Gospel Story Finder

Almost eight and half years later, spring of 1994 I received a phone call inviting me to apply for the faculty position as a head athletic trainer here at BYU-Hawaii. This was the third call in four years but this time I felt it was time to go through the application process. When the job was offered I hesitated, because I loved the people that I was working with, the network of professionals and the university community. The new, Stan Sherriff Arena, was scheduled to be opening the following year.

Elder Ronald A. Rasband shared, “President Monson has taught, ‘As we pursue the journey of life, let us learn the language of the Spirit.’ (Thomas S. Monson, “The Spirit Giveth Life,” Ensign, May 1985, 70.) The Spirit speaks words that we feel. These feelings are gentle, a nudge to act, to do something, to say something, to respond in a certain way.” (“Let the Holy Spirit Guide,” Ensign, May 2017, Sunday Morning Session.) (7)
I struggled with the thought of leaving all that. Knowing I had to make a decision soon, I turned off the radio on my drive home from work. I debated in my head pros and cons of both jobs. I finally thought, “okay, maybe I should pray about it,” when a clear and distinct FEELING came into my mind . . . “Why? You already know the answer.” The prompting of the Holy Ghost was piercing and clear. I knew what I needed to do. The turmoil in my head was silenced. The weight of the decision was gone. Again the load was lifted and a feeling of peace settled my uncertainties.

A number of Joseph Smith’s earliest seeric visions were received by means of the seer stone. Joseph Knight Sr. remembered the Prophet sharing an incident regarding the seer stone that took place in September 1826 during the Prophet’s third annual visit to the Hill Cumorah. Knight indicated that during the 1826 interview with Moroni, Joseph was told that he would receive the plates the following year if he brought the right person with him to the hill.
Confused, Joseph asked Moroni, “‘Who is the right Person?’ The answer was you will know. Then he looked in his [stone] and found it was Emma Hale.”12 Joseph understood what he needed to do. A few weeks later he traveled to Harmony to request Emma’s hand in marriage from her father, Isaac Hale. However, Isaac opposed the marriage, and because of his opposition, Joseph and Emma eloped and were married in January 1827.
In accordance with Moroni’s instructions, the following September when the Prophet went to retrieve the plates at the hill, Emma accompanied her husband in the wagon. The account given by Knight illustrates that it was made known to Joseph Smith by means of a visionary experience using the seer stone that he was to marry Emma.

