Gospel Story Finder

Our new literature teacher, Mrs. Protschka, looked into the faces of 35 eager students and said, “In this new school year I want each of you to take a turn at the beginning of class in discussing with us the book that has impressed you most in life.”
After school was over I walked home, puzzled about what book I should present. Mother and I were living in Bonn, West Germany then, and I had just begun ninth grade at a German high school. I thought maybe I would introduce Lew Wallace’s Ben-Hur. Roman history had always fascinated me. But was that really the book that had impressed me most in life?
I knew it wasn’t. I knew it was another book, the one the two young missionaries who had baptized my mother and me had given to me a few years ago—the Book of Mormon.
I was the only Latter-day Saint in school; could I dare to introduce this new scripture in my class?
“Why not?” I thought, and remembered how, by my 12th birthday, I had read this book from cover to cover, prayed about it with the faith of a child, and received a confirmation that it was holy scripture, and that the people I had read about had really existed. This knowledge helped me to enjoy life to its fullest by leading me to be at peace with God and the world around me.
When I told my mother about my idea she looked worried, yet encouraged me to do what I felt was right. The hard work began. I pondered about how I should introduce the Book of Mormon, and decided to start by explaining it like a story, beginning with Lehi and his family’s departure from Jerusalem and recounting their long journey through the desert and over the ocean. After much prayer and thought, I discovered that the right words began to flow easily into my mind. God was answering!
Patiently I awaited the day of my presentation. As it drew nearer, I noticed that the other students were presenting books like Dracula,The Godfather, and Rosemary’s Baby, books that in some way dealt with Satan and the dark side. I wondered again, should I really introduce the Book of Mormon in class? But I felt that now, more than ever, I had to do it. I wanted to be the Lord’s advocate to these people.
At last the day arrived. Usually the students wrote the titles of their books on the chalkboard at the beginning of their presentations, but since I feared that if the students saw the title first they would be less receptive I asked our teacher’s permission to save it until the end. I told her I wanted it to be a surprise.
Mother told me later how she had spent almost the entire morning of my presentation on her knees, praying that my report would go well and that the class would be receptive. And indeed her prayers helped. At the beginning, when I stood before the class and started explaining Lehi’s vision and his travel through the desert, some students wanted to make fun of it, “It’s the Bible! It’s the Bible!” But suddenly the class became quiet, and I could hear myself relating the history of the Book of Mormon smoothly and calmly, bearing testimony of its truthfulness. The Spirit of the Lord was so strong it seemed almost tangible. I spoke more words than I had ever intended to, and recall the attentive looks of the other students.
After about 20 minutes I finished my discourse, leaving my teacher and the class speechless for several minutes. Then Mrs. Protschka turned to the class and asked what they thought. They all began to speak very highly of me and expressed admiration for my courage in presenting such a religious book at school.
From that moment on, I made friends to whom I still feel very close, friends who defended me later in front of others. They even wrote and supported me years later when I served a mission in Spain.
For most of the remaining class period I was asked to talk more about the Church and my mother’s and my conversion. After class, some of the students even asked me for a copy of the Book of Mormon. One said I looked like a minister during the presentation; others remarked I spoke with the power of a prophet.

I well recall a young man of great faith and devotion. He was my friend and my mentor during a sensitive period of my life. The manner of his living and the enthusiasm of his service were evidence of his love for the Lord and for the work of the Church. But he was slowly led away by the flattery of associates who saw in him the means of their own advancement in the affairs in which they were engaged together. Rather than lead them in the direction of his faith and behavior, he slowly succumbed to their enticings in the opposite direction.

He never spoke in defiance of the faith he had once lived by. That was not necessary. His altered manner was testimony enough of his having forsaken it. The years passed, and then I met him again. He spoke as one disillusioned. With lowered voice and lowered eyes, he told of his drifting when he cut himself loose from the anchor of his once-treasured faith. Then, concluding his narrative, like Peter, he wept.

Years ago President Monson attended a stake conference in Star Valley, Wyoming, USA, with the assignment to reorganize the stake presidency. But he did more than fulfill that duty. He touched the lives of all who attended with a simple gesture of love as he released the stake president, E. Francis Winters, who had served for 23 years.
The day of the stake conference, the members filled the building. It seemed as if each one was saying “a silent thank-you to this noble leader,” who obviously had done his duty with whole-souled devotion. As President Monson stood to speak, he stated how long President Winters had presided in the stake and had been “a perpetual pillar of strength to everyone in the valley.” Then he was prompted to do something he has not done before or since. He asked everyone who had been touched by President Winters’s life to stand. The outcome was electrifying. Every person in the audience rose to his or her feet.
President Monson told the congregation, many of whose eyes were filled with tears, “This vast throng reflects not only individual feelings but also the gratitude of God for a life well lived.”10

