Gospel Story Finder

In a 1929 American football game held in Pasadena, California, a player named Roy Riegels recovered a fumble and ran almost the length of the field toward the wrong goal line. He was tackled and brought down by one of his own teammates, thus preventing a score for the other team. He had lost his sense of direction in a moment of stress. His mistake cost his team a victory. He was a great player, but ever afterward he was remembered as the man who ran the wrong way.

I was born into a family of many children, and I remember being able to have open discussions with my mother. One day, I asked her: “Mommy, why does one of my classmates always obtain the highest grades in class?” She looked at me and kindly replied: “Indeed, you are going to the same school; but he does something differently than you do. In fact, he goes to church every week, but you only attend Church sometimes.”
Since that day, I made a personal commitment to always attend church on Sunday so that I could do better at school. My grades became better because I did go to church regularly, although I did not always fully understand the teachings.

“Nothing exciting happened to me during the summer,” Lin complained to his friend Harvey. “So how can I write a theme about it?”
“I went to my grandmother’s in August,” Harvey volunteered, “and my seven cousins came …”
“And you roasted eighty-four ears of corn,” interrupted Lin. “You already told me all about it. But that doesn’t help me with my assignment!”
“Oh, you’ll think of something,” Harvey told Lin as he went out the back door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As Lin stared at the blank piece of paper before him on the kitchen table, he remembered Mrs. Rogers had told the class that they could make up a story for their “Summer Happening” theme if they couldn’t think of anything else.
Lin decided that was just what he’d have to do. As he reached for his pencil, an idea flashed into his mind and he quickly wrote at the top of his paper:
Through Darkest Africaby Lin P. Wang
The title pleased him, and immediately he began to write:
The natives were restless. I listened to the drums beating. What were they saying? They stopped. I waited. My cat, Chu, waited too. Suddenly I heard a noise. …
Tap, tap. Lin leaped from the table and hurried to open the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Turner,” he said. “Mom’s upstairs. Come in, and I’ll call her.”
The little lady’s gentle blue eyes twinkled behind her glasses. “I came to see you, Lin,” she explained. “The temperature is supposed to drop tonight, and I’m afraid Carmen might catch cold. Could you put in my storm windows for me?”
“I’d be glad to,” Lin said, pulling on his plaid jacket.
“Carmen’s from Brazil, and she’s used to a warm climate,” Mrs. Turner explained as they crossed the street.
Mrs. Turner unlocked her front door and called, “Carmen, I’m back.”
Squawk, squawk! the parrot answered.
Carefully Lin latched the storm windows on the inside.
Later when he arrived home eating one of Mrs. Turner’s chocolate donuts, he read what he had written.
It didn’t quite please him, and so he changed the title to THROUGH DARKEST BRAZIL and continued to write:
A giant parrot flew past, flapping its wings. Mad with rage, it attacked me. I fought it off and so did Chu. Then something long and thin slithered through the tall grass. It was …
Br-ring, br-ring! Impatiently Lin answered the telephone.
“Hi, Lin!” said a familiar voice.
“Hi, Mr. Martin. What can I do for you?” Lin asked.
“I need your help.” Mr. Martin replied. “Can you come over to my house immediately?”
Lin zipped up his jacket and jogged down the street to Mr. Martin’s house. A tantalizing spicy smell came from the open door, and Joy, a blonde cocker spaniel, barked a friendly welcome.
“My dinner guests will soon be arriving,” Mr. Martin began as he opened the door, “and I can’t leave the kitchen. Joy needs her evening walk, and I wonder if you could possibly take her out for me?”
“Sure,” said Lin.
After the cocker finished sniffing Lin’s sneakers, the dog plunged down the driveway, dragging Lin along.
When they turned the corner, Lin saw Chu vigorously washing his ears.
Woof, woof! Joy also saw Lin’s cat and jerked the leash from Lin’s hands.
Hisst, hisst! Chu hunched his back angrily and his fur stood straight up.
Lin grabbed Joy’s leash just in time and took her back to Mr. Martin.
Mr. Martin gave Lin a steaming dish. “Have some of my curry,” he said. “It’s the food of Indian princes. Thanks for helping me, Lin.”
Lin hurried home with his dish of curry. As he nibbled the spicy rice and chicken, he read his theme. He quickly took his pencil and changed the title to THROUGH DARKEST INDIA Then he wrote:
… a man-eating tiger. Roaring, it leaped through the darkness. Chu fought off the vicious animal. I staggered into the clearing and stood before the campfire eating curry, the food of Indian princes.
“Hello, Lin,” Dad said as he appeared in the doorway. “Has your homework kept you busy?”
“It sure has!” Lin replied. “Harvey dropped by, I put in storm windows for Mrs. Turner, and Mr. Martin asked me to take Joy for a walk. In between I’ve been working on my theme.”
Lin slipped his “Summer Happening” theme into his notebook and stretched. Being a writer was hard work!

Most of us recognize that God speaks to all His children in their own language. We have likely seen how He communicates with us in our language and how He communicates with others in their own language. This is especially noticeable if we have had the opportunity to live in a country other than our own. I initially became aware of this principle as a young missionary when my first companion and I taught the gospel of Jesus Christ in standard Italian, a language that was not our native tongue.

