Gospel Story Finder

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

I remember a time at a youth conference when an exchange student from Germany, who wasn’t a member of our church, stood and shared how meaningful her experience had been being around us and living our standards. She didn’t know how she could go back home and live the same way. I knew I was probably the only person in that room who could empathize, having grown up in Niagara Falls, where members of our Church were very sparse. The Spirit then whispered, “You should talk to her.” But I grumpily resisted the prompting, because the boy I liked had shown interest in her—and she was honestly the last person I wanted to talk to.
After the meeting, the prompting came again: “Go talk to her.” I resisted. “No. I don’t want to.” Then, as she walked past me, I literally felt propelled out of my chair as the Spirit practically yelled, “I said, Go talk to her!” “Fine!” I grumbled back in my mind. “I’ll go talk to her!” We sat down outside, and I was able to share some of my past experiences with her. I testified that if she had the courage to find our missionaries, she would discover other members of our Church in Germany and find the love and support she was seeking. I never found out what happened to her, but I do know the Spirit testified of the truth of what I said.
I share this experience because learning to recognize and obey the voice of the Lord is a skill. As Joseph Smith taught, we can “grow into the principle of revelation” as we learn to recognize the Spirit. [9] For me it started less like a still small voice and more like an exasperated command! But over time, as I’ve learned to listen, it has become quieter, and I’ve learned to respond more quickly and willingly.

Elder Llewellyn Harris had just arrived at a Zuni Indian village in New Mexico. It was 1878, and he was on his way to Mexico to preach the gospel. A few of the Zunis had already been baptized members of the Church, but many others wanted to be baptized as well.
A member of the tribe, Captain Lochee, invited Elder Harris to stay with his family. Three of Captain Lochee’s children were very sick with smallpox.
During the night, Elder Harris heard one of the children crying and gasping for breath. Captain Lochee told Elder Harris that his 12-year-old daughter was dying. Elder Harris’s journal tells what happened next: “The Spirit of the Lord moved upon me very strongly to administer to her, which I did. She revived and slept well the remainder of the night.”
Then Elder Harris blessed the two other sick children, and they also recovered.
The next morning, news of the healings spread throughout the village. Elder Harris was asked to visit 25 families who had members sick with smallpox. For four days, he visited 10 to 20 families a day and administered to their sick. Nearly everyone he blessed recovered.
But the disease spread so rapidly that Elder Harris wasn’t able to visit all the sick families. Early one morning, a Zuni woman took him to a house that had a large room. There he found sick people gathered from all over the village.
Elder Harris prayed that the Lord would strengthen him. He knew he would need help to administer to this many people. “I commenced, and as fast as I administered to them they were removed, but other sick ones were continually being brought in,” he wrote.
By the time Elder Harris blessed the last person, the sun had set. The man who acted as his interpreter had also stayed there all day. He asked Elder Harris if he knew how many people he had blessed. Elder Harris said he hadn’t kept count. The interpreter told Elder Harris he had counted 406 people.
Elder Harris wrote the following morning that his arms were so sore he could hardly move them. He took no credit for himself, but gave credit to the Lord for the miraculous healings.

To illustrate the vital role of parents and leaders as mentors, let me tell you a story. Chloe was called to serve as a class president. Her wise priesthood leader encouraged her to seek the Lord’s help in recommending names for her presidency. Chloe prayed and received inspiration for whom to recommend as her counselors rather quickly. As she continued to ponder and pray about a secretary, the Spirit repeatedly drew her focus to a young woman who surprised her—someone who rarely came to church or activities.

Feeling a little insecure with the prompting, Chloe talked with her mother, who explained that one of the ways we can receive revelation is through recurring thoughts. With renewed confidence, Chloe felt she could recommend this young woman. The bishop extended the call, and the young woman accepted. After being set apart, this sweet secretary said, “You know, I’ve never felt as though I had a place or was needed anywhere. I didn’t feel I fit in. But with this calling, I feel as though Heavenly Father has a purpose and a place for me.” As Chloe and her mother left the meeting, Chloe turned to her mother and said, with tears in her eyes, “Revelation is real! Revelation really works!”

On September 11, 2001, the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City were hit by terrorist-controlled airliners that caused both towers to collapse. Thousands of people were killed. Out of this tragedy have come hundreds of stories of courageous, unselfish acts. One very poignant and heroic account is the Washington Post’s story of retired army colonel Cyril “Rick” Rescorla, who was working as vice president for corporate security of Morgan Stanley Dean Witter.

Rick was a very experienced ex-military combat leader. He was in his office when “the first plane struck the north tower at 8:48 a.m. … He took a call from the 71st floor reporting the fireball in One World Trade Center, and he immediately ordered an evacuation of all 2,700 employees in Building Two,” as well as 1,000 more in Building Five. Using his bullhorn, he moved up the floors, working through a bottleneck on the 44th and going as high as the 72nd, helping to evacuate the people from each floor. One friend who saw Rick reassuring people in the 10th-floor stairwell told him, “Rick, you’ve got to get out, too.”