First you’ll have to have a desire to quit. I’m a convert, and before I joined the Church I had this problem myself. After being baptized, I got a strong feeling of meekness, so I pulled the swearing down to zero. But my resolution started wearing thin as I continued being exposed to the world. At that point I had to remind myself that our Savior was always with me. I was his host, and I resolved to do my best not to offend him by my language.
Jeffry Adams, 17Salt Lake City, Utah

Quinn Kesler of Holden, Utah, is rarely seen without a rope in hand—and not just any rope. It’s a lariat, or lasso, that Quinn uses when participating in the roping events at rodeos and competitions. He first got roped into roping when he was around six and went to his first championship when he was nine.
Now 17, Quinn is off to a right smart start in rodeo. His favorite event to participate in is team roping, in which a team of two works together to rope a steer. One is the “header,” who ropes the calf’s head, usually around its horns; Quinn prefers to be the “heeler,” who ropes the steer’s hind feet.
While he needs to have a good header to count on when team roping, he has an even more important teammate: his horse, Hickory. Quinn spends hours practicing roping, chasing after steers on horseback. The ranch dog, Roxy, chases after him, looking distinctly out of place on her short Dachshund legs.
The blue sky and golden grasses of rural Utah feel straight out of a Western movie, and it’s hardly a wonder that Quinn loves to be outside. He spends the better part of his day roping, training horses, or doing odds-and-ends chores around the ranch. Quinn started with a talent for handling horses, but he has worked hard and invested countless hours to achieve his high level of skill in roping.
But Quinn still makes time to fit in daily scripture study, prayer, and seminary class. “I love seminary a lot. It’s a big help in understanding the scriptures.”
Quinn knows that the same principles of time and hard work that he has applied to roping have also helped him build up his faith. “If you study the gospel, put everything you have into it, and be all you can, you’re going to get the best results,” says Quinn. “You’re going to have success, as well as a strong testimony.”
Quinn has seen firsthand how trusting the Lord leads to success. His first big roping win came during the National Finals Rodeo in December 2005. Going into the competition, Quinn, then 12, decided that if he won, he would donate all of his winnings to the Church’s general missionary and perpetual education funds.
The day of the event arrived, and conditions were poor. It was windy, making it challenging to throw a lariat with accuracy. But Quinn remembered his decision and trusted that he’d be blessed. He roped well, and though he was by the far the youngest one there, he placed first and third against tough competition.
Even though there were a few things that Quinn might have wanted to buy, such as a new saddle, he put his money where his mouth was and donated the money.
“It opened my eyes—if you’re going to do something good for the Lord, He is sure to help you,” Quinn says.
As his success has continued, Quinn has also continued to need that divine help. “The rodeo crowd can be kind of rough sometimes, with Word of Wisdom problems and swearing,” says Quinn. “It can be hard for some people to avoid getting caught in that sometimes.”
For many, alcohol and tobacco are a part of the culture at rodeo events, and companies that sell these products are some of rodeo’s biggest sponsors. But Quinn steers clear of those kinds of sponsors. “If I have committed to avoid it and it’s against my beliefs, why would I endorse it?” Quinn says.
Quinn has been offered a drink a few times by his roping buddies during a rodeo event. They joked around about his standards and told him that just one wouldn’t hurt. But Quinn refused.
When Quinn was younger, his father, Greg, told him that he would support Quinn in pursuing roping—if he did three things: kept his language clean, kept the Word of Wisdom, and stayed morally clean. Quinn also decided that he would keep the Sabbath day holy by not competing on Sundays. Knowing that he made those commitments early on helps Quinn stay on track. He knows where he stands, and for him doing what’s right is a simpler choice.
People have started noticing Quinn, and not just because he can rope a steer faster than you can say “Boy, howdy!”
“I want you to know that Quinn’s on the cover not just because he’s a great roper, but because he’s a good kid,” Greg remembers an editor of a roping magazine telling him a few years ago. Outside of competition, it’s Quinn’s standards that people really notice. He is “an example of the believers” (1 Timothy 4:12), of the Light of Christ, and of the joy His gospel brings.
“There aren’t a lot of guys in rodeo that are LDS. People watch me, and I know that I have to be a good example and live well,” Quinn says. “If you’re living right, people are going to notice.”
Quinn plans to leave the lariat behind for two years to serve a mission. He will be quitting less than a year after turning 18, the age of eligibility for participating in professional rodeo competitions.
“I’ll probably compete some and then have to put it down to go on my mission. That will be a little tough,” Quinn says.
Some people might think Quinn’s crazy for leaving rodeo behind for two years almost as soon as he can go pro. Anyone can see that he has a promising future ahead of him, and to some, Quinn’s decision to leave behind such an opportunity seems baffling. But he knows why he’s going.
“I’ve had everyone tell me a mission’s going to be great, and I want to serve the Lord. It will be a good experience.”