“Why do you have to miss practice today?” I asked Merlin after school. “Don’t you know how important our game against the Tigers is?”
“Yes, I know,” Merlin answered. “But I can’t help it. I can’t stay for practice. I have an appointment. I told the coach, and he said it was OK. I have to go now, or I’ll be late.”
“Merlin always has an appointment on Thursdays,” Bob complained as we changed into our basketball uniforms.
“Well, it isn’t going to be much of a practice without him,” I grumbled.
And it wasn’t. Merlin is the best player on our team. He can sink a basket better than the rest of us, and he never double dribbles when he runs down the court.
“You boys were clumsy today,” the coach told us after practice. “You have to get on the ball if you expect to beat the Tigers.”
I’ll bet he wishes Merlin had been here, I thought. Practice always goes better when Merlin plays with us.
“Maybe Merlin has a job. Or maybe Merlin’s sick and goes to the doctor every Thursday,” Bob said as we were eating a snack at my house.
“Bob,” I said, wiping cookie crumbs from my mouth, “I have a brilliant idea. We don’t have a practice next Thursday, so why don’t we follow Merlin and see where his appointment is?”
“But that’d be spying!”
“Well, it’s the only way we’re going to find out, isn’t it? Merlin’s sure not going to tell us.”
When Thursday finally came, Bob and I stood by the corner of the school building and watched Merlin get on his bike. We waited until he was a half-block away, then jumped on our bikes and followed him.
“Don’t go too fast,” Bob warned, “or he’ll see us.”
I felt like a detective following a criminal instead of a friend.
Bob and I shadowed Merlin for ten blocks, six of them uphill. “No wonder Merlin is in such good shape,” I told Bob, panting as we pedaled our bikes up yet another hill.
“Maybe this is all he does on Thursdays,” Bob said, puffing just as hard as I was.
Merlin finally stopped in front of the Westchester Nursing Home. He parked his bike and went in.
“I’m not going in there!” Bob told me.
“All right, all right!” I said irritably. I wasn’t mad at Bob, and I wasn’t mad at Merlin. I was mad at myself for spying on Merlin in the first place.
“What do you suppose he does in there?” Bob asked.
“Maybe his grandparents live there.”
“No. They all live in Texas. I know, because I heard his mother talking about them once.”
“Well, we might as well go home,” I said, starting to get on my bike.
“Wait!” Bob said in a loud whisper. “There’s Merlin!”
We hid behind a hedge as Merlin came out of the building and pushed a man in a wheelchair over to the shade of a large oak tree. The man gave Merlin a book, and Merlin sat down on the grass and began to read aloud.
Bob and I couldn’t hear what Merlin was reading, but the old man seemed to relax in his chair. Every now and then the man would smile. When he smiled, he looked a lot younger. After about twenty minutes, Merlin closed the book and stood up.
“We’d better get out of here,” I whispered.
“Too late,” Bob said. “He’s spotted us.”
“What are you guys doing here?” Merlin asked, coming over to the hedge we’d been hiding behind.
“Well … we …”
“Ah …”
“We were just curious about where you go every Thursday,” I finally managed to splutter.
Merlin hesitated, then said, “I never told you guys because I thought you might think it was sissy.”
“After that bike ride, no one would dare think you were a sissy,” I said. “My legs are still sore.”
“Going downhill will be easier.” Merlin laughed. “Come and meet my friend.”
Bob and I met Mr. Allen. He didn’t have any family and he couldn’t see very well and there was something wrong with his legs. Merlin read to him from the Bible or the Book of Mormon every Thursday.
Mr. Allen told us about playing center on his grade school basketball team the year it won first place in the city and about some other neat things he did when he was a kid. Bob and I really liked him.
It’s been three weeks since we first went to the nursing home. Our team beat the Tigers by twelve points, and the coach said the team is really shaping up. We never practice on Thursdays anymore because all the team members now have very important appointments.
Today, I’m going to be very careful riding up the hills. I’m taking flowers to my friend at the Westchester Nursing Home. Her name is Mrs. Olivia Martinez.

Jogging not only works wonders on the physical self but can be a great aid to the mental self also. The film tells a story of a New York journalist who, after a number of heart attacks and other personal problems, decided to kill himself. He went out and began running and thought that he would be dead in just a short time and that nobody would really know he had committed suicide. He ran and ran to the point of exhaustion, but he was unsuccessful at doing himself in. He tried again and again but to no avail. The only thing he seemed to be accomplishing was that he could run faster and farther each day. After doing this for a few days, his spirits so improved that he decided to go on living—and running.
This man was probably very lucky that he did not kill himself. Before a person begins a jogging program, he should have a complete physical examination. A person should begin slowly at first, working up to the program of good vigorous exercise that will be best for him.

Michelle sat at her desk and tied the knot in her beaded necklace. After an hour of working, she had finished her gift for Mom. She went to find Mom, ignoring the 100 subtraction problems on her desk.
Mom was in the kitchen making dinner. “Mom, look what I made for you,” Michelle exclaimed as she handed her the necklace.
Mom looked at the necklace. “Thank you. It’s beautiful, Michelle,” Mom said. “I can tell you’ve put a lot of time into designing such a pretty pattern, but what were you supposed to be doing?”
Michelle remembered the math problems on her desk. Tomorrow was her 100-facts test for subtraction, and Mom wanted her to practice. But Michelle had taken a 100-facts test in class every week, and she wasn’t getting much better.
“My homework,” she said, “but I’m not very good at subtraction. How am I supposed to be able to do 100 problems in just five minutes?”
“Would you like me to help you?” Mom asked.
Michelle nodded.
“Then we’ll practice your math problems after dinner.”
After dinner, Mom held the timer while Michelle practiced. Michelle was worried. Having Mom time the 100 facts helped Michelle focus, but Mom couldn’t help her during class.
“Don’t worry,” Mom said after Michelle had worked for five minutes. “The scriptures say that ‘if ye are prepared ye shall not fear.’ If you’re ready to work and to pray for Heavenly Father’s help, you’ll see great improvements on your math tests.”
Every night during the next few weeks, Mom and Dad helped Michelle by timing her while she worked on a practice sheet. And every night Michelle remembered to ask for help in her nightly prayers.
At the end of the school term, Michelle and her parents reviewed her weekly test scores. Two months ago Michelle was only completing 30 out of the 100 problems, but on her most recent test she got 83 right!
“You’re doing great, Michelle,” Mom said.
“Yippee!” exclaimed Michelle. “All I had to do was prepare and pray.”

