Gospel Story Finder

I just had to write and tell you of the most fantastic thing that has happened since Prince Charming kissed Sleeping Beauty and woke up the whole town. I’m a full-time missionary (have been for 21 months now), and I’ve had the usual share of ups and downs, neat experiences, and even baptisms during my mission.
Well, having been out in the mission field so long, I found things becoming sort of routine, and I wanted to “give it my best shot” these last few months. But I didn’t know how. One night right after my companion and I had said our prayers and were about to retire to bed, it happened. I saw the August and September issues of the New Era. I couldn’t help myself—I took them into my room and read and read and read until my eyes were bloodshot. I finished devouring both issues before the sun came up the next morning.
During the night, a miraculous transformation had taken place. I was so different, even my companion didn’t recognize me at the breakfast table. I was smiling! He ate his breakfast warily, keeping an eye on me. Then we went out to work. It must have become contagious, because everywhere we went that day, others caught it too. Now many more people in this small Iowa town are smiling (and they don’t even know why). All because of the New Era!
A MissionaryIowa Des Moines Mission

The next few days were very long for Sarah. She did everything that she could think of to make the time go faster. One morning, when she was returning from taking a basket of scones to Mrs. Root, who was sick, she saw Elder Kimball on the path to town. She ran the rest of the way home to tell her family. In a short time, they were back in town, ready for a meeting. This time so many people had gathered that they met outside. Elder Kimball stood on a stone wall and preached to the people, and it was just as before. Sarah felt the Holy Ghost tell her that he spoke the truth.

Sarah and her parents were baptized that night. What a good feeling it was to know that they were all members of Christ’s true church. She felt clean and right.

We have a wonderful sister in our ward who loved us first. She is Mom to some, Aunty Lavern to others, or Tutu to most of the kids in the ward and our street.
Because her husband was a fisherman, every summer at ward camp you would find Aunty Lavern sitting on the beach cleaning fish for others to eat. No complaints—just scaling, and gutting the fish and finally frying it all for the final luau on the last night of camp. But the thing I noticed was she did it all by herself. I also noticed that everyone loved to eat the fish she cleaned and fried but there were not many helping hands when it came to cleaning the fish.
As my children got older at ward camp and could look after themselves more I started cleaning fish with Aunty. After all, my dad was a fisherman, too. She still does it to this day, even from her wheelchair.
Because she loved us first, there isn’t anyone I know that wouldn’t do anything that Aunty wants or needs doing. One of Aunty’s favorite sayings is “many hands make light work” and I’m glad to say that many more hands have been added to fish detail at ward camp.

When I started college, I was prompted to join the cross-country team. The team watched everything I said and did, not only because I was the captain, but because I was a member of the “Mormon” Church.
I was asked questions about the Church constantly. They were amazed that I wouldn’t drink coffee or party on weekends. Before every race we huddled and I would offer a prayer to help us do well. It was great to share my testimony and beliefs with the team.
Our season was ending, and we had one more race in Spartanburg, South Carolina. We stayed at a Marriott hotel, which had a Book of Mormon in every room. I found a teammate reading a copy. When I asked her why she was reading it, she replied that she was interested in what it was about. Excited, I bore my testimony to her of its truthfulness. Many of the other girls on the team had joined us in the room, and they asked me questions about the Book of Mormon.
When we got home I invited my best friend on the team, Rosa, to go to church with me. She enjoyed the meetings and felt peaceful there. After that, Rosa came to church almost every week. It was so wonderful to see the gospel touch her life.
About a month later I received an unexpected phone call from a young man on the men’s cross-country team, Brendan. He told me that he had taken the missionary lessons and was getting baptized in a week! I was so happy and thrilled for him. Both Rosa and I attended Brendan’s baptism. Rosa also took the missionary lessons and later chose to be baptized.
Looking back on these wonderful experiences, I am amazed that so many blessings resulted from joining my college cross-country team. I learned you don’t have to be set apart or wear a badge to be an instrument for Heavenly Father. Through my actions and living the gospel, my teammates wanted to know more about the gospel, which led them to baptism. I found that truly “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).