“As soon as I make sure everyone else is out,” he replied.

“He was not rattled at all. He was putting the lives of his colleagues ahead of his own.” He called headquarters to say he was going back up to search for stragglers.

His wife had watched the United Airlines jet go through his tower. “After a while, her phone rang. It was Rick.

“‘I don’t want you to cry,’ he said. ‘I have to evacuate my people now.’

“She kept sobbing.

“‘If something happens to me, I want you to know that you made my life.’

“The phone went dead.” Rick did not make it out.

“Morgan Stanley lost only six of its 2,700 employees in the south tower on Sept. 11, an isolated miracle amid the carnage. And company officials say Rescorla deserves most of the credit. He drew up the evacuation plan. He hustled his colleagues to safety. And then he apparently went back into the inferno to search for stragglers. He was the last man out of the south tower after the World Trade Center bombing in 1993, and no one seems to doubt that he would’ve been again last month if the skyscraper hadn’t collapsed on him first.”

Amid the great evil and carnage of September 11, 2001, Rick was not looking for what might be in it for him; instead he was unselfishly thinking about others and the danger they were in. Rick Rescorla was the “right man in the right place at the right time.” Rick, “a 62-year-old mountain of a man cooly [sacrificed] his life for others.” As the Savior Himself said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

I helped take care of Grandma Pinegar a few Sundays ago. Grandma is 99 and very frail. She is blind and quite deaf, and recently it has become difficult for her to talk in more than a whisper. Her little body is so bent over that there is not much room in her lungs for air.
I leaned close to her and asked, “Grandma, tell me how the gospel has blessed your life.” She whispered softly and shared her gratitude for the promptings and guidance she had received from the Holy Ghost.
When her second child, James, was 18 months old, he and his older brother were playing outside and she was watching them from the window. Suddenly, she couldn’t see him and ran from the house calling and searching frantically. There was water in the irrigation ditch that shouldn’t have been there, and she searched along the edge of the ditch and could see nothing. She ran for the hired hands to come and help and ran back to where the ditch went through a long culvert. Running to the other end of the culvert, she saw two little shoes, and pulled on them. When she had her son in her arms, she was prompted to clasp her hands together and place them under his stomach and carry him in front of her in this way, using her knee to hold some of his weight. She ran toward the road crying for help. The promptings she received to carry him in such an unnatural manner saved his life.

In our personal and family lives, we will have different kinds of trials and challenges that test our faith, but one thing is for certain: we will all have many experiences that will require great faith in the Lord. I would like to share four experiences we have had to wrestle with.

Proceed with Marriage and Children
First, while dating Kristin, there was one thing that especially made me nervous. As a full-time student, I couldn’t support myself financially. How was I supposed to support myself, a new wife, and, in the near future, children? I came to realize that the critical question for me was whether or not I had sufficient faith to proceed, not only with marriage, but having children.

Tithing
Second, while going to graduate school, money was tight, tight, tight. We always paid our tithing, and whenever we had income, tithing was the first payment we made. One year at Christmastime, money was especially tight. After carefully studying our financial situation, knowing that Christmas to young children is magical and exciting, we knew we had a choice: purchase a simple Christmas for our four young children, or pay tithing for the month. I came to know for myself that tithing is a principle with a promise from the Lord.

Pregnancy Complications
Third, Kristin had severe complications with the pregnancies and births of our fifth- and sixth-born children. After extensive hospital stays and life-threatening conditions, Megan was born 10 weeks early and Suzanne was 5 weeks early. During these difficult pregnancies, Kristin and I wondered if our family would survive. It felt like these difficult moments would last an eternity.

We wanted to have as many children as the Lord wanted us to have, but we were anxious. We knew future pregnancies meant the possibility of more serious complications, and possibly even death for Kristin or the baby. After doing our homework by consulting with doctors that were wise and seasoned specialists, we felt a quiet impression that it would be okay to have another child. We are so grateful we listened to those feelings, because we went on to have three additional healthy children.

The oldest of four children, I learned as a boy on a small farm near the town of Escalante, Utah, how to work. When I was about two years old, my father was called to serve a mission. When I was three, I helped my mother by carrying in wood and chips for the stove and by helping tend the animals. Later, I drove the cows to pasture in the morning and brought them back in the evening. I also helped harvest a large garden, fruit trees, and grain and alfalfa fields. My father had several thousand sheep, and I helped care for them as they grazed in the mountains or desert.