During our time together in Lugano, Switzerland, my companion and I found and taught a family from Sicily, Italy. We spoke Italian, but the family spoke Sicilian, which is distinct enough from standard Italian that it is considered a separate language. The local branch members spoke a different variation of Italian that is even less well-known: Swiss Italian. Yet the branch members used their native Swiss Italian to help us fellowship and teach this young family.

Despite the differences between standard Italian, Swiss Italian, and Sicilian, the Lord spoke to and through each of us by the Holy Ghost, according to our language and understanding. Eventually, this young family entered the waters of baptism and were confirmed members of the Church.

“The first thing is always beauty. Sorry, that’s just the way it is. I mean, there are things you can do. I mean, you can help yourself out. …”
He is blushing, all six feet three inches of him, because he is in a Young Women meeting, not in the high school gym. He is our male expert for our dating lesson today, and I think the only reason Jodi asked, “What’s the first thing that attracts a guy to a girl?” was to capture his brown-eyed attention. Only now he’s not looking at her. He’s staring at the floor, embarrassed to have been so openly honest in church.
Serves him right, I think. I don’t ask my question: What if a girl is ugly and fat but funny, smart, and considerate? Is beauty such a vital virtue that a girl can’t be considered for a date without it? Anyway, what does he know about “helping yourself out”?
I say that because I’ve been helping myself out for the past three years. I do it with a rattail brush and Sticking Pretty hair spray, with Glitter n’Glo eye shadow and Perfectly Pink lipstick. I even practice a weight-loss program called Body Be Good. But I am 16 years old, and I am just as pathetic as I was before self-help. I am five feet tall and weigh 165 pounds. My hair is 22 inches of beetle-brown seaweed. My eyes are blue BBs, legally blind, buried beneath the inch-and-a-half thick lenses of my steel-rimmed glasses. My mouth is in its fourth year of orthodontic intervention, and my face ought to be intervened with too—by a dermatologist. I imagine this is the self-help to which Dr. Dating refers.
It is noon. The lesson ends, and I plod out of the Young Women room while Jodi simpers about our stellar speaker.
All the way home, I stare out of the car and remember the first thing is always beauty. My pudgy cheeks and frazzled hair hover in the window, superimposed on all the trees and houses that we pass.
“What are you thinking about, Marie?” Dad asks when he spies me in the rearview mirror, moping at my reflection.
“Nut’uhn,” I grunt.
“What?”
I gulp, deciding it’s worth a second opinion. “Dad, what first attracted you to Mom?”
He grins over at Mom like they met yesterday. “Well, I saw her across the room at a stake young adult dance. And I thought, Wow, she’s pretty cute!”
My mouth twists. “That was it?”
“Well, what did you want?” he laughs. “Shooting stars? An angel overhead saying, ‘Hey, George, she’s the one?’”
I scowl at my shoes. Two to none. The first thing is always beauty.
“Why do you ask?” Mom asks as she turns to face me.
“Never mind,” I sulk.
Lunch is a Body Be Good banana shake. Mom and Dad and Anna eat baked potatoes and talk about Sunday School. When Mom asks me what my Laurel lesson was about, I mutter, “Datin’” and don’t clarify when she tells me to enunciate.
“Can I be excused?” is all I say.
Mom looks at Dad and nods, and I head to my bedroom.
I look at the picture of the Bountiful Utah Temple above my bed and shake my head to shoo away thoughts of self-pity.
That’s when I remember the family’s love and romance expert, my Grandpa John, who courted my grandma via the postman while he was in Europe during World War II and she was in Casper, Wyoming. Grandpa and Grandma passed away when I was little, but Mom still tells the stories about how they fell and stayed in love. Mom has all of Grandpa’s letters to Grandma. I will make it a survey. Grandpa is source number three.
The letters are in Mom’s closet on the high shelf, so I have to lug a chair to reach them. I create a clunking racket as I rummage through journals and baby books and photo albums. Mom comes in to ask me what I’m doing.
“I’m just looking for Grandpa’s letters.”
“Marie, is something bothering you?” Mom raises an eyebrow, but I’ve found the letter box. I pull the chair back to Dad’s desk and retreat to my room with the letters from the expert.
“Dear Emma,” reads the first one I open. It smells like smoky dust. “Hello beautiful. I miss the glow of your pretty face. …”
I quit there and tally the score: three to zero.
“Think beautiful,” I whisper to myself in the mirror. I’ve shed my glasses, so I have to squint with my nose an inch from the mirror to scrutinize my reflection. My eyelids are glittering. My lips are pink. My eyelashes are lengthened with Anna’s mascara. I twirl pieces of my hair onto the top of my head to configure an elegant up-do. Twisting my face from side to side, I experiment with different expressions. But even in profile, my cheeks are too pimply. My eyes are too tiny. My hair is too fuzzy.
I shake down my hair. It’s hopeless. I’m hopeless. I have no beauty. I return my glasses to their perch on my nose.