Dian Thomas and her four brothers grew up learning to love the outdoors. Her father was a forest ranger, and the family lived at a ranger station outside of Monticello, Utah.

For Dian it was a wonderful childhood. She and her brothers had a huge area for their projects. One of their favorites was an elaborate chipmunk trap. They learned about how the little creatures built their nests, how they hybernated in the winter, and how they raised their young. If Dian and her brothers wanted to learn about something, they examined the real thing. If they wanted to learn about beehives, there were beehives to observe. “I learned by doing,” said Dian.

Dian’s mother encouraged their projects. “Once we told my mother we wanted a swimming pool. We got some old canvas, and it took Mom a week to sew those old tarps together. We melted wax and colored it blue and painted it on the canvas to make it waterproof. We put water in it, let the sun warm it, and we had our swimming pool. Our mother went along with us and sometimes beyond in helping us create our ideas.”

Will you learn, my young brethren, to take time-out? It even works in sports, because of the amazing influence it wields. I remember my first professional season, playing in a strange town; I had joined the club at midseason. The catcher, who was also the manager, was old enough to be my father. He was an old professional ballplayer from the Washington Senators and had had much experience. The team was a rough lot. I remember so well one night while visiting in a distant town, about two o’clock a knock came at my hotel door. I got up and answered it, and there standing in the framework was my manager.
He said, “Paul, may I come in?”
And I said, “Please do. What’s the matter?”
He said, “Close the door, and whatever you do don’t tell the others I came.”
I said, “Well, I won’t.”
He responded: “I’ve been watching you for these past two months. You know the Lord, don’t you?”
I said, “I think he’s my friend.”
He said, “Would you help me find him?”
We sat down in the room, and for over two hours talked about God, the Eternal Father and his Son, Jesus Christ. Tears began to form in his eyes.
I said, “Danny, have you ever prayed?”
He said, “No.”
I said, “Would it offend you to pray with me?”
“Well,” he said, “not if you will pray.”
I said, “I would be honored.”
So together we knelt down beside my bed, and talked to Heavenly Father. We took time-out. And as we arose from our knees, he pushed back the tears, threw his arms around me, almost choked me to death, and said, “Thank you, thank you. Could we do this some more?”
I said, “As often as you would like.”
We did on several other occasions. But you know what else was interesting? Before the season ended, several other knocks came at my door. One night it was the first baseman, then the shortstop, and the left fielder. And each in his own wonderful way said, “Don’t tell the others.”
I learned on that occasion that people are really seeking and want what you and I have. God bless you, my wonderful brethren, to have the wisdom and strength to call time-out and visit with your Heavenly Father. He really lives, as does his Son, to which I testify in the holy name of Jesus Christ, amen.

This is the story of Patrick and Elizabeth Appianti:
Brother Appianti: “After three years in senior high school, I noticed a construction project taking place in my neighborhood where a hospital once stood. Upon enquiring from the workers, I learned they were building a church. A few friends and I decided to attend that church once the project was over. I walked into the premises on a Sunday a few months after the project was finished and met with the missionaries who began teaching the lessons. I was impressed by the power of the Spirit that attended the missionaries and how I felt anytime they visited. After reading the Book of Mormon through to Alma and praying about it, I felt answers to many of the questions I had about religion and decided to be baptized.”

I was the oldest child in my family, so a lot of people were interested in me as I prepared to be baptized when I turned eight years old. My siblings and all the neighbor kids were curious about my baptism. I was too. I even became quite nervous about being baptized.
My baptism was scheduled on a nice spring day. We lived out in the country, and when I woke up that morning, I decided to take a walk outside. I wanted to look things over for the last time as an unbaptized person. I looked at the trees and the river. I wondered how things would be different after I was baptized because it seemed to be a really big deal.
Then I walked home and got dressed for my baptism. A priest in our ward baptized me. My dad confirmed me and blessed me to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.
After my baptism was over, I didn’t look different at all. My friends came over to see if I had changed. I told them I hadn’t changed—not on the outside. But I had changed on the inside. From that day on, I knew I wanted to be a better boy because of the whisperings of the Holy Ghost.
In the Book of Mormon, we read of some Lamanites who received the Holy Ghost, but “they knew it not” (3 Nephi 9:20). But on the day of my baptism, I knew the Holy Ghost had come upon me. I also knew I wanted to choose the right. I am grateful for the Holy Ghost. Every day I have tried to live so I could always have His companionship. As you try to choose the right, the Holy Ghost can also be your best friend.