Honesty begins when we are young. When I was 11 years old, I looked forward eagerly to my magical 12th birthday when I could become a deacon and a Scout. My mother helped me learn the Articles of Faith, the Scout Law and Motto, and other requirements so that I would have a good start when that special birthday arrived.
Since I had no sisters, my brothers and I were given some of the inside chores as well as outside ones, such as milking and taking care of the animals. One day Mother left me to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen while she attended to a sick neighbor. I agreed to do these duties but put off doing the dishes. Time ran out and they didn’t get done. In fact, they didn’t even get started. When Mother came home and saw the kitchen, she put on her apron and went to the sink. She spoke only three words, which stung worse than the sting of a dozen hornets. They were the first three words of the Scout Oath: “On my honor.” That day I resolved that I would never give my mother cause to repeat those words to me again.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend’s 12-year-old sister passed away. Mili had suffered brain damage at birth. She never spoke or walked or did things for herself.
I helped care for Mili for a long time. When I was notified of her death, I couldn’t be comforted. Then I remembered learning that when we are resurrected and return to the presence of the Lord, we enjoy perfect health and have a perfect understanding. This knowledge comforted me greatly.
I wanted to console her family, but I didn’t know how to share the peace I felt with them—especially since they are not members of the Church. Then it came to me to look in the Liahona. I randomly chose an issue, and the First Presidency Message was “The Faith of a Child,” by President Thomas S. Monson (see Liahona, August 1998, 2–6). He told of the death of a 10-year-old girl. He spoke of Jesus Christ’s beautiful message: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:14). It was exactly what I needed. I found a way to express consolation to her family.
I’m extremely grateful and happy to be a Latter-day Saint and to be able to read the Liahona (Spanish).

In 1982, when we arrived in Dubai, no Latter-day Saint services were being held. We found three Latter-day Saints there: a sister from the United States and two Filipino brethren. Sacrament meetings began in our living room. Our children used to say that for a year they didn’t go to church—church came to us!
Within eighteen months, however, new move-ins helped our branch membership grow to twenty-four; and by 1985, the small branch had grown to thirty-six. We rent space in the American school for meetings. Our branch offers the full program of the Church for our age groups, including early morning seminary.

Sheila sat on her front porch, waiting for the yellow bus to bring her younger brother, Danny, home from school. He liked her to be waiting for him, and he always greeted her with a sunny smile and an enthusiastic hug. Sheila’s friends Nancy and Paulette waited with her.
“I don’t know why you spend so much time with your little brother. Mine is just a pest,” Nancy complained.
“Mine too. But he thinks I’m the pest,” added Paulette.
Sheila knew that her friends didn’t understand her feelings for Danny—why they were best friends even though he had just turned eight and she was almost eleven.
“Well,” Sheila explained, “my brother is special.”
Sheila had been too young to remember when her mother and father first brought Danny home from the hospital. However, when she was older, they explained to her that Danny had a form of retardation called Down’s syndrome. They told her that that was why his eyes slanted slightly upward.
“But Danny still looks a lot like me,” she told them.
And she was right. But unlike her, Danny had difficulty learning, so he went to a special school.
When the bus came to a stop, Danny emerged, but without his usual smile. Instead, he walked slowly, his chin pressed unhappily to his chest.
“Danny, what’s wrong?” Sheila asked.
“They laugh at me,” he cried.
“Who? Who laughs at you?”
“The b-big b-b-boys,” he stammered.
Sheila knew immediately who the “big boys” were. A group of them lived nearby, and her friend Brad was one of them.
“Well, don’t pay any attention to them, Danny. They don’t know how special you are,” Sheila said comfortingly.
As they walked toward the house, something poking out of Danny’s book bag caught her eye. It was an announcement that Danny would be in the Special Olympics in six weeks. He would compete in the fifty-yard dash and the standing long jump. Her eyes sparkled at the prospect, and she grabbed her brother’s hand. “Danny, my boy, we have work to do!”
Upstairs in her closet, Sheila sorted through two cardboard boxes filled with old toys until she found what she was looking for—a cap gun and two boxes of caps. Out to the yard she and her brother flew.
Last year’s garden plot stretched before them. They raked and turned over the soil until it was fine and cushiony. Then she and Danny raided the sandbox with their shovels and spread a thick layer of sand over the soft earth. A length of duct tape marked the jumping line. Sheila and Danny slapped each other’s hands on a job well done. On the sidewalk, Danny crouched over one end of a measuring tape. Sheila, pulling the tape, measured off fifty yards and marked it with another piece of duct tape. “There!” Then she marked the sidewalk where Danny was with a third piece of tape.
After warm-ups, Danny waited poised at the starting line.
“On your mark, get set, …”
Bang! the cap gun exploded, and Danny took off for the tape at the other end.
“Good job!” Sheila told him.
After a few more sprint trials, Danny went over and stood with his toes against the silver tape bordering Sheila’s old garden.
“Jump to me,” she called.
Danny swung his arms back and forth, bent his knees, then leaped forward.
“Good, Dan!”
Over and over, he practiced running and jumping. Sheila kept a chart to show Danny’s progress. Sometimes their older brothers, Bob and Pat, and Mom and Dad would help. But sometimes they had unwelcome visitors—Brad and his friends. “How ya doin’, coach?” they’d call derisively to Sheila. “Trying for a world’s record?”
“Ignore them, Danny,” Sheila told him. “They’re not bad guys—they just don’t understand how special you are. Now forget them and jump to me.”
“I can’t,” Danny would whimper, then sit on the ground.
“You can’t quit just because of them. There will always be people like that around.”
“No!” Danny would refuse and fold his arms stubbornly across his chest.
“Then quit, but don’t expect me to stand around watching you feeling sorry for yourself,” Sheila told him, exasperated.
The four boys would snicker. “You lose, coach,” one would yell as they’d leave.
But Danny worked hard, and his chart reflected his improvement.
The day of the meet finally arrived. Bob and Pat had volunteered to help the officials take times and measurements at the meet. Sheila stayed with Danny while he waited for his events.
“Fifty-yard dash for boys eight to ten!” a voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
“That’s you, Dan!” Sheila said. “I’ll be rooting for you.” She squeezed his hand, then took her place behind the finish line.
“Runners, take your marks, get set, …”
Bang! went the starting gun. Danny ran his fastest. He looked for Sheila behind the finish line. One runner finished, then two, then three. Danny ran across the line and into Sheila’s arms.
“Good job, Danny. You’ll get a ribbon.”
Danny grinned.
After lunch a voice over the loudspeaker announced: “Standing long jump for boys eight to ten.”
As they hurried to the jumping pit, Sheila felt Danny tug on her arm. “Look.” Danny pointed to four familiar figures.
“Brad!” Sheila cried. “And his buddies. How could they!”
As the four approached, Sheila put her arm around Danny’s shoulder.
“C’mon, Danny, it’s time for your jump,” she coaxed, but he refused to budge.
“What’s the matter, coach—that kid giving you trouble?” Brad teased.
“Leave us alone, Brad. Please, Danny, come with me. The jumping is almost over.”
“I can’t,” Danny insisted.
Sheila looked sternly at her little brother. “Don’t quit on me now. I’ve told you that you’re special. You can do it. I’m going to walk over to that jumping pit. You’ll have to decide for yourself what you’re going to do.” She stood up and walked toward the pit.
“Last call for Danny Brooks,” she heard an official say.
“Sheila,” a little voice behind her called.
She turned to see Danny on the jumping line, and the four boys flanking the pit. Sheila stood at the far end. “To me, Dan—jump to me,” she called.
Danny kept his eyes on Sheila. His arms swung back and forth. His short legs bent, then sprung into the air.
“The winner!” someone yelled.
“You’ve won the gold medal, son,” the official with the tape measure said as he patted Danny’s shoulder.
“Not bad, kid,” Brad said and grinned. He turned to Sheila. “See you in school, coach.” And off he went with his buddies.
A woman placed the medal around Danny’s neck. Mom and Dad took pictures, and Bob and Pat patted him on the back. When Sheila bent down to hug her little brother, Danny took off his medal and put it around her neck. “Here, Sheila,” he said. “This is for you.”
“But why, Danny?” she asked.
“Because you’re my best friend,” he said. “And because you’re special.”