One day I was working at the kitchen table and I had a feeling to check on my little brother. I looked up and saw him in his walker heading for the stairs. I ran over and pulled him away before he could fall. I know that the Holy Ghost whispered to me so that I could help keep my brother safe. I am thankful that when I was baptized I was able to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.Spencer D., age 9, Arizona

In October 2005, President Gordon B. Hinckley gave a masterful sermon on forgiveness. He recounted the experience of Victoria Ruvolo.7 One of the people listening that day was Chris Williams. Chris later said:

I sat there in that conference and I asked myself the question, “Could I do that? . . .” And I didn’t know. . . . That was an incredibly powerful exercise to go through, to “fore-give” people, to walk through life with that kind of attitude.8

That is fore—f-o-r-e, as in before—giveness. Asking ourselves, “Is that something I could do?” and deciding that it is something we want to be able to do prepares us to be better able to forgive other people.

Not even a year and a half later, an intoxicated seventeen-year-old driver crashed into the car Chris was driving, killing Chris’s wife, Michelle, their unborn child she was carrying, and two of their other children, Ben and Anna. Yet somehow, in his extreme grief and shock, Chris, as he was still sitting in his crushed car, knew he had to let go and forgive this unknown driver of the other car.

Chris later learned that the driver was Cameron White. Chris met with Cameron at a juvenile detention facility, and Chris and Cameron talked about how the deaths of Chris’s family members had affected Chris and the rest of his family.

Cameron . . . looked directly into [Chris’s] eyes and asked, “After all that I’ve done to your family, how is it that you were able to forgive me?”

[Chris] leaned forward and said, “If there is anything you have seen me do, or heard me say, or have read about me regarding forgiveness, you should know that it was merely the Savior working through me.”9

Chris Williams also offered to Cameron White this divine gift of forgiving, and he identified the true source of its light, Jesus Christ. Christ’s light helped heal both Chris and Cameron.

Chris’s family and Cameron’s family are bound together in love and continue to stay in touch. Cameron married in 2012 and has two beautiful daughters. Cameron has let it go; he is forgiving himself daily and is thriving.

Anthony sat on the narrow ledge of a rice terrace. He looked gloomily down on the thatched roofs of the huts in the tiny Asian village below. This was supposed to be the happiest vacation of his life, but it was turning out to be one of the saddest.
Grandfather was a hero who had hidden American soldiers in these mountains during World War II. He had kept one soldier alive with native medicines until he could be rescued. When the soldier tried to give him a silver watch, Grandfather had hurried away and returned with his twelve-year-old son—Anthony’s father.
“No watch,” he had said, tears finding salty paths down his cheeks. He thrust his young son in front of him. “Take boy. Make U.S. boy.” When the soldier looked puzzled, Grandfather repeated, “Make U.S. boy,” and put the boy’s hand into the soldier’s.
That was over thirty years ago. The soldier had managed to get Father to the United States, where he had gained his citizenship and a good education. But he longed to return to his homeland to visit Grandfather. On Anthony’s twelfth birthday, Father gave him a watch of his own and the exciting news that they would make the long-awaited journey to his homeland to spend a month with Grandfather.
Two days ago Anthony’s dream of meeting Grandfather had finally come true. But now it seemed that Grandfather wasn’t the man Anthony had been dreaming about at all. How could an old man with only one, blackish tooth be a hero? Why, if Grandfather could stand up straight, he still wouldn’t be as tall as Anthony!
Grandfather’s bones stuck out. His skin was as tough and wrinkled as an elephant’s. His bare feet were so wide that they looked almost like a duck’s. His pants were tied about his waist with a piece of twine, and the pockets had been torn off to patch holes.
How Anthony wanted to be back home! He didn’t like the hut he had to climb up to, to go to sleep. It was more like a playhouse than a real one. He didn’t like having to sleep on the hard wood floor, sandwiched between people who knew only a few words of English. He didn’t like eating rice for breakfast. He didn’t like eating from dishes “washed” with grass “rags.” He didn’t like everyone in the village pointing at Father and calling him “U.S. boy.” Most of all, he felt uncomfortable around the old man who was Grandfather.
“Anthony.” Father’s voice came from the direction of the village. “Grandfather and I