds that she does not welcome him as she once did. She will not let Little Gorilla sleep in her nest. It is hard for her to send him away, but she must. Little Gorilla once again climbs the tree to his own nest, where he listens to the river’s current until sleep comes.

For her second pregnancy, the doctor recommended performing an abortion before she was four months along; she flatly refused. After prolonged hospitalizations, the child was born without signs of life and without responding to neonatal resuscitation. But her husband, who is a doctor, “began to breathe on him with his mouth and to give him heart massages and I heard him say, ‘let’s go champion, champion up,’ and after a long time the baby screamed. It was a miracle, it really was a miracle,” said Yanet.

One day I was at an after-school book club. While I was reading the book out loud, I came across a sentence that took the Lord’s name in vain. I got a little scared to say that sentence. So I paused and said a little prayer in my head asking Heavenly Father what I should do. Everyone was staring at me. I was uncomfortable, but I knew the right thing to do. I changed the sentence and didn’t swear. My book-club teacher corrected me and said it the other way, but I didn’t care. I had a warm feeling inside of me. I knew I had made the right choice to not say the Lord’s name in vain.

The second story comes from Amanda Smith, a pioneer who traveled from Kirtland to Missouri. While at Haun's Mill, mobs attacked the Saints settled there, and Amanda Smith's husband and one of her sons were killed. Her youngest son, Alma, was wounded by the gunfire, and his entire hip joint had been shot away. His mother did not know what to do; all around her were only dead or dying men and lamenting women.

In anguish of spirit, she prayed, "Oh my Heavenly Father, what shall I do? Thou seest my poor wounded boy and knowest my inexperience. Oh, Heavenly Father, direct me what to do!"

Then a voice spoke to her and directed her to take ashes from the fire, make a lye and put it directly into the wound. She was then directed to make a slippery-elm poultice for the wound "as distinctly as though a physician had been standing by speaking to me."

Pouring balsam into the wound, Amanda asked her son, "Alma, my child, you believe that the Lord made your hip?" "Yes, mother." "Well, the Lord can make something there in the place of your hip, don't you believe he can, Alma?" "Do you think that the Lord can, mother?" inquired the child, in his simplicity. "Yes, my son," I replied, "he has showed it all to me in a vision."

After five weeks, Alma was miraculously recovered - a living testament of the power of God to heal; and of the power of the Holy Ghost to teach a grieving but determined mother how to care for her child.[28]

About a month ago, my family went to the local fair. My mum and I went up to a stall that was all about being healthy. The lady said that if I could answer a question I would win a prize. She asked, “What can you do instead of smoking?” I quickly said, “Pray.” She seemed surprised but very happy with my answer. She gave me my prize, and Mum said that I was a good boy for being a good example and “shining my light.”Zachary Ainge, age 5, with help from his mum, Burpengary, Queensland, Australia

Last week I broke my arm. My neighbor who is a nurse told us that we needed to make a splint for my arm to protect it on the way to the hospital. She asked me if we had a few magazines we could use. My mom ran and got four Friend magazines, and my neighbor used them to make a splint by tying them around my arm with yarn. We had to wait a very long time in the hospital, so I was able to read my Friend magazines. I read a lot of stories, and one of them was about a boy in the hospital. I was comforted by the stories and the priesthood blessing I was given. I felt at peace. I love the Friend.Macey I., age 7, Minnesota

President David O. McKay tells how, in his youth, he knelt and “prayed fervently and sincerely and with as much faith as a young boy could muster” that “God would declare to [him] the truth of his revelation to Joseph Smith.”
President McKay related that when he arose from his knees, he had to admit that “no spiritual manifestation has come to me. If I am true to myself, I must say that I am just the same [boy] that I was before I prayed.”
I don’t know how young David felt in his heart at that time, but I’m sure he must have been disappointed—perhaps frustrated that he didn’t receive the spiritual experience that he had hoped for. But that didn’t discourage him from continuing his search for that knowledge.
The answer to his prayers did come, but not until years later, when he was serving as a missionary. Why was the answer to his prayer so long delayed? President McKay believed that this spiritual manifestation “came as a natural sequence to the performance of duty” (Cherished Experiences from the Writings of President David O. McKay, comp. Claire Middlemiss, 16).