My husband and I recently moved, and while unpacking, I came upon a box of my old writings. This is an excerpt from a journal entry I wrote when I was 16 years old. It was about a year after my mother died from cancer and before I was introduced to the gospel.
Do you believe in God, in a power, in a Creator? I don’t know what I believe, but I love the idea of God. I love that there is someone who loves me, cares about me, protects me, and wants me to do His work. I look back on the sentence and realized I typed “I love that” instead of “I love the idea that.” It’s funny what you mean to type and what you actually end up typing. I can’t help but wonder about the depths of my subconscious. Sometimes I think God is just another thing humans made up in order to make themselves feel better, because who doesn’t want to be loved? Who doesn’t want the safety of a divine force? Who doesn’t want to believe that when in times of hopelessness, they can count on God? But if I say I believe in God, I want to be able to say it from the depths of my soul. I want it to be a true belief.
Faith is what all religion is founded on. I don’t believe there is any true way to prove God exists. I don’t need anyone else to believe it or validate it. The only person I’m struggling with is myself.
Now I’m crying. At this point in my life, I want to believe. Something is driving me to think about this so much it’s hard for me to get to sleep at night.
After reading this, my eyes wandered to the top of the page where I had written the date, August 2005. I remembered that it was in September of 2005 that I became friends with some returned missionaries who introduced me to the Church. After going to church for several months and asking lots of questions, I decided I wanted to meet with the missionaries. I was baptized about two weeks later; it was the happiest day of my life.
Many people thought my conversion happened quickly—two weeks did not seem long enough. In truth, my conversion started long before I met the missionaries or was even introduced to the Church. As my journal entry testified to me, for a long time Heavenly Father had been softening my heart and helping me prepare to receive the gospel. I now realize more fully the truth in the words spoken by Alma on faith: “And now as I said concerning faith—faith is not to have a perfect knowledge of things; therefore if ye have faith ye hope for things which are not seen, which are true” (Alma 32:21).

Sometime after the war was over, the missionaries returned to Germany, and one Sunday morning a new missionary from America who couldn’t speak our language came to our home for dinner. My parents spoke some English, since they had lived in Liverpool, England, for four years. In the evening we all went to sacrament meeting, and the new elder was asked to speak. I remember feeling sorry for him, knowing that he knew no German, and I wondered what be would say. He didn’t have time to copy a talk from one of the other elders who had been there awhile.
But he spoke for over an hour. He told the Saints to go to America because another world war would come which would be worse than the one we had just been through. This was a terrible thing to hear, because the suffering of the recent war was still vivid in our memories. On the way home from the meeting I asked my parents what language the missionary spoke. I knew it wasn’t German and I knew it wasn’t English, although I didn’t understand English; yet I understood every word he said. My father said I should never forget that experience for I probably would never hear anything like that again. This elder had spoken in tongues.