The next Young Women lesson is about eternal marriage. Bishop Wright and his wife are this week’s guest lecturers. They are gentler and more profound than Dr. Dating. They do not talk about beauty, except as it exists in the house of the Lord. I feel my insides tingle. It is my deepest desire to go to the Lord’s house so I can return to live again with Heavenly Father.
Sister Wright’s eyes moisten when she bears testimony of the temple. “Girls,” she says, “we may joke sometimes about being better than men, about being better looking, smarter, or more sensitive. But the truth is neither men nor women can achieve exaltation alone. In 1 Corinthians 11:11, we read, ‘Neither is the man without the woman, neither the woman without the man, in the Lord.’ Only with your eternal companion can you attain the highest degree of glory in the celestial kingdom.”
I feel a warmth within my chest, and I know her testimony must be true. But my stomach lurches. I have a question which I am too frightened to ask. What if a girl is ugly and fat, with no beauty to which an eternal companion will ever be attracted? I picture my reflection in my mirror under the up-do, and I shudder, and it’s not because I feel the Spirit.
Mom has told me ever since I could read that I can always find answers in the scriptures. I have never wanted an answer as badly as I want one now. When we get home from church, I tell Mom that I feel funny, and I don’t want lunch. I shut myself in my room. Frantically, I look up all the scripture weddings I can remember: Rebekah, Rachel, Esther. They are numbers four, five, and six in my first-thing-that-attracts-eternal-companions survey. I devour the words.
“And the damsel was very fair to look upon. … And Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah’s tent, and took Rebekah, and she became his wife; and he loved her” (Gen. 24:16, 67).
Four to zero.
“Leah was tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured. And Jacob loved Rachel; … And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her” (Gen. 29:17, 20).
Five to zero. My heart squeezes Spandex-tight.
“And he brought up … Esther … and the maid was fair and beautiful; … And the king loved Esther above all the women” (Esth. 2:7, 17).
Six to zero.
It isn’t fair. No beauty, no hope, no exaltation.
My door creaks, and in steps Mom. “Marie, what’s the matter?” She sees my scriptures and my watery eyes. “What are you doing, honey? What’s wrong?”
It splutters out of me all at once. “Boys will only love you if you’re beautiful. It’s always the first thing. They aren’t attracted unless you’ve got beauty. They don’t get attracted, you don’t get married. You don’t get married, no exaltation. I took a survey. You and Grandma and Rebekah, Rachel, and Esther. And I’m never getting married! I’m never going to be able to live with Father in Heaven! Look, look at this verse. “I beheld a virgin, and she was exceedingly fair and white. … A virgin, most beautiful and fair above all other virgins … bearing a child in her arms” (1 Ne. 11:13, 15, 20).
Mom touches my arm gently and lifts my scriptures from my hands, “Bearing a child,” she slowly repeats and looks at me with soft eyes. “Marie, may I read you another scripture about that child?”
She doesn’t wait for a response. “He hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.
“He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: … he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
“Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows” (Isa. 53:2–4).
She pauses while I lower my chin into my chest.
“Maybe … maybe you’re right, Marie. Maybe men only love and desire that which they think is beautiful. After all, they didn’t love our Savior. They despised Him. They crucified Him.”
I shake my head slowly. “But He was the most beautiful of all.”
Mom doesn’t respond. Her eyes are expectant. She wants me to say more.
“They just …” I pause. “They just couldn’t tell.”
“Why not?”
“Well, they didn’t recognize it. They couldn’t tell that it was beauty. He was beautiful because …” I blow a frustrated gust of air through pursed lips. “I can’t explain it. He was beautiful in the way you just can’t see.”
Mom nods in agreement and reads, “‘Therefore, what manner of men ought ye to be? Verily I say unto you, even as I am’ (3 Ne. 27:27). Marie, you don’t have to look like Grandma or Esther or Rachel or Rebekah. For all we know, their kind of beauty was as invisible as our Savior’s. The only beauty you have to cultivate is His. If you can be beautiful like He was beautiful, you won’t have to worry about winning an Isaac or Jacob. Men who saw no beauty in our Savior may also not see your beauty. But men of Christ, acquainted with His grief, will come to love you and say, ‘She is the most beautiful of all.’ There may be pain caused by those who don’t know you, but you will draw closer to the Savior as you emulate Him. And until your Isaac or your Jacob comes, you will know that Christ has borne your grief and carried your sorrows. And He will comfort you.”
She places my scriptures back in my lap, squeezes my hand, and drops me a tissue for my sniffling nose. Then she slips out of my bedroom and closes the door. After a minute, I wipe tears and mascara and Glitter n’Glo off my eyelids. In my heart I feel a beauty that I know must be His.