A friend of mine is having a difficult time in her life. Earlier this year she was struggling, and I didn’t know how to help her. In my prayers I asked my Heavenly Father to bless her and to help me to be her friend. One day she became angry with me, and I did not understand. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t want to say something wrong that might ruin our friendship, especially because this was a time when I felt she needed me. But after she became angry with me, I thought it would be too hard. I was considering giving up because I was discouraged.
One afternoon in seminary I came across a scripture in Mosiah that said: “And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another” (Mosiah 4:21).
I knew then that she needed and still needs of the substance I can impart: my friendship and my testimony. I decided then that I would not give up on my friend. I talk to her every day, remember her in my prayers, and have faith that something positive will come from my efforts. I am so grateful that I prayed and received this guidance through the scriptures.

When Kent was four, his father died. His grandparents, Ruby and Delos, lived in Nevada at the time. They sold their home and moved into the same Salt Lake neighborhood as their daughter, Marie, to help raise Kent and his two sisters. Even at that age, Kent realized what a great sacrifice the move was for them.
As the years passed he noticed other little things about them. The fact that Grandpa never missed church, that Grandma would help anyone in need. He loved them almost as much as his own mother. “They were like parents, not grandparents,” he says.
“Grandad taught me to ride a bike, to play basketball. He ordained me a priest. I’ve never seen him do anything bad or say anything bad about anyone. I want to be like him.”