When I moved into a college dormitory in Khon Kaen, Thailand, I noticed a blue book in the corner of the room. I never picked it up, and the book was still there when I moved out of the dorm many months later.
After graduating from college, I returned to my hometown of Kalasin. One day when I was visiting a friend, I saw a blue book on top of his TV—a book that reminded me of the one in my dorm room. “Where did you get that book?” I asked my friend. He said missionaries had given it to him. I said I had seen a similar book but that I didn’t know anything about it. My friend had not read it either.
Picking up the book, I finally read the words on the cover—“The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.” Then, opening the book randomly and finding Jacob chapter 5, I began reading about a tame olive tree and a wild olive tree. Although I did not really understand the meaning of the allegory, reading it gave me a happy feeling.
As the days went by, I found that I wanted to read more of the book, so I returned to my friend’s house to borrow it. When I arrived, my friend was talking to two missionaries. They introduced themselves as Elder Reid and Elder Haroldsen and made an appointment to visit me. They came as promised and shared with me their belief in Heavenly Father’s plan. As they spoke, I could feel the love of the Father.
At their invitation, I attended church on Sunday. Although there were only 10 people in attendance, I felt a love for the Kalasin Branch, and I agreed to come again.
I was baptized on 21 March 1999 and soon began working with the missionaries. As I watched the missionaries trying to spread the gospel, I could feel God’s love for His children.

John Newton was six years old when his mother passed away. She had raised him a believer, teaching and reading scripture with him. At age 11, his father, a sailor, took him to sea. Surrounded by profanity, blasphemy, and promiscuity, it did not take John long to drift from his faith. He would say, “I sinned with a high hand and made it my study to tempt and seduce others on every occasion.”
On one trip a storm suddenly came upon them. His crew began calling out to God to save them. At first, he mocked and scolded them, but when it became clear that their fate was inevitable, John cried out to the God his mother had taught him about.
He prayed something like, “God, if You are there, please save us. And if You do, I will dedicate the rest of my life to serving You.” The storm ceased, the waves calmed, and their lives were saved. True to his word, John dedicated the rest of his life to serving the Lord. He became a preacher, and as part of his ministry, he wrote poems. Many of these poems would be turned into hymns, such as his most famous one:
Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound!)
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
This hymn is John Newton’s story, but it is also our story, and it is likely your story. Each of us, in our own way and in our own moments of struggle, is seen by an omniscient Lord who, at just the right time, intervenes. He chastens us. He rescues us. He transforms us. And He creates in us an insatiable desire to live what Nephi once called “that life which is in Christ” (2 Nephi 25:27).

I pushed open the door to the shelter for abused women where I volunteer on Saturday mornings. They needed me to work in the donation room again.
I trudged down the steps to the basement, dreading the mess that seemed to materialize week after week. As usual I had a long morning ahead of me. Piles of women’s and children’s clothing littered the floor, waiting for me to organize them.
Why do I keep coming here every week? I asked myself. It just wasn’t as fun as when my best friend used to come with me. She had moved, and now I was reluctantly coming alone. I started plowing through the donations and organizing the usable items. I worked for about half an hour and was starting to see some appearance of order when I heard the basement door open.
I stood up, expecting another volunteer. Instead, a mother and her little girl stood at the open door. Slowly they walked down the steps. This woman and her daughter had left the man in their lives because he was abusing them. They had left in the middle of the night, and the girl didn’t have anything to wear. The woman looked tired. The child, about four years old, wore a faded, flower-print flannel nightgown. Her white-blonde hair fell in wispy tangles around her face.
After figuring out the girl’s size, finding a T-shirt and a pair of shorts was easy, but I knew that finding shoes would be a problem. The clothing was organized according to size and type. The shoes, however, were merely thrown into a large cardboard box. Discouraged, I dragged the box to the middle of the room and dumped the contents on the floor. The mother and I sat next to the pile and started sifting through the shoes. I finally found a shoe that looked about the right size. The little girl loved the shoe because, not only did it fit, but it was her favorite color—pink!
I started searching again, hoping to find the matching shoe. As I pawed through the huge pile, I began to realize the other shoe might not be in the box. As the mother began to realize the same thing, she started trying to find a different pair of shoes. I continued to look for the match, clinging to the unlikely possibility that it was hidden somewhere in the pile.
The mother found a pair of dirty red sneakers and began to coax her daughter into wearing them, but she had little success. The child had nothing: no home, no father, no toys, not even her own clothes. She seemed to need something of her own, and she had apparently decided on this pair of pink tennis shoes. To give up the only thing she had in this new place was too much for her, and the tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
Now I had to find that other shoe. Every week I came here feeling useless. What could I really do for the women I met? I couldn’t give them new husbands, new houses, new jobs, or new lives. I felt humbled by their bravery. They took their children and walked away from everything in their lives to escape abuse. If only I could find that matching pink sneaker. This little girl, who had known more sorrow in her four years than I had in my seventeen, could be a princess, at least for a while.
I went into a frenzy searching through the shoes and decided, finally, to put them back into the box one by one. I tossed a green pump towards the box, but it missed. I had to stand up to retrieve it, and as I dangled it above the box, I looked inside. There was a glimpse of pink. I dropped the pump and dug my hand down frantically. It closed around a small tennis shoe.
Is it possible I could have left some shoes in the box when I turned it over? I prayed silently that this was the shoe I needed and lifted my hand out. Yes, it was a pink tennis shoe, but was it the match? I did not dare tell the little girl I might have found it. Instead, I quietly picked up the other shoe and compared the two. It was a match! I felt like a little kid. I wanted to yell, “Look! Look what I found!” at the top of my lungs. Instead, I quietly handed the shoes to the mother, who was still trying to dry her daughter’s tears. She held the shoes and looked up at me.
“Thank you. Thank you. You can’t know how much this means to her,” she said softly.
But I did know. I finally understood. I had been coming here in search of a way to help people, and I had been frustrated with the realization that I could not change these women’s lives. I had no control over their situations, but I understood at that moment why I was there. It didn’t matter that morning that I couldn’t give the woman a job, or a house, or a husband.
What mattered was that I helped a little girl find a pink shoe.