Years ago, while serving as a stake president, I submitted a recommendation for a brother to serve as an ordinance worker in the temple. After explaining what a wonderful ordinance worker he would be, I inadvertently pressed “Do not endorse,” which submitted the recommendation. After unsuccessfully trying to recall the message, I called the temple president and said, “I have made a horrible mistake.” Without hesitation, this good temple president said, “President Eyre, there is nothing that you have done that can’t be forgiven and ultimately corrected.” What a great truth. Indeed, Jesus Christ is “mighty to save.”

So how does this correspond to our everyday lives? Let me illustrate with a personal example. You may recall that one year ago we received some guidance from our living prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley. In the August 2005 Ensign, as part of the First Presidency message, he said:

We studied the Book of Mormon in Sunday School this past year. Nonetheless I offer a challenge to members of the Church throughout the world and to our friends everywhere to read or reread the Book of Mormon. If you will read a bit more than one and one-half chapters a day, you will be able to finish the book before the end of this year. . . .

Without reservation I promise you that if each of you will observe this simple program, regardless of how many times you previously may have read the Book of Mormon, there will come into your lives and into your homes an added measure of the Spirit of the Lord, a strengthened resolution to walk in obedience to His commandments, and a stronger testimony of the living reality of the Son of God. [Gordon B. Hinckley, “A Testimony Vibrant and True, Ensign, August 2005, 5–6]

I am sure you remember this challenge. How did you respond to it? Let me tell you of my experience. I remember that when the challenge came out, I was going strong with a personal study of the Doctrine and Covenants. I remember distinctly going through a thought process something like “I’m doing really well with my Doctrine and Covenants study right now. I’ve read the Book of Mormon many times, and, if I read it now before the end of the year, it will take enough time that I know it will mess up my current study. Maybe I can come back early next year and study the Book of Mormon.” Do you see the fallacy of my reasoning? I was sort of being a disciple of Christ and more or less striving to live the gospel, but I wasn’t following the counsel received through His prophet with exactness. I was rationalizing, saying I had read the Book of Mormon many times, when a prophet of God had said, “Regardless of how many times you previously may have read the Book of Mormon, there will come into your lives and into your homes an added measure of the Spirit of the Lord.”

After a few days of fighting this challenge, it finally sunk into me that I had been asked by a prophet to do something, and it was time to stop moaning about my Doctrine and Covenants study and get with the program. So I did start studying the Book of Mormon, and some interesting things happened in our family. My wife, who is always ahead of me in spiritual things, had already embraced the challenge and was studying the Book of Mormon. As we went forward accepting this challenge, we noticed that each of our five children, without any urging from us, had also accepted the challenge, and each was regularly studying the Book of Mormon. One or two of our children had a nontraditional New Year’s Eve last year as they finished up the last few chapters, but each member of our family was able to finish reading the Book of Mormon, including our youngest son, who finished a personal reading of the entire book for the first time. That in and of itself was enough blessing for me as a father, but I also observed, as President Hinckley had promised, that an added measure of the Spirit came into our home, and my testimony of Jesus Christ and His gospel was strengthened.

“I was reading the newspaper when one of my young grandsons snuggled up to me,” said Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “As I read, I was delighted to hear his sweet voice chattering on in the background. Imagine my surprise when, a few moments later, he pushed himself between me and the paper. Taking my face in his hands and pressing his nose up to mine, he asked, ‘Grandpa! Are you in there?’

“… Being there means understanding the hearts of our youth and connecting with them. And connecting with them means not just conversing with them but doing things with them too. …

“We must plan and take advantage of teaching moments. …

“… The more I live, the more I recognize that the teaching moments in my youth, especially those provided by my parents, have shaped my life and made me who I am.”4

Grandpa Reilly had never been to one of his grandsons’ missionary farewells before, but at Derek’s invitation he decided to come to this particular farewell—“Just to see what all the fuss is about,” he told his daughters. So when Derek began to speak at the end of the program, he grandfather watched from the fourth row.

“I’d like to take this opportunity to thank someone who has helped me in more ways than he’ll ever know,” Derek said. “That person is my grandpa Reilly. There isn’t much that I could do to repay him for his help, except to give him my most treasured possession: my testimony of the truthfulness of this gospel.”

Derek had to pause for a few moments because tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he could no longer trust himself to speak. He regained his composure, then cleared his throat and plunged on. “I know by the power of the Holy Ghost that this is the gospel of Jesus Christ and that by following its principles and ordinances, we and our loved ones will be able to return to Heavenly Father and live with him forever. I know of no other truth more simple or precious.”

Then Derek picked up a Book of Mormon. “Because of your advice, Grandpa, I’m going to be teaching the gospel to the Portuguese people. Before I leave, though, I challenge you to read this book. I’d like you to be my first investigator.” Derek noticed that his grandpa, too, was crying.

After the meeting, Grandpa Reilly confided to him, “For 20 years I’ve wanted someone to say that to me, but I was too stubborn to ask for myself. I’m just grateful that I have a grandson who will give me that chance.”

Derek baptized and confirmed his grandfather two weeks later, three days before he entered the Missionary Training Center. Two years later, when he came home from Portugal, he had the privilege of going through the Washington, D.C., temple with his family and seeing Grandpa sealed to Grandma Reilly for time and all eternity. After the ceremony, Grandpa looked over at Derek and smiled. “She approves,” he said, pointing upwards.

While I was serving in the U.S. Air Force during World War II, my missionary experience in Brazil was instrumental in my not entering into direct combat. After completing my advanced navigational training, all of our flight group entered directly into combat except one other lieutenant and myself, who were assigned to be instructors at the school. Later a group of Brazilian cadets were assigned to our base, and because of my knowledge of Portuguese gained during my mission, I was assigned to their class. A few months later, I received my orders to report for overseas combat training. When the Brazilian cadets’ commanding officer learned of this, he went to my commanding officer, explained that I was the only instructor that could speak Portuguese and told him how much they needed me to stay. My orders were cancelled.
Finally orders went out from the commanding general that all base personnel that had not had overseas combat experience were to be assigned to go. I was sent to Chatham Field, Georgia, where I was assigned as the navigator on a B–29, the newest and largest bomber in the Air Force at that time. We entered our training with a departure date for Saipan in the South Pacific set for September 15. What happened? The end of the war came late in August, and I missed getting into combat by two weeks. A series of coincidences? I think not. Once again prayers were answered.