Towering temples rise majestically from the jungle floor, reaching heavenward. Hushed whispers of ancient peoples seem to permeate chambers, corridors, courtyards, and steep stone steps. Wonder and mystery live here.
This is Tikal, once a thriving Mayan city. When Mayan civilization died, Tikal died with it and was buried beneath the encroaching vegetation of Guatemala’s relentless rain forests. Some of Tikal’s pyramids and palaces—along with a few of her other mysteries—have now been uncovered to our view and to our questions.
Ancient peoples worshiped here at Tikal. Today, Latter-day Saint youth who live nearby find that Tikal is an ideal place to role-play Samuel the Lamanite’s prophecy to the Nephites from the top of a city wall. Or King Benjamin’s address from the pinnacle of a tower. Or Abinadi’s testimony before wicked King Noah. It’s an inspiring place to talk about prophets—ancient and modern. About temples—past and present. About truths—buried and living. About prophetic voices speaking from the dust.
In a secluded spot, away from the notice of other visitors, eleven Latter-day Saint young women gather, accompanied by leaders and by the brother of one of the girls. Seminary and institute students from nearby San Benito, they have spent the morning together, exploring the secrets of Tikal. They’ve seen wild peacocks and lynx along the trails. They’ve climbed the massive stone steps. (“Someone ought to put elevators in these things!” one girl had grumbled good-naturedly.) From the tops of ancient Mayan structures, they’ve scanned the horizon; the tropical rain forest stretches out like endless waves of the ocean, and the tops of other ancient temples protrude above the vegetation like great ships on the placid green sea.
It has been a rich, full day. Now, shaded from the burning sun by the protecting shadow of an ancient palace, the young women pause in a stone courtyard to rest and to share their feelings and testimonies. They softly sing “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet,” and then someone offers a prayer.
“We are fortunate to live so close to this place,” one of the group says reverently. “It was a special place for our ancestors.” Others agree, expressing respect and gratitude for the legacy and the lessons of Tikal.
Surrounded by these ancient temples and immersed in the aura of the place, these Latter-day Saint young women seem to be naturally drawn to reflect upon another temple in their homeland—one many kilometers away in Guatemala City.
“Our family had an experience not long ago that was the dream of our whole lives,” says Yeszenia Delvalle, 18. “We were sealed in the temple. Now that our family is sealed, we hope to live as a family forever.”
Without exception, every young woman in this group has entered that temple in Guatemala City to be sealed to her parents or to be baptized for the dead. A couple of years ago, the youth in the branch made the fifteen-hour bus trip to Guatemala City to do baptisms. “By being baptized for the dead, we give others the chance to repent and prepare for the Resurrection,” says Zoila Delvalle, 17. “Then it is up to them to accept it or not. In the temple, you feel the Spirit. You feel calm. You almost don’t want to leave. It makes you feel special. It’s beautiful.”
“I’m grateful to my Heavenly Father,” says Cleily Valdez, 17, “that I belong to his church and that I have been sealed to my parents in the temple. Having the gospel is the greatest thing on earth that can take us to eternal life.”
Rubí Monzón, 24, who recently returned from her mission, is the seminary teacher. “When I was fourteen, my mother died,” she says. “It was very hard on my family. Often I would be home alone, feeling lonely. One time, I was crying, and I heard a voice telling me that I wasn’t alone and that the Lord was with me and would help me. It was a soothing voice, and it made me feel good. Since then, I have felt at peace, knowing that the Lord loves me and will always be with me.”
Three years after her mother died, Rubí and her family were sealed in the Guatemala City Temple. “I feel grateful for the opportunity Heavenly Father has given us to become an eternal family. I know that through obedience I will always be with my mother, father, and brothers and sisters. Many times I think about my mother, and I know that in just a short while we can all be together again.”
Rubi’s younger sister, Raquel, 22, remembers that she and other family members received their patriarchal blessings when they went to Guatemala City to be sealed in the temple. “My blessing has helped me a lot. It says that by praying, studying the scriptures, fasting, and following the counsel my mother gave me when she was still alive, I can make the right decisions and be faithful in the Church.”
Except for its unique setting, this meeting at Tikal is like many similar meetings around the world wherever Latter-day Saints gather to express gratitude and bear testimony. Feelings and tears flow freely as the young women give thanks for a loving Father in Heaven, for the Savior and his atonement, for living prophets and the Restoration.
“I know Heavenly Father sent us to earth for a purpose,” says Karla Monzón, 17. “I’m grateful that he sent his Son to atone for our sins. He has given us the gospel and the Church so we can progress and return to his presence.”
“I’m grateful to my Heavenly Father for giving me the chance to find the gospel,” says Olinda Menéndez, 24. “I know that if we read the scriptures and pray, his Spirit will be closer to us.”
“I know that the Book of Mormon is true,” says Judith Monzón, 20. “It’s an instrument in the Lord’s hands.”
“I was happy when my parents, my brother, and I were sealed in the temple,” says Juanita León, 12. She explains that her father used to own a restaurant and would drink a lot. “Then one day, a boy came by and talked to my father about the Church. We received all the discussions and were baptized two weeks later. A month after our baptism, my father was called as the president of the San Benito Branch. A year later, we were sealed in the temple. My father doesn’t drink anymore!”
Juanita is also grateful for prayer: “When I was ill, I prayed and prayed, and the Lord comforted me. I know that he is the true God, and I pray that I will be faithful.”
As these Latter-day Saint youth sing, pray, and bear testimony, the Spirit of the Lord fills this quiet corner of Tikal’s ancient domain. It’s a temple-like feeling.
Now it’s time to eat a picnic lunch and to play hide-and-seek in the jungle. At one point along the trail, leaves flutter down onto the group, and a clapping, kissing sound comes from overhead. Looking up, the girls see a group of monkeys hanging by their tails from the high branches. Laughing, the girls join the chorus, clapping and making kissing sounds back at the monkeys. Then a monkey throws something down to the ground. Someone picks it up and discovers that it’s the pit from a tropical fruit—and the monkey’s tiny teeth marks are etched in it!
As the group prepares to return home, a quiet, sobering spirit returns. Many haunting questions remain behind at Tikal: Who lived and worshiped here anciently? What did they know about God, the universe, the meaning of life? What happened to the fathers and mothers, the husbands and wives, the fair sons and daughters? Tikal’s magnificent temples are empty—and there’s a certain sadness here, a feeling that once-great peoples met an unhappy destiny.
But faith and hope, rather than sadness, accompany this group of young women. They know that the temple in Guatemala City—and the other Latter-day Saint temples throughout the world—are filled with voices of living Saints. Places of light and truth and answers, these modern-day temples are alive with the Spirit of the Lord. Within their walls, latter-day fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters joyfully worship the living God, learn about the meaning of life, and are sealed together as families for eternity.