“Would you like to be a clown this year?” Mother asked as she rummaged through the costume box. “We could paint your face all white and red.”
“No,” Jake answered solemnly. “I want my own face to show.”
“Your own face would show if you wore this cute Teddy Bear suit,” Mother suggested next.
“Uh-uh.” Jake shrugged. “I want to wear my Sunday suit.”
Mother looked surprised. She knew that Jake didn’t usually want to wear his Sunday suit anywhere besides church. Even when he’d played “Lightning Ranger” in the first grade talent show, Mother hadn’t been able to talk him into putting on his coat and tie. Instead, he’d worn a lightweight sweater neatly tucked into the waistband of his slacks.
“You could wear your suit and be a vampire,” Mother said, handing him a set of scary-looking plastic teeth.
“No way!” Jake exclaimed. “I don’t want to scare people this year, I want to be nice,”
“Magicians are usually nice,” Mother told him. “Maybe we could make a magic wand for you to carry.”
“Nah!” Jake shook his head. “I’d like to carry a book this Halloween.”
“Whatever you say,” Mother agreed, then wondered out loud if Jake was planning on dressing up like kind old Mr. Larkins, who worked at the city library.
Jake began to giggle when his mother mentioned their friend. Mr. Larkins was just about as nice as a person could be. He wore a suit to work each day, and you hardly ever saw him without some kind of book in his hand. But Jake didn’t plan to be a librarian this October 31. He had something else in mind.
“Wait a minute, Mom,” Jake said, “and I’ll show you what I want to be.”
Mother had time to put away the costume box, dust the storage shelves, and sweep half the basement floor before Jake returned. She grinned from ear to ear when she saw him standing there all dressed up in his Sunday suit with a white shirt and tie. His face was freshly scrubbed, and his hair was parted straight.
In his hand he held a very special book, and pinned right above his pocket was a black construction paper name tag with white chalk letters that read: Elder Jacob B. Adams.
“I see,” Mother said softly, brushing a happy tear from her cheek. “You’re going to be a missionary.”

A Young Women teacher had a blind girl in her class whose participation was limited because she could not study in the usual way. The teacher would go to the girl’s home and read out loud while the girl translated her Personal Progress book into braille. The work took two years. The teacher also encouraged the other girls in the class to help. Under her direction, they went to the blind girl’s home and read to her from the manual until it was translated into braille.
The Master’s touch through that teacher reached out and blessed not only this girl but many others who are blind, because the braille translation was made available at the general offices of the Young Women organization.