On June 29, Brigham learned that three officers from the United States Army were coming to Mosquito Creek. The United States had declared war on Mexico, and President James Polk had authorized the men to recruit a battalion of five hundred Saints for a military campaign to the California coast.

The next day, Brigham discussed the news with Heber Kimball and Willard Richards. Brigham had no quarrel with Mexico, and the idea of helping the United States galled him. But the West could become American territory if the United States won the war, and assisting the army could improve the Saints’ relationship with the nation. More important, the enlisted men’s pay could help the Church fund its westward migration.40

Brigham spoke with the officers as soon as they arrived. He learned that their orders had come after Thomas Kane, a well-connected young man on the East Coast, had heard about the Saints’ plight and introduced Jesse Little to important officials in Washington, DC. After some lobbying, Jesse had met with President Polk and persuaded him to help the Saints move west by enlisting some of them in military service.

Seeing the benefits of the arrangement, Brigham endorsed the orders wholeheartedly. “This is the first offer we have ever had from the government to benefit us,” he declared. “I propose that the five hundred volunteers be mustered, and I will do my best to see all their families brought forward, as far as my influence can be extended, and feed them when I have anything to eat myself.”41

My father was an example for me of what the Lord teaches in the 121st section about getting heaven’s help in preparing young men. During my early years, he was sometimes disappointed by my performance. He let me know it. Hearing his voice, I could feel he thought I was better than that. But he did it in the Lord’s way: “Reproving betimes with sharpness, when moved upon by the Holy Ghost; and then showing forth afterwards an increase of love toward him whom thou hast reproved, lest he esteem thee to be his enemy.”3

I knew, even after the most direct correction, that Dad’s reproof was given in love. In fact, his love seemed to increase when he used even his strongest correction, which was a disapproving and disappointed look. He was my leader and my trainer, never using compulsory means, and I am sure that the promise given in the Doctrine and Covenants will be fulfilled for him. His influence on me will flow unto him “forever and ever.”4

One year when I was about eight years old, Dad told my brother, my sister, and me that there would not be much money for Christmas gifts. He suggested we use our imagination and talents to make gifts for each other.
I made gifts for Dad, my sister, and my brother, but I had trouble thinking of a gift I could make for my mother. I thought for a long time.
Finally, I came up with a plan. My mother was well known for her sponge cakes with orange-peel frosting. She often made them for fundraisers, and everyone loved them. But making a sponge cake took a lot of egg yolks, and this year there had not been enough eggs. I wanted to give my mother a dozen eggs for Christmas.
Dad had put me in charge of taking care of the young chickens. Usually, these chickens would start laying eggs in January, but I figured if I took extra special care of them they would start earlier.
Twice every day, right on time, I fed the chickens by hand. I carried warm water from the house for them to drink. I covered the windows with burlap to keep the chicken coop warmer. I even cleaned the coop and made six nests with fresh straw.
Every day, I checked the nests for eggs. December came, and there were still no eggs. In my prayers, I began to ask for the chickens to be blessed.
Finally, 12 days before Christmas, I found an egg! I kept checking every day, and carefully collected the eggs in a carton.
Two days before Christmas, my father announced that we would leave early the next morning for Grandma’s house. My heart sank. I only had 11 eggs! I was one egg short of my goal.
All night I tossed and turned. I got up early the next morning and ran to the coop to see if there was another egg. There were none.
At Grandma’s house, I wrapped the 11-egg surprise in pretty paper and ribbon and put it with the other gifts under the tree. I wondered if my mother would be disappointed about the missing egg.
On Christmas morning, my curious mother unwrapped the carton. A look of amazement spread over her face. Then happy tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She looked at me lovingly and told me what a special gift I had given her. There were just 11 eggs, but I had done my best to show my love.