Illustration by Taia Morley
When I was 13 years old, the prophet asked Church members to read the Book of Mormon in five months, by the end of that year, and promised blessings for doing so. One day as I was reading on the bus, a girl named Cynthia sat by me and asked what the book was. I said it was the Book of Mormon and that it was a special book. I said I wanted to finish reading it before the year ended so I could receive blessings.
She started asking more questions, and I told her she could come to my house so we could talk more about it. She accepted my invitation, and we spent several hours over the following days talking about the Book of Mormon and the Church.
The next Monday, I invited her to family home evening, where I introduced her to the missionaries. They started teaching her the lessons, and she began coming to church and to all the youth activities and other Church meetings.
She decided that she wanted to be baptized, and with her parents’ permission, she was baptized on her birthday that year. She said it was the best present she’d ever received. Her mother and siblings attended the baptism. She asked me to sing “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2), and she asked my father to perform the baptism. After she came out of the water, we embraced and cried. I will never forget that day because I felt such incredible happiness.
A year later my family moved away. It was difficult because Cynthia and I had become good friends and sisters in the gospel.
Even though we don’t live close to each other anymore, we’re still great friends. We talk often on the phone, and recently she called to tell me that her mom was listening to the missionary lessons. This made me happy because before that her mom didn’t want to listen to the lessons. Cynthia told me that someday she hopes to go to church with her entire family. She thanked me for introducing her to the Church.

The day after I talked with Mrs. Leininger, I attended my first LDS meeting. I woke up on Saturday, November 26, 1977, and drove thirty minutes to the San Rafael stake center. I parked, got out of my car, and walked up to a side door of the church, where I saw Mrs. Leininger waiting for me.

As we walked into the building, I expected to see crucifixes, candles, statues, and all the other things I associated with a religious building. Mrs. Leininger brought me into a large basketball gym that she called the “cultural hall.” Rows of folding chairs were facing a stage, where several people sat behind a podium.

Mrs. Leininger led me to a seat near center court. This was familiar to me, since I had played many games on basketball courts attached to churches with my friends in the Catholic Youth Organization. As I looked around, I saw no crosses, no altars, no candles, no statues, and no pews with kneelers. I saw no stained-glass windows, but I did see two nice and clean glass basketball backboards with brand-new nets. I thought, “This is a great church!”

The church I grew up in mostly included elderly women, so when I saw that most of those in attendance were teenagers and included a number of attractive young women, I again thought, “This is a great church!”

As an Episcopal altar boy, I had worn robes and a crucifix and had carried a large wood and gold cross at the front of the procession into church services. So I was waiting for the organ to begin playing and the acolytes, priest, deacon, and choir to parade into the meeting dressed in robes.

Instead a man in a suit simply stood up and began conducting the meeting. We sang, someone prayed, and then someone introduced Brother Brenton Yorgason from Utah as the special youth conference speaker. He spoke for about an hour and told a number of wonderful stories, and there was a lot of laughing. This surprised me, since the church I was raised in included a lot of incense but not much laughter. Again I thought, “This is a great church!”

I was feeling really good about my experience in church until suddenly I realized that I had forgotten to bring money for the offering or collection. I assumed that after the sermon they would pass a collection plate to receive the monetary offering. As a kid, if I had forgotten to bring money, I felt awkward when the plate was passed to me and I had to just pass it on.

So I turned to Mrs. Leininger and whispered, “I’m sorry. I feel really bad, but I forgot to bring money for the offering.”

She said, “For the what?”

I said, “For the offering. You know, when they pass the plate around.”

She said, “Oh, we don’t do that.”

I thought, “Wow, you get to sit in a gym with people your own age and listen to funny stories, and you don’t have to pay anything. This is a great church!”

After Brother Yorgason finished speaking, nearly all the young men and women there stood, one by one, and “bore their testimony” of what they believed. I experienced the same feelings I had had while reading the Book of Mormon and while praying.

At the end of the meeting we all stood, and Mrs. Leininger asked me what I thought. I said it was incredible and asked how I could join her church. She smiled very widely and, while nodding, waved over a couple of young guys in suits with name tags. It seemed like they were expecting this signal.