I am a new member of the Church as of February 26, 1977. I was first taught the gospel by two fine young missionaries about seven years ago but did not join the Church at that time. Throughout this long period the Church magazines have been my only contact with the Church. I have received endless spiritual guidance and encouragement from the many articles. There have been many times during this period when I have been very depressed, and the magazines have always been a source of strength. They have played a strong part in finally bringing me into the true Church.
Tom WaitmanCupertino, California

I once attended a funeral for a young missionary who was killed in an accident. The missionary’s father spoke in the service and described the heartache of an unexpected mortal separation from a beloved child. He forthrightly declared that he personally did not understand the reasons or timing for such an event. But I always will remember this good man also declaring that he knew God knew the reasons and timing for the passing of his child—and that was good enough for him. He told the congregation that he and his family, though sorrowful, would be fine; their testimonies remained firm and steadfast. He concluded his remarks with this declaration: “I want you to know that as far as the gospel of Jesus Christ is concerned, our family is all in. We are all in.”
Though the loss of a dear loved one was heart-wrenching and difficult, the members of this valiant family spiritually were prepared to prove that they could learn lessons of eternal importance through the things that they suffered.

I still remember one particular afternoon as if it were yesterday. I sat down next to a smiling lady during our Sunday meetings, which at that time were held both in the morning and the afternoon. I took her hand to make sure she would stay with me. But I was only six years old, and I was quite tired. My eyelids began to close, and though I struggled hard to keep hold of that warm hand, I fell asleep. When I woke up, the hand was no longer there. Tears ran down my small face, and my heart was sad.
Her name was Sister Avon Compton. She and her husband, Merlin, were always smiling, and their faces reflected love. When I close my eyes today, I can still see them clearly. I often tell my Primary class about them. Their story is the best way I know to teach my CTR class about love.
They had come to Perú from their own country to be with us for a while. She did not speak our language very well, but her husband spoke it better than some of us. We admired him and knew he loved our language and culture.
I do not remember exactly when I began to love Sister Compton, but I think it must have been that first Sunday in Primary. She taught us the song “When I Go to Church” (Children’s Songbook, 157). She had brought pictures, and as she taught us the words of the song, she taught us about singing. She told us that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ liked to hear our voices raised in praise.
On another occasion, we again sat together during sacrament meeting. We could not say much to each other because of the language difference, but we could communicate. During the meeting, she got out a piece of paper and some crayons. I thought she was going to write something, but she whispered, “Let’s draw Mama.” She drew a small circle. Then she pointed to her eyes and gave me the piece of paper and a crayon. I understood that she wanted me to draw the eyes, and I did. I gave the crayon back to her, and she drew hair. Then I drew the dress, and she drew the arms. Eventually, the two of us had drawn a picture of my mother. I felt so happy! I showed it to Mama, and I gave Sister Compton a big hug.
She always had something to share with us. Often it was a children’s story she had written herself. One day she talked to me about Jesus Christ. Then we colored some pictures she had drawn of Jesus.
The day came when Brother and Sister Compton had to leave. I asked why. Mama told me they had a family who missed and needed them. I thought of Mama and how I could not be away from her for very long. That’s when I knew I had to let Sister Compton go.
Many years have passed since then. The letters between us have never stopped, and our friendship has become stronger. When I think of Sister Compton, I think of the words our Lord Jesus Christ left with His disciples: “This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you” (John 15:12).