My mid-teens were years when there was a confluence of conditions that tried and vexed me. Those are years when peer approval weighs so heavily. I found myself contending with shortness of stature, shyness, a home with outdoor plumbing, and a 4-H pig project, each of which had by then become an embarrassment. The periodic pain can be smiled at now but was real enough then. Programmed by doting uncles (and myself) in early childhood to love basketball and to aspire to be all-state, I had (until this period) been more adept at basketball than most peers. Soon I started not making the first string, then the second, and then the squad. It was a bitter pill. This failure (for the first time in athletic affairs) cruelly combined with other indications that I was for the first time outside that hard to define but real inner circle. It was a time of long thoughts. Somehow being at home feeding the pigs was not like working out with the team, especially when the boy down the block (whom I had helped somewhat to learn to play basketball) was where I wanted to be: he went on to be all-state, which he deserved.
During this time, I noticed that recycling regrets didn’t change reality. Pawing through the past was not productive. (This period was the time when my aspirations got diverted to the world of words, where there was a teacher who would not let me pass without genuine achievement.) Thus an insight dawned—not all at once—showing me that too much attention to what might have been actually gets in the way of what still can be.

Recently I was telephoned by a close friend who told me his father had died. I expressed my sympathy and asked when the funeral would be. When he told me I looked at my calendar and said, “I would love to be at the funeral to honor your great father and to express my love and sympathy to your mother. But I am getting ready to leave town on an assignment, and I will be extremely busy that day.” He said, “Well, we talked about that and thought that your schedule would be too busy to ask you to speak, but father had suggested if you were available you might do it.” It is interesting how suddenly everything on my calendar could be adjusted. I said, “You tell your mother I will be there.” After the funeral I received a letter. I will only share a paragraph.
“The last few months my husband knew his time was limited here on this earth. One day when we were talking about funeral arrangements, I asked him who he would like to have speak at his service. He said, ‘I surely would like to have Brother Featherstone, but I know that as busy as he is that isn’t possible.’ Then he went on to mention some other good men. When I learned of your coming to speak, I shed many tears of joy. I just couldn’t believe with all your many duties and responsibilities that you would come.”
Then I realized what this service on my part meant to her. She closed with, “I wonder how the Lord can be so good to me.”
Now you and I both understand it was not having Vaughn Featherstone speak but rather a dying husband’s wish granted that filled her with this great love for the Lord.

Caroling isn’t much of an Argentine Christmas tradition. In fact, Christmas here is quite different from the traditional snowy scene you might think of. Because we live in the Southern Hemisphere, Christmas always makes me think of a large fruit salad!
So when my parents suggested we try caroling as a family, my siblings and I felt a mix of confusion and excitement. We weren’t sure of our musical abilities, so we decided to make and bring some cookies to give the people we visited a reason to smile, at least.
A man named Joaquín had been a part of our ward for as long as I could remember. That December he had gotten very sick and could no longer attend sacrament meeting. My dad and brothers were among those who took the sacrament to him in the hospital after church on Sundays.
On the Sunday before Christmas, our whole family jumped into the car to visit Joaquín, hoping we would bring a warm Christmas spirit. When we arrived, the nurse directed us to his bed. He had his scriptures and a hymnal at his bedside, as if he had been expecting us.
He was so obviously happy that we were there, and we all immediately felt such love for him. My brothers prepared, blessed, and passed the sacrament. Before leaving, we sang the beautiful melody in “Far, Far Away on Judea’s Plains”: “Glory to God in the highest; peace on earth, goodwill to men” (Hymns, no. 212).
Certainly it was peace and goodwill that entered our hearts as he called us “angels” and thanked us for visiting, when all we had wanted was to bring those feelings to him.
Julia G., Buenos Aires, Argentina