To me these guys with their short hair and dark suits looked quite strange (this was the 1970s California of long hair and short shorts), but their enthusiastic smiles and vigorous handshakes were warm and welcoming. Elders Hawkes and Christensen asked if they could teach me about the gospel. I said that would be great. After a luncheon, where I was seated across from Brother and Sister Yorgason, we went to the Leiningers’ home.

I sat on the sofa surrounded by Brother and Sister Leininger, a few of their adult children, and Elders Hawkes and Christensen, all of whom seemed really excited to teach me about their faith. These Idaho farm boys looked, spoke, and acted unlike anyone I had ever met. Yet because of what I had experienced during my prayer, I wanted to be like these ­missionaries and do what they were doing.

They told me about Joseph Smith’s First Vision and the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Everything I was being told was new and strange, but somehow it all made sense to me. And I was having the same feelings I had had while reading the Book of Mormon and saying my prayer and attending the youth conference meeting.

I was wondering what these feelings could be when the elder who was speaking stopped—mid-sentence—closed his flip chart of pictures, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Dave, what you are feeling right now is the Holy Ghost telling you that what we are teaching you is true. That is what you felt when you read the Book of Mormon and today at church.”

I was astounded! This guy I had just met, who was only a little older than I was, somehow had read my mind and knew that I was feeling ­something—and that I had felt it before. There was no way he could have known that unless God had told him.

The elder then said, “Dave, the Lord wants you to be baptized into His Church. Will you be baptized two weeks from today?”

I said, “Yes, I will! And then can I go and do what you are doing?”

The elders looked extremely happy and very surprised. They said they were thrilled that I wanted to be baptized but that I would need to wait for a year before I could be a missionary.

I said, “I don’t want to wait a year; I want to go right now!”

One elder said, “Well, you need time to learn more about the gospel and prepare to enter the temple before your mission.”

I said, “Okay, what should I do to prepare to be a missionary?”

One of the elders said, “You should go to BYU and take religion classes.”

I said, “Okay, what is BYU?”

He said, “It is a Mormon university in Utah.”

I said, “Okay, where is Utah?”

He said, “In the Rocky Mountains.”

I said, “Where are the Rocky Mountains?”

I was a dumb teenage jock from California who had never paid any attention to geography. To me there was California, then blah, blah, blah, and then New York City (where Saturday Night Live came from).

I said I would go to BYU and prepare to serve a two-year mission for a church I had only been to once.