“I’m pregnant!”
Conflicting feelings awoke in my heart as my friend shared the news with me. One half of my heart was so happy for her, truly. But on the other half, I felt a raw, biting ache that I immediately tried to push down into nonexistence.
When you don’t acknowledge pain, it’s not real, right? (Wrong!)
I wish that were the case.
This was the 10th friend of mine who had announced a pregnancy in the past few months, and trust me, I was immensely excited for them all.
However, I couldn’t help but feel deep sadness in my soul. I strive to not be a jealous person, but on this day, as someone who is living the reality of reproductive struggles, I felt I had come across one too many baby announcements. The pain in my heart overflowed.
This part of my life felt so unfair, so uncertain, and so unbelievably hard.
However, in that moment of self-pity, I remembered a source of spiritual strength I always turn to when I am feeling vexed about my circumstances:
My patriarchal blessing.
What is it about patriarchal blessings that makes them so special?
Recently, Elder Kazuhiko Yamashita of the Seventy talked about the significance of patriarchal blessings. He taught, “Your patriarchal blessing is a message from your Heavenly Father and will likely include promises and inspired counsel to guide you throughout your life.”
What a gift—seriously.
I received my blessing at 13 years old because I was struggling with some big challenges and I wanted to better connect with Heavenly Father.
And while it did bring me the connection to Him and peace I needed at that time of life, it also continues to do so today.
I have read these sacred words more times than I can count. Strangely, although the words have never changed, they have comforted and inspired my soul in different ways. Without fail, this blessing from heaven seems to say exactly what I need to hear at any moment in time.
When you read and sincerely ponder your patriarchal blessing, you truly can feel that Heavenly Father is speaking words of affirmation, assurance, and comfort to your soul.
Since I was young, I’ve had an illness that I knew would impact my ability to bring children into the world. Through a lot of prayers, temple attendance, and simply trusting the Lord, I’ve felt peace and hope about my situation many, many times.
So I was frustrated with myself for once again feeling isolated from the rest of the young expectant mothers around me.
This wasn’t my first time trying to wrangle these difficult emotions.
And like always, when I turned to the words in my patriarchal blessing for solace, I felt the Spirit’s comforting presence fill my soul.
When I read about my divine identity, I feel connected to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
When I read about my spiritual gifts, I feel empowered to face my challenges with grace and to share the light of Jesus Christ with others.
When I read about the promises the Lord has made to me, I feel a renewed sense of reassurance that He will provide my life with blessings in His time, even if I need to wait on Him.
Elder Randall K. Bennett of the Seventy recently taught, “Cherishing my patriarchal blessing while I was young blessed me with courage when I was discouraged, comfort when I was fearful, peace when I felt anxious, hope when I felt hopeless, and joy when I needed it most.”
I can say the same.
If you haven’t yet received your patriarchal blessing, I invite you to do whatever is necessary to prepare to receive it. Few things in this world have made me feel more connected to my divine identity—and to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ—than this sacred message.
If you have received your blessing, don’t take those words for granted—remember this blessing is your “personal Liahona.” Receiving a patriarchal blessing allows us to more fully realize how much our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know us individually and want to guide our lives toward joy.
Elder Yamashita also testified: “[Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ] love us. Patriarchal blessings are sacred gifts from Them. When you receive your blessing, you will realize and feel how They love you and how They focus on you individually.”
I feel the gap between myself and Them minimize every time I read my patriarchal blessing. Although it doesn’t reveal all the details about how my life will unfold, it does reveal that I can turn to Them for guidance and that I can have hope for the promised blessings I’m seeking to come into my life when the time is right.
My patriarchal blessing deepens my trust in Them, which allows me to replace the bite of unfairness and jealousy in my heart with the warmth of peace and hope.
It can do the same for you.

Alaska in February may not be anyone’s idea of warm, but Mia Maids in the Sterling Ward, Soldotna Alaska Stake, spread the sunshine of their love and smiles year round by helping others. For Valentine’s Day this year, the girls made small gift baskets and took them to the elderly sisters in their ward. Even more important than the treats in the baskets, though, was the time the girls spent visiting the women and finding out about their lives. Here’s what the girls had to say about the project:
“It was a wonderful activity that brought us together. I am so happy to be able to serve, especially the elderly people.”—Sally Van Dyke
“I enjoyed making these baskets because I got to be with my friends and it was a lot of fun. (It always is when we get together.)”—Megan Maxwell
“It was so nice to visit some of the older people in our ward and hear their interesting stories.”—Shannon Christenson
“Those ladies are so happy and bring joy to my life.”—Rachel Cook

It took a lot of time and sincere effort to break bad habits. Eventually I was judged by my priesthood leader as worthy to serve a mission. The best feeling in the world was to go to the temple and know I am clean. The Spirit I wanted to feel during all those teenage years came flooding into my heart and life. I am so thankful for the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
The adversary still works on me, trying to get me to backslide. But I have learned to put on the armor of God every day. I know Jesus Christ loves me, and I love Him.