I was baptized when I was 10 years old, in the city of Oaxaca, Mexico. I remember that a few months after my baptism, some families in our branch went on a trip to the Mesa Arizona Temple, after having managed to save, at great sacrifice, for their travel expenses.
Upon their return, some young people shared their experiences, and the adults also gave their testimonies of this wonderful experience.
I thought that I would never travel to the temple with my family, first of all, because of the spiritual needs we had, that is, my parents were separated; and also, for our temporal needs. We were a large family and in our economic situation, even with all her efforts, my mother could not satisfy our basic needs.
Five years after I was baptized, while I was studying in the Church’s high school, Benemérito de las Américas, the construction of the first temple in Mexico was announced. At school we were invited to participate in an activity that consisted of making partitions for the temple.
At first, I thought it would just be an opportunity to have fun with my friends. After several hours of hard work and with some blisters on my hand, I realized that although it had not been so much fun, I felt joy in my heart for having done my small part in the construction.
When the temple was ready, I also helped with the setup during some of the dedication sessions. In one of them I had one of the most sacred spiritual experiences of my life.
I was asked to help in one of the corridors of the floor where the celestial room was located and just before the dedication session began, I was asked to occupy the only seat that was available within the room. It is difficult for me to put into words what I felt in that sacred place, I can only say that I wanted to keep that feeling of peace and joy for the rest of my life.
Once the temple was dedicated, my mother received her endowment, and two years later, I, too, was endowed before serving a mission.
In 1995, my wife and I were sealed in the temple. Our three children were born in the covenant. Little by little, I have come to understand more and more clearly the sacred covenants that we make in the temple.
In 1998, during a trip with my family through the state of Utah, in the United States, we visited the Monticello Utah Temple. As we walked around the temple, my wife and I discussed the words we had heard regarding the construction of more temples in Mexico. We thought that if one day a temple was built in Oaxaca, it would be in a long time, and we might not see it.
How wrong we were and how short our vision was. Thus, saith the Lord: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.”1 Two years later, on March 11, 2000, the Oaxaca Mexico Temple was dedicated by President James E. Faust (1920-2007).
In the past, members traveling from Oaxaca to the Mesa Arizona Temple would travel three days one way and three days back. After 1983, to attend the Mexico City Temple, the trip took only eight hours by bus one way and the same time back. What a great change!
However, as of the year 2000, the members of the Church who live in the city of Oaxaca have a beautiful temple just a few minutes from their homes. I think we have a lot to be thankful for, for this great blessing, and the best way to thank Him is to work hard on our family history and attend the temple to do vicarious work for our loved ones on the other side of the veil.
Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “As Church members, we do have a divinely appointed responsibility to seek out our ancestors and compile family histories. This is far more than an encouraged hobby, because the ordinances of salvation are necessary for all of God’s children.”2
Some of my siblings and I are now sealed to our parents. Currently, I have been spending more time in family history work. I have visited more family members who are not members of the Church to learn more about my ancestors so that I can perform temple ordinances for them. I have had a few meetings with my siblings to encourage them to participate in family history as well.
President Russell M. Nelson said: “Our message to the world is simple and sincere: we invite all of God’s children on both sides of the veil to come unto their Savior, receive the blessings of the holy temple, have enduring joy, and qualify for eternal life.”3
I testify that this is the Church of our Savior Jesus Christ and that He leads this great work on both sides of the veil. Temples are the house of the Lord on earth. I testify of the joy that comes when we strive to spend time working on family history and attending the temple. If we keep the covenants that we make in that sacred place, we can live together with our loved ones for all eternity.

Every year my family spends Christmas at a beach near Matinhos in Paraná, Brazil. We begin preparing for the trip in November and survive the hot days of December only by anticipating the excitement of the Christmas holidays.
It is not just the chance to play in the ocean that makes the trip so exciting. It is also a reunion with my father’s family—all strong Latter-day Saints. My grandparents joined the Church long ago, and both my parents were born in the Church.
One year’s trip, the year I was 13, was particularly unforgettable.
It was 22 December 1994 when, after so many preparations, we finally arrived at the large beach house where we were met by my grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles.
“Hey, Isaac,” I heard my cousin Charles calling me. “Let’s go take a look at the waves.”
“Sure, let’s go,” I excitedly yelled back. After all, I did not want to lose one second of my long-awaited holiday.
As we made our way to the ocean, my mother counseled: “Do not go very far from the beach. Try to stay in the shallow water with your cousin.”
But after entering the water, we began pursuing the rolling waves and gradually moved farther out. Before we noticed it, we were far from the shore. Suddenly Charles said, “Isaac, the water is deep. It’s so deep I can’t put my foot down.”
“Let’s go back,” I answered. “I can’t touch the bottom either, and I don’t think we can swim against the tide.” Charles seemed to be more frightened than I, but I was also afraid, not knowing what was going to happen to us.
Some minutes passed as we tried to reach the shallow water, but it seemed the more we struggled, the farther out we went. We were a long way from the shore when I looked over the waves and saw many people running back and forth on the beach trying to see us. At that moment, I thought of my mother. She would be angry because I had disobeyed her, and she would be worrying that I wouldn’t return. I was glad my father was at work and hadn’t joined us at the beach yet. He would have been frantic. Oh, how I wanted to be safe on the beach with my family!
I kept struggling and telling my cousin not to quit as we tried to keep our heads above the water. He kept encouraging me also. When we saw a lifeguard coming to get us, he looked very small in that immense ocean. I yelled, “We’re saved!”
But my joy was short-lived as I saw how hard it was for the lifeguard to reach Charles and carry him back to the beach. Left alone, I was pulled by the current farther and farther away. I became so tired I could hardly breathe. At that moment, I remembered something I had learned from my parents: “All things are possible to him that believeth” (Mark 9:23).
Trusting my parents and my Heavenly Father, I began to pray. I asked Heavenly Father to send dolphins to save me. When the dolphins appear, I will grab one of their fins, and I will be saved, I thought. I had no doubts about my request; I knew my prayer would be answered. I waited … and waited.
I soon became so exhausted that I held my nose, went deep under the water, then returned to the surface. Nevertheless, hope and patience did not abandon me, not even for a second. I kept fighting.
By then, Charles was safe on the beach, but he was in a very bad condition. People asked him about me. He could only cry. The people on the beach continued trying to spot me among the waves.
From the other side of the beach, which seemed an easier means of rescue, two lifeguards started toward me. As they approached, I realized in my very tired mind that my prayers had been answered. Two courageous men had not become discouraged by what seemed a hopeless situation. They were the dolphins I was waiting for! I remember they said to me, “Rest and everything will be all right.”
When we reached the shore, I was laid on a stretcher and taken to a first-aid station. People watching from the other side of the beach could see only my motionless body, and they thought I had drowned.
My mother quickly reached my side and found I was still breathing. How good it was to see her! How good it was to be alive!
“Well, young man, you are very lucky,” the surprised doctor remarked. “Not one drop of water entered your lungs. I have never seen an accident like this where someone has been so lucky.”
My mother looked at the doctor. “It wasn’t luck,” she said firmly. It was clear that she knew it was the Lord, not luck, who had saved me.
My parents have always taught me to have faith. They have taught me through their examples to look to my Heavenly Father in any difficulty. I realized that day that there are always consequences when we disobey—sometimes serious consequences. But I also learned that faith and prayer can give us the will to endure even in the worst difficulty. I know that when we ask in faith Heavenly Father answers our prayers—not necessarily with what we ask for, but with what we need most.