This story took place in the USA.
“I can’t come over today,” Blair said. Her face felt hot from embarrassment.
Her friends stared at her. “But you said you would!” Sammy said.
“I know.” Blair stared down at her feet. “I’m not feeling very good. I’m sorry.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Jessica said.
Blair didn’t know what to say. She wished she could go to Sammy’s house. But her stomach really hurt today. She needed to go home and rest.
Blair had Crohn’s disease. It made her stomach ache, and it really hurt. Most days her stomach hurt at least a little. But some days were worse than others. Today was one of those days. She wished she could pick which days she hurt more. It seemed like her stomach hurt the most whenever she wanted to do something fun.
“Let’s just go,” Sammy said to Jessica.
When Blair got home, she took her medicine. Then she tried to sleep. But she hurt too much.
Mom and Dad came to check on her. Dad sat on her bed. “How are you feeling?”
“OK. The medicine helped a little,” Blair said.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t go to Sammy’s house,” Mom said.
Blair felt tears in her eyes. “It’s not fair! My friends don’t understand what it’s like.” Blair threw a pillow at the wall. “I just want to get better.”
Dad gave Blair a hug. “I know. Would you like a priesthood blessing?”
Blair nodded. Blessings usually helped her feel more peace.
Dad put his hands on Blair’s head and blessed her to rest and feel comfort. It was a nice blessing. It helped her remember that Heavenly Father loved her. But she still felt sad about her friends.
After the blessing, Mom and Dad gave Blair a kiss goodnight. They left so she could sleep.
Blair lay back down and closed her eyes. The blessing had helped, but she was still hurting.
She knelt by her bed to pray. At first it was like most of her prayers. She told Heavenly Father what she was grateful for and asked to feel better. But this time she kept going.
“Heavenly Father, I feel really sad. I miss being with my friends,” she said. “I feel lonely. No one understands how much I hurt each day. I miss what it was like before I was sick.”
The longer Blair prayed, the more she felt that Heavenly Father was listening to her prayer. She couldn’t hear or see Him, but she felt His love. She knew He cared about what she had to say. Blair didn’t want the feeling to end.
Blair prayed until she had told Heavenly Father everything she felt. Then a thought came to her mind. Blair’s friends might never know what it felt like to have Crohn’s disease, but Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ did. They knew how much she hurt and how lonely she felt. They would always be there for her.
Blair felt like she was getting the biggest hug. After she finished her prayer, she went to find her parents to tell them what happened.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Mom asked.
Blair smiled. “No. I’ve been praying.”
Mom looked surprised. “We said good night a while ago. Were you praying that whole time?”
Had it really been so long? Blair nodded. “It was like getting a big hug. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know how I feel. Because of Them, I don’t have to feel alone!”
Illustrations by Tammie Lyon

From the time I was a small boy in Lima, Perú, I had an inclination to seek the things of God. In my childhood, I faithfully attended my family’s church. I spent part of my youth singing in the church choir.
But when I was 17 years old, as I was praying in church, a feeling of uncertainty came into my mind. A particular point of doctrine caused me to wonder if I was in the right place.
That very night, I looked through much of the New Testament. I also went to see a neighbor who was a member of another church, and together we read from the Bible and found answers to some of the doctrinal questions that had begun troubling me.
It wasn’t hard for me to see that I had been on the wrong road. But it wasn’t easy to find the truth. I attended various religious meetings. I read several articles that discussed God, but none of them aroused any great interest in me. Meanwhile I continued to read the New Testament. I was very interested in finding out about the sheep “not of this fold” that Jesus mentioned in John 10:16.
For almost a year I identified myself as a Christian but did not affiliate with any specific denomination. I was studying at a technology center, and religion was a frequent topic of conversation. One day I overheard a discussion between a young Latter-day Saint and a member of another church. The assurance in the Latter-day Saint’s voice and the power of his words made an impression on me. The only thing I had heard about Mormons was that they were a group of cowboys. I didn’t know any Mormons well, and there was no LDS Church building nearby.
About that time I was waiting in a doctor’s office, and I noticed that the young lady seated next to me had opened a book with a blue cover. The book’s text was written in columns like the Bible. I was curious to know if it was the Bible, but I also wanted to get back to the comic book I had been reading.
I directed my eyes to the blue book and read a word at the top of the page: Alma. I made an effort to remember that name from my Bible reading, then went back to my comic book. But the blue book continued to attract me, and once again I directed my eyes to that mysterious book.
When the young lady noticed my interest, I asked if the book was the Bible. She answered no and asked me what church I belonged to. I told her none, because I didn’t know which one was true.
That night I couldn’t stop thinking about that strange book. I didn’t know its name, because the young lady had said only that it belonged to the Mormon Church. I told my friend Ghersi about it, and he offered to get me a copy. Several weeks went by, and then one afternoon he handed me a book without a cover and with worn pages. All he said was, “Here’s the book.”
That afternoon I opened the book and read the testimony of Joseph Smith. I felt that it was what I had wanted to know; the feeling became stronger when I read about the visit of the angel Moroni. Unable to contain my excitement, I arose from my chair and shouted, “This is what I was looking for! Here is the truth!” I read the first chapters of 1 Nephi very slowly. I felt that I understood them as I had never understood a book before.
Despite my efforts, I couldn’t locate an LDS meetinghouse. Ghersi offered to help, but I never did find the address of the building closest to where I lived. In the meantime, he loaned me some pamphlets that he had.
Finally, while walking not far from my house, I saw a building under construction. The sign read, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” I recognized the name from the pamphlets.
Months later, when construction was finished, my sister Haydee and I went together to that building. Two missionaries greeted us, and I told them about my experience with the Book of Mormon and my desire to be a member of the Church.
During the discussions, I told the missionaries of my concern about the sheep of the other fold. They asked me to read of the Savior’s visit to the Americas—particularly His words in 3 Nephi 15:16–21—and I knew I had found my answer at last. Two weeks after finishing the missionary discussions, my sister and I were baptized into the Church I had sought for so long.
I then prepared myself to be a missionary, and one year later I received a call to serve full time in the Perú Lima North Mission. The testimony I bore on my mission was that what I had received was not revealed to me by “flesh and blood” but by “my Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 16:17).
Today, many years later, I long to share my testimony with the world, because I know this is the Lord’s true Church. He has blessed me and my wife with a temple marriage and with three beautiful children. We are all happily serving in His Church. My gratitude to the Lord will never equal His mercy to me.