Marcy Chapman burst into the house. “We’re going to have our own orchestra!” she exclaimed.
Her older sister, Ann, looked up from her ironing. “Your own what? Marcy, what are you talking about?”
“Our own orchestra!” Marcy repeated. “It’s my teacher’s idea. A lot of the kids in my class take music lessons. If we’re good enough, we might even play for the PTA meeting!”
“What will you do?” her sister asked. “You don’t play an instrument.”
“No, but I could learn,” Marcy said. “Maybe Mama will let me buy one and take lessons.”
Ann shook her head. “Marcy, there’s no money for an instrument or lessons, and you know it. Don’t even ask Mama. It’ll make her sad to think that she can’t afford to buy things that the other children have.”
Marcy swallowed hard. What Ann said was true; there was no money for extras at the Chapman house, and a musical instrument and lessons were extras. Marcy went to her bedroom and changed her clothes. I have to be in the orchestra somehow, she thought. Maybe Grandma Hinkle has an old instrument stored in her trunk! She has all kinds of things in it. Anyway, it won’t hurt to ask.
Marcy hurried next door. Grandma Hinkle wasn’t really Marcy’s grandmother, but everyone in the neighborhood called her Grandma. She was friendly and nice and always had time to visit, especially with children.
“Come in, Marcy,” Grandma Hinkle invited. She held a large blue vase in her hand. “I’m just finishing up my latest creation. How do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” Marcy said, admiring the fancy design. Grandma Hinkle’s pottery was famous all over the state.
Grandma Hinkle frowned. “Is something wrong, child? You don’t look very happy.”
After Marcy had explained about the orchestra her class was forming, she said, “But I don’t have an instrument, Grandma Hinkle. I was hoping that you might have one in your special trunk that I could use.”
Grandma Hinkle thought for a moment. “Let’s see. It seems that I did have a violin … No, my brother took it years ago so that his little girl could learn to play. My, I hadn’t thought about that violin in years.”
“Thanks anyway,” Marcy said, heading for the door.
“Don’t go, Marcy,” Grandma Hinkle said. “I don’t have an instrument, but I do have some milk and cookies!”
Marcy smiled. Grandma Hinkle made delicious cookies. “I was waiting for the cookies to cool before I frosted them,” said Grandma Hinkle. She set a bowl of icing on the table and handed Marcy a knife. “They’re cool enough now, so why don’t you start frosting them while I get the milk.”
As Marcy reached for the frosting, she accidentally touched her empty glass with the knife. It made a tinkling sound, almost like a small bell.
“Is someone at the door?” Grandma Hinkle asked.
Marcy laughed. “No, that was my glass. I accidentally hit it with my knife.” Marcy tapped her glass again, reproducing the pleasant sound.
“Isn’t that pretty!” Grandma Hinkle said while she poured a glass full of milk for Marcy and a half-glass for herself. “I wonder if I have a musical glass too.” She tapped her own glass lightly with a knife. “Yes, I do!”
“Yours sounds lower than mine.”
“Try yours again,” Grandma Hinkle suggested.
“It sounds different now!” Marcy cried. “It’s much lower. It’s even lower than yours.”
“That’s because the glass is full of milk,” Grandma Hinkle replied. “Drink some milk, and the tone will be higher.”
Marcy tried it. “Yes, it is higher!”
Grandma Hinkle nodded thoughtfully. “I recollect now that my brother played songs on glasses when we were growing up. He lined up eight glasses and filled each one just a little fuller than the one before it. He worked on them until he had them going right down the musical scale! It was like having a real instrument—except that he’d have to empty the water out at suppertime so that we could use them at the table!”
Marcy’s eyes got big. “You mean that he could actually play songs on the glasses?”
“Oh yes,” Grandma Hinkle replied. “Of course, some glasses sound prettier than others, and—” She stopped and grinned at Marcy. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Maybe I could use glasses for my orchestra instrument!” Marcy exclaimed. “Is that what you were thinking?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Grandma Hinkle replied with a chuckle. “Let me get some more glasses and water, and we’ll set to work.”
She put eight glasses in a row, and Marcy poured a little water into each one. It took a long time to get the scale exactly right, but they finally did it.
“To help you get started,” Grandma Hinkle suggested, “let’s give each glass a number, making the fullest one one, and so on. I’ll write some numbers down, and you play them.”
She took a piece of paper and wrote: “1, 1, 1-2-3. 3, 2-3, 4-5. 8-8-8-5-5-5-3-3-3-1-1-1. 5, 4-3, 2-1.”
“Try it, Marcy. Just look at the numbers to begin with.”
Marcy studied the numbers for a moment, then picked up the knife and began to strike the glasses lightly.
“Play it again, dear, a little faster, especially where there are hyphens.”
Marcy did, and her eyes lit up. “That’s ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’!”
“That’s right,” Grandma Hinkle said. “I’ll write out the numbers for some other songs too.”
“May I come over every day and practice?” Marcy asked.
“Yes, and I’ll put a tiny strip of adhesive tape at the correct water level of each glass. Then it won’t take so long to figure out the right amount of water each time.”
Marcy practiced especially hard for the next two weeks. Finally it was time to try out for her class orchestra.
“What are those glasses for?” one boy asked.
“You’ll see,” Marcy told him as she poured just the right amount of water into each glass.
“You certainly have the most unusual instrument we’ve seen so far, Marcy,” the teacher said. “I’m looking forward to hearing you play.”
Finally it was Marcy’s turn. Carefully she picked up the knife and began to strike the glasses lightly. Clear, sweet tones filled the air as she played “Over the River and Through the Woods.”
The class clapped when she had finished.
“Beautiful, Marcy,” the teacher said. “We’ll certainly find a place for your delightful instrument in our orchestra.”

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.

Although these two girls speak different languages and live more than 6,000 miles (9,600 km) apart, they have something special in common: they both found ways to keep a positive attitude when natural disasters struck their hometowns. Take a look at the true stories of Honoka O. from Japan and Maggie W. from Missouri, USA. During sad and scary times, what helped them stay faithful and optimistic?

My name is Honoka, and I live in Chiba Prefecture, Japan. I like to play, jump rope, and draw. My dream is to be an illustrator someday.

My favorite scripture story is about Lehi’s dream (see 1 Nephi 8). I think Primary is very important because I can learn a lot about God and Jesus. I love sacrament meeting because I can feel myself becoming clean when I take the sacrament, and that makes me so happy.

I was at school when a big earthquake happened. My first thoughts were, “This is scary!” and “I wonder if my family is OK.” I prayed in my heart that they would be safe and that peoples’ lives would be spared. Later I found out that none of my friends had been hurt. At that time, I felt that God had protected us. I know that God and Jesus live.

Hello! I’m Maggie from Joplin, Missouri. One night my mom saw storm warnings on the news, and we all went to the basement. The loud, whistling wind scared me. I was worried about my friends and our animals. After the storm, I was grateful my family was safe and our house didn’t have much damage.

Lots of other homes and businesses were destroyed by the tornado that came through town. I felt sad for people who lost loved ones. My parents and older brother and sister decided to help clean up our town. It made me think of the scripture, “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).

I wanted to help clean too, but my mom said it wasn’t safe for a child. Then I felt the Holy Ghost share a great idea to make people feel happy. I made 20 thank-you notes to give to volunteers. I spent lots of time making each card special so that people could feel the Spirit and know they were very important to our town.

I learned that even if you can’t do certain things to serve, you can always think of other ways to serve. Heavenly Father will bless you for serving Him and your fellowman.