During the first month in Svalbard we worked in teams of two as we examined the rocks and collected samples. The Norwegians who had transported us to the island had left us a radio with instructions to contact them each week at a certain time. They warned us to be on the lookout for polar bears (and for seals, the polar bears’ main food). They explained that almost every year someone in Spitsbergen was killed and eaten by a bear. The previous year a family of parents, children, and a bachelor uncle had disembarked from a tourist cruise to camp a few nights. The ship was to return for them in a few days. (Tourists were not supposed to be off their ships camping, but some did it anyway.) While the family was camping, the uncle, thinking he recognized the children playing outside his tent door, stuck his head out. But it was not the children. The moment he put his head out, a polar bear ripped it off with one good swat and then dragged him just out of camp and ate him while the rest watched in horror. Fortunately the boat returned before the bear became hungry again.

As you can imagine, after hearing stories like this one, we were always looking out over the ocean and over the landscape to see if a bear was approaching. We were particularly cautious when seals came into the bay. We carried with us rifles and 45-Magnum revolvers wherever we went. We slept with the guns at our sides. There was no place to run or hide if a bear decided that we would be its next meal.

About midway through the field season, Dr. Craddock was picked up by helicopter and returned home to Wisconsin. This left three of us—myself, another graduate student named Ernie, and one undergraduate student named Jerry—to work for another month on our own. The problem was that Ernie needed to work in an area that was about 25 kilometers from our base camp. I also had work to do away from base camp, but closer. The decision was made that Ernie and Jerry would pack out together to work for two weeks in the more distant area and leave me by myself.

I don’t know how many of you have ever been truly alone for an extended period of time, but for me it was a new experience. I had, of course, hiked alone before in the mountains of Utah, but I had never camped alone and certainly had never been alone for two weeks. I was doing pretty well and feeling that this “being alone stuff” wasn’t all that bad—only talking to myself occasionally—when one evening the fog rolled in off the ocean. Of course, when I say “evening” I mean it would have been evening in Wisconsin or Utah, but in the Arctic, where we were, it was light 24 hours a day. The fog, however, was particularly thick, and I was almost unable to see my hand when held out at arm’s length.

I ate and then retired to my tent, placing my rifle on one side of the bed and the pistol on the other. As I lay in bed, the sounds of the ocean, which were usually so pleasant and comforting, were now muffled by the fog and seemed different. My mind began to interpret them differently. I was sure I heard something moving along the beach and knew it could not be my companions, who were 20 to 30 kilometers away. Fear slowly crept into my heart and soul. It was fear like I had never known before—the kind that makes a person think and behave in irrational ways. I was sure the sounds were the padding of a polar bear coming along the beach and it would not be long until I was discovered. I imagined my companions returning to camp finding a few mangled remains left from the polar bear’s meal.

I sat up with the rifle in one hand and the pistol in the other in a state of panic, waiting for the inevitable to happen. It was then that I remembered I was not alone. I bowed my head and prayed fervently to my Father in Heaven to calm me and protect me. And He did. His Spirit engulfed me, the fear was gone, and I lay down and fell into a peaceful slumber. Once again the test had worked. Once again all I had been required to do was to open the door, and He had entered.

But overcoming their own problems with deafness was only the beginning. Virl and Tom realized the extensiveness of the deafness problem while serving missions for the Church in Canada. It was then that they became aware of the small amount of medical research being done, including research in the areas of psychological adjustment, speech therapy, and education.
“Tom and I decided that from that time forward we would do whatever we could to help others in the ‘silent world’ of the deaf,” said Virl.
They were instrumental in starting a program for the deaf in western Canada. This later led to a deaf mission in California.