Hugh B. Brown, a member of the Quorum of the twelve who is now deceased, had a pivotal experience that helped him realize the value of submission to the Lord's will. He later told of the experience in the following story:
The Currrant Bush
Quoting:
You sometimes wonder whether the Lord really knows what He ought to do with you. You sometimes wonder if you know better than He does about what you ought to do and ought to become. I am wondering if I may tell you a story. It has to do with an incident in my life when God showed me that He knew best.
I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and clipped it back until there was nothing left but stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. I was kind of simpleminded, and I looked at it and smiled and said, "What are you crying about?" You know, I thought I heard that currant bush say this:
"How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as big as the shade tree and the fruit tree that are inside the fence, and now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me because I didn't make what I should have made. How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here."
That's what I thought I heard the currant bush say, and I thought it so much that I answered. I said, "Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn't intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and someday, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, 'Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.' "
Years passed, and I found myself in England. I was in command of a cavalry unit in the Canadian Army. I held the rank of field officer in the British Canadian Army. I was proud of my position. And there was an opportunity for me to become a general. I had taken all the examinations. I had the seniority. The one man between me and the office of general in the British Army became a casualty, and I received a telegram from London. It said: "Be in my office tomorrow morning at 10:00," signed by General Turner.
I went up to London. I walked smartly into the office of the general, and I saluted him smartly, and he gave me the same kind of a salute a senior officer usually gives--a sort of "Get out of the way, worm!" He said, "Sit down, Brown." Then he said, "I'm sorry I cannot make the appointment. You are entitled to it. You have passed all the examinations. You have the seniority. You've been a good officer, but I can't make the appointment. You are to return to Canada and become a training officer and a transport officer." That for which I had been hoping and praying for 10 years suddenly slipped out of my fingers.
Then he went into the other room to answer the telephone, and on his desk, I saw my personal history sheet. Right across the bottom of it was written, "THIS MAN IS A MORMON." We were not very well liked in those days. When I saw that, I knew why I had not been appointed. He came back and said, "That's all, Brown." I saluted him again, but not quite as smartly, and went out.
I got on the train and started back to my town, 120 miles away, with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. And every click of the wheels on the rails seemed to say, "You are a failure." When I got to my tent, I was so bitter that I threw my cap on the cot. I clenched my fists, and I shook them at heaven. I said, "How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done--that I should have done--that I haven't done. How could you do this to me?" I was as bitter as gall.
And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, "I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do." The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness and my bitterness. While kneeling there I heard a song being sung in an adjoining tent. A number of Mormon boys met regularly every Tuesday night. I usually met with them. We would sit on the floor and have Mutual. As I was kneeling there, praying for forgiveness, I heard their singing:
I arose from my knees a humble man. And now, almost 50 years later, I look up to Him and say, "Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me." I see now that it was wise that I should not become a general at that time, because if I had I would have been senior officer of all western Canada, with a lifelong, handsome salary, a place to live, and a pension, but I would have raised my six daughters and two sons in army barracks. They would no doubt have married out of the Church, and I think I would not have amounted to anything.
Many of you are going to have very difficult experiences, disappointment, heartbreak, and defeat. You are going to be tested and tried. I just want you to know that if you don't get what you think you ought to get, remember, God is the gardener here. He knows what He wants you to be. Submit yourselves to His will. Be worthy of His blessings, and you will get His blessings.