Ashlie played in the backyard sprinklers with her new neighbor, Nicole. They screamed with delight, splashing each other in the cool water.
Ashlie stamped her wet footprint onto the porch. “I’m glad you moved in yesterday,” she said.
“Me too.” Nicole stamped her footprint next to Ashlie’s.
“Look, the same size!” Ashlie said.
Ashlie wanted to give Nicole something great, something for a new friend. She went inside to ask Mom about her idea.
“Can I give Nicole my Book of Mormon?”
“Don’t you think you should get to know her first?” Mom asked.
“But Mom, I do know her,” Ashlie said.
When it was time for Nicole to go home, Ashlie handed her a blue Book of Mormon. “I want you to have this. It’s a book about our church.”
“Thanks,” Nicole said.
But later that week, Nicole rang Ashlie’s doorbell and thrust the Book of Mormon at her. “My mom says I can’t have this. She says Mormons go to too much church.”
With tears puddling in her eyes, Ashlie showed Mom the Book of Mormon. “Maybe Nicole doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Ashlie.” Mom hugged her tight. “Sometimes becoming friends takes time. In the Book of Mormon, a missionary named Ammon wanted to teach the people of Lamoni about Jesus Christ. But he decided to get to know them first by serving them.”
Ashlie wiped her eyes. She remembered how Ammon had helped guard the king’s sheep and prepare his horses and chariots.
“Because Ammon served King Lamoni and showed him love, he was able to share the gospel with the king and his people,” Mom said.
Ashlie smiled. “Maybe I can still be Nicole’s friend.”
“And we can pray as a family to be missionaries to Nicole’s family,” Mom added.
Over the next few months, Ashlie prayed for Nicole and got to know her better. They played at school and on the weekends, and they exchanged treats on holidays.
One Saturday after Christmas, Nicole and Ashlie were playing when Mom stuck her head into Ashlie’s room. “Nicole, your mom is here. It’s time for you to go home.” Mom motioned for Ashlie to come into the hall. “You could invite Nicole to church with us tomorrow,” she suggested.
“What if she doesn’t want to come?” Ashlie asked. “What if her mom says no?”
Mom squeezed Ashlie’s arm. “You don’t know until you ask. If she says yes, I’ll ask her mom.”
Ashlie went back into her room and started cleaning up.
“Maybe you could play at my house tomorrow,” Nicole said.
“I don’t play with friends on Sunday because we go to church and do family things,” Ashlie said. “But you could come to church with us.”
“OK!”
Ashlie walked Nicole to the door and tugged on Mom’s hand. “Nicole said yes,” she whispered.
Mom smiled and asked Nicole’s mom if Nicole and her older brother Devin could come to church.
“Well, are you sure that’s not a problem?” Nicole’s mom asked.
“We would be happy to take them,” Mom said.
Nicole’s mom smiled. “All right. What time?”
Just before it was time to leave for church the next day, Devin and Nicole came over dressed in Sunday clothes. After Primary, Nicole linked arms with Ashlie and said, “I liked the singing and lesson time the best.”
A few weeks later, Nicole came to church again. A Primary activity was announced.
“Do you want to come?” Ashlie asked.
“Yes,” Nicole said, “but I’ll have to ask my mom.”
All week Ashlie waited, but Nicole didn’t say anything about it. On Saturday morning, Mom handed Ashlie her jacket. “Go get in the van. We’re going to be late.”
“But what about Nicole?” Ashlie said. “Can I go see if she can come?”
“Sure, but hurry,” Mom said.
Nicole answered the door in her pajamas.
“Do you want to come to our Primary activity?” Ashlie asked.
“Yes. Just a minute!” Nicole shut the door, and when it finally opened again she and Devin both came out dressed and smiling.
Soon Devin started attending church with a friend he had met at the Primary activity. Nicole kept coming with Ashlie.
“Do all of you have your scriptures?” Mom asked one Sunday morning before they headed to church. Everyone said yes except for Nicole. “Would you like a Book of Mormon?” Mom asked.
Nicole nodded yes.
Ashlie was worried that Nicole would give it back, like last time.
That evening, there was a knock at the door. Devin and Nicole stood on the porch, Nicole holding her copy of the Book of Mormon.
Ashlie’s stomach flopped.
But then Devin smiled and said, “Can I have a book too? My mom says it’s OK.”
After Nicole and Devin left, Mom said, “Ashlie, you’ve been a great missionary!”
Ashlie smiled. “That’s because I got to know them first.”