A few days later Dr. Barnardo spoke at a meeting and told those who attended about the shameful condition of children in the city’s slum areas—children for whom no one cared.
The newspapers reported Dr. Barnardo’s words and many wealthy and important people accused him of making statements that were either untrue or greatly exaggerated. No one seemed interested in helping to change this sad situation. At a time when the doctor was most discouraged, the Earl of Shaftesbury, who was a great lover of children, came to his aid. Someone finally believed Dr. Barnardo!
The Earl organized a private dinner party and invited many of the people who had disputed Dr. Barnardo’s words. At the end of the meal the Earl arranged it so that Dr. Barnardo could take his critics by lantern light on a night tour of the lays and prove his claims.
At the very first lay visited, in Billingsgate Fish Market, were seventy-three homeless, hungry, and uncared-for boys huddled together under tarpaulins stretched over piles of fish boxes. Many more were sleeping in empty barrels. Long before the tour was over Dr. Barnardo had convinced the doubters.
Shortly after this experience, the Earl of Shaftesbury suggested that Dr. Barnardo give up the idea of becoming a medical missionary in China and help the slum children instead. It was a difficult decision for the doctor to make and he prayed for guidance.
Shortly afterward he received a letter from a wealthy Member of Parliament offering to provide £ 1,000 (about $2,000) toward a home for destitute children if, instead of going to China, Dr. Barnardo would remain in London to run it.
He believed this to be an answer to prayer, and opened his first home for boys in Stepney Causeway. Three years later he married and used a wedding gift of a large house to set up a home for girls. His work was blessed and other homes followed.
Today the Barnardo homes house the largest family in the world. At least 8,000 children are being cared for in 100 homes. During the past 100 years, more than 200,000 children have been given a temporary home.
One day, shortly after the first Barnardo Home was opened, a pale and ragged boy asked Dr. Barnardo to take him in. Regretfully, Barnardo had to refuse, for the house was already full. He gave the lad, known as Carrots, some money and asked him to come back later. Carrots never returned, for during that week he died from cold and hunger.
Barnardo vowed that he would never let such a thing happen again. Without delay he had erected over the door of the home a signboard that read, “No Destitute Child Ever Refused Admission.” From that day to this, no matter what the hour of day or night, that pledge has been honored.
Barnardo’s doors are always open and no deserving child is ever turned away.
“Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not …” (Luke 18:16.)

When I returned home, I went to my room, knelt on the floor, and began a sincere conversation with Heavenly Father. I told Him that I felt something special about the Mormon Church but that I didn’t want the adversary to delude me. I prayed that He would help resolve my confusion and show me which church was true.
Afterward I felt a great desire to read the Book of Mormon. I prayed again for strength and direction. During my prayer, I felt a strong and good feeling—an interior warmth. I knew I was not alone at that moment. A thought came instantly into my head: “Read the book!”
I opened it and began reading. Before I had finished the introduction, tears began running down my face as the Lord revealed to me the mystery of the Native Americans. The Book of Mormon seemed prepared especially to respond to my concerns. I felt great joy to have my questions answered. It was as though the ancient Americans had spoken from their graves to tell me about their lives and to testify that they also knew Jesus and that He had suffered for them as well.
Amazed with my discovery, I sought out the missionaries and listened to their lessons. On Easter Sunday, March 31, 1991, I descended into the waters of baptism—the best decision I had ever made.

In my senior year I started every game. We went 9-2-1, were nationally ranked, and went to the All-American Bowl in Birmingham, Alabama.
Before the game in Birmingham they have lots of festivities for the players. One of the activities was a Fellowship of Christian Athletes breakfast that was open to the public, and there were several hundred—probably a thousand—people there.
The night before, as I was saying my prayers, I felt that somehow I was going to speak at that breakfast. I didn’t know anything about the program, but I prayed that if I was called on, the Lord would be with me and I would be able to share something that would uplift those in attendance.
We got up early and went to the breakfast, and I was really enjoying it. When Coach Hydrick came up to me with a big smile on his face, I knew exactly what he was going to ask.
“Sam,” he said, “I was wondering if you would give a brief talk about your testimony and your relationship with the Lord.”
I said, “I’d love to.” Then I looked at my buddies at the table and realized that I’d never spoken to an audience of non-Mormons before. I had this extreme paranoia come over me, and I wondered what I was going to say.
As they introduced me and I walked up there before all those people, I felt weak all over. I don’t remember what exactly I said. I know I told them about the Savior and how he’d taken upon himself the sins of all mankind. I was doing pretty well emotionally until I started talking about my teammates. Then I started to cry because I loved them. I closed in the sacred name of the Savior.
Suddenly, I heard people start saying, “Amen,” “Hallelujah,” “Praise the Lord!” I was a little shocked at first. But then I saw people were crying, and I was crying, and it was a wonderful experience. After the breakfast, many people told me what I had said impressed them. I was just grateful that the Lord was able to touch their hearts.

Recently an attractive young woman came to my office with her parents. She came from a good family, but she had lost her way and now was in serious difficulty. She was unmarried and expecting a child and wondered what she should do. My heart went out to her. I think she loved the Lord. She had forgotten that those who love the Lord keep in contact with him and keep his commandments. She had control of her emotions until I asked her if she said her prayers. Then she began to cry.

How important it is that we communicate daily, and more often if necessary, with our Heavenly Father. He always loves us whether we are good or bad. It takes effort on our part, however, if he is to bless us.

A boy in my class at school lost his home in a fire. His family was left with nothing and had to live in a hotel room. I felt terrible when I heard about it, so I gathered some of my books and dolls to give to the boy’s four-year-old sister. My mom bought crayons, paper, stickers, and other things for the children. When they saw the gifts, they were very happy, and I never felt happier myself than I did right then. I am so glad to be able to help others as Jesus did, because making others happy makes me even happier.

For example, Eunice Black, a Relief Society teacher, told of a speaker who set out 10 apples to represent his monthly income. He “paid” one apple for food, two apples for rent, and so on until only one apple remained—a tithing apple. Then he asked the bishop to stand next to him. He said that he hoped the Lord would understand he still had many bills to pay and could pay only part of his tithing that month. Then he took a big bite out of the apple and handed the bishop the partially eaten fruit. This lesson left a powerful impression on Sister Black. She determined to pay tithing first, then budget the remainder of her money.