At the top of Mr. Gellért, high above the magnificent city of Budapest, Hungary, two sister missionaries search for a secluded spot in a grove of trees where they can be alone and unobserved.
They open their scriptures and bring out a typewritten copy of a prayer—the apostolic blessing, newly translated into the Hungarian language, that Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve pronounced on Hungary in April 1987. It was here on Mt. Gellért—overlooking the Danube River, with the hills of Buda on one side and the plains of Pest on the other—that Elder Nelson originally gave this prayer, asking the Lord to pour out his blessings upon the nation and its people. Now, kneeling reverently among the trees, the sisters quietly review the prayer aloud in their own tongue. Overhead, a warm breeze gently stirs the leaves, and the bright sun shines in a cloudless sky. For a few moments, the sisters are enveloped in a spirit of warmth and peace.

The day was not even close to Christmas. It was a summer day. My mother died in the early afternoon. My father, my brother, and I had gone from the hospital to our family home, just the three of us. We fixed ourselves a snack; then we talked with visitors. It grew late, dusk fell, and I remember we still had not turned on the lights.

Dad answered the doorbell. It was Aunt Catherine and Uncle Bill. I could see that Uncle Bill was holding a bottle of cherries. I can still see the deep red, almost purple, cherries and the shiny gold cap on the jar. He said, “You might enjoy these. You probably haven’t had dessert.”

We hadn’t. The three of us sat around the kitchen table, put some cherries in bowls, and ate them as Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine cleared some dishes. Uncle Bill asked, “Are there people you haven’t had time to call? Just give me some names and I’ll do it.” We mentioned a few relatives who would want to know of mother’s death. And then Aunt Catherine and Uncle Bill were gone. They could not have been with us more than 20 minutes.

Now, we can understand my theory best if we focus on one gift: the bottle of cherries. And let’s explain the theory from the point of view of the person who received the gift: me. That’s crucial, because what matters in what the giver does is what the receiver feels.

As nearly as I can tell, the giving and receiving of a great gift always has three parts. Here they are, illustrated by that gift on a summer evening.

First, I knew that Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine had felt what I was feeling and had been touched. I’m not over the thrill of that yet. They must have felt we’d be too tired to fix much food. They must have felt that a bowl of home-canned cherries would make us feel, for a moment, like a family again. Just knowing that someone had understood what I felt meant far more to me than the cherries themselves. I can’t remember the taste of the cherries, but I remember that someone knew my heart and cared.

Second, I felt that the gift was free. I knew Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine had chosen freely to bring a gift. They weren’t doing it to compel a response from me; the gift seemed to provide them joy in the giving.

And third, there was an element of sacrifice. Someone might say, “But how could they give for the joy of it and yet make a sacrifice?” Well, I could see the sacrifice. I knew that Aunt Catherine had canned those cherries for her family. They must have liked cherries. But she took that possible pleasure from them and gave it to me. That’s sacrifice. But I have realized since then this marvelous fact: It must have seemed to Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine that they would have more pleasure if I had the cherries than if they did. There was sacrifice, but it was made for a greater return to them—my happiness. Anyone can let the person who gets a gift know of the giver’s sacrifice. But only an expert can let you sense that sacrifice brings joy to the giver because it blesses the receiver.