“Matthew, you must go get the water now.” Mama’s tired voice barely carried above the wind blowing against his pale cheek. Hunching his neck deeper into his heavy woolen sweater, Matthew looked down at his mother and sisters. Mama had stayed awake the whole night, trying to comfort the seasick girls. Alvina, a slender six-year old, tossed restlessly in her blankets while four-year old Ruth slept fitfully in Mama’s arms.
“Please be careful not to spill it again, Son. We’re only given one bucketful for all of us.” Mama laid a gentle hand on Matthew’s sleeve, then pulled a blanket closer around little Ruth.
Slowly, with cold, reddened hands, Matthew reached for the handle of the heavy wooden bucket resting on top of the box holding Mama’s kitchen supplies. His light blond hair was ruffled by the cold sea breeze. Reluctantly he dragged his feet toward the end of the crowded steamship deck, where people were lining up near the big water casks. Matthew picked his way, careful to step around families sitting among trunks, boxes, and blankets. Babies cried hungrily, children played and shouted, and adults talked and argued. Everyone was bundled in blankets and coats against the early North Atlantic spring gusts.
Never in his ten years had Matthew been among so many people. His home in Finland had been in a small town where there had been plenty of open space in which to run and play. The grass in spring had been bright green, the air crisp and quiet except for the cries of birds. Here, there was constant noise, and the dust and the smell from the ship’s smokestack seemed to soak even into the food they ate.
This was the spring of 1895. Matthew, Mama, Alvina, and Ruth were only one family among many hundreds on the crowded ship bound for the United States. Leaving their homeland and relatives behind, they were all now emigrants headed for the port of New York City.
Matthew wished that Papa could have been with him as he got in line, bumping buckets with an old lady in front of him. But Papa had left for America two years before and had just recently been able to send for the rest of his family. Big, gentle Papa, whose huge hands had made such beautiful furniture in Finland, was felling trees in Michigan in order to earn money to buy land. He had written Mama long letters about life in the big logging camps.
The last letter had come with money for four steamship tickets and the information that friends of Papa’s would meet Mama and the children in New York City. Then the family was to board a train to travel to Michigan. Papa’s letter had also contained a special message for Matthew, written in Papa’s bold handwriting. Feeling very small and alone now, Matthew remembered and tried to gain strength from the words Papa had written: “My son, while on the long voyage, you must be the strong one who helps Mama and protects the little girls. You must be a man on this great adventure.”
When he’d first read the message, Matthew had almost heard Papa’s voice, and he’d felt like a man. But now as an elbow jabbed Matthew in the ribs, he felt very little like a man. He wanted to run away and cry.
Three big boys surrounded Matthew and pushed him. One pushed him so hard that he almost dropped his bucket. Matthew held on, hoping the old lady would say something to stop his tormentors. But the old lady only stared ahead at the slow-moving line.
“Going to share your water with us again, little boy?” The tallest boy leaned his thin face into Matthew’s and roughly whispered the question. Matthew’s face stiffened with fear.
“He always shares his water with us,” a boy in a red woolen cap said, laughing. “He’s a good little boy.” The boy slapped Matthew on the back in an unfriendly way.
Matthew gulped down a sob as he looked at the cruel faces.
The third one, a dark-haired boy, swung a wooden dipper from one hand. He beat it against Matthew’s bucket.
One by one the people in line moved forward to get their water. Then they walked back to their families, careful not to trip on the shifting deck of the boat. Matthew’s turn came, and he numbly watched the cold water fill his bucket. He tried to move away quickly without spilling it. But the three big boys caught up with him and blocked his way.
“My, my, I am so thirsty today,” said the dark-haired boy with his dipper raised. “I could use a drink.” He bent forward to scoop water from Matthew’s bucket. He drank a full dipperful with loud gulps. Matthew’s eyes filled with tears as he watched the boy pass the dipper to the second boy.
Suddenly Matthew straightened up, and his blue eyes flashed. He was still afraid, but Papa’s message—“You must be a man”—had come into his mind again, and he’d asked himself, Would Papa let someone take the water that Mama and poor little Alvina and Ruth needed?
Matthew’s mind had shouted the answer: NO! So as the second boy bent to dip water from the bucket, Matthew quickly moved his bucket behind him, placing it on the deck. He took a deep breath, clenched his fists as he faced the boys, and declared loudly, “I won’t let you take any more of my water!” Then he clamped his feet on either side of the bucket to stop his legs from shaking, and continued in an even louder voice. “My mother and sisters need this water!”
“Why the little rat! He thinks he can stop us! We’ll show him!” The boy in the red cap moved angrily toward Matthew.
“I know I can’t fight you,” continued Matthew, gulping for air. “But I will kick over this bucket rather than let you steal one more drop of my water!”
As people turned to see what the shouting was about, Matthew looked into each boy’s eyes. The boys looked away and began to look embarrassed.
“Oh, come on, let him go. He’s just a little kid,” the tallest boy said as he walked away. Reluctantly, the other two followed, leaving Matthew shivering in the cold. But he also felt a deep warmth, a pride, because he had fulfilled Papa’s faith in him. He picked up the heavy bucket and carefully carried it to Mama and the girls. Whatever the new country had to offer, he felt ready to meet its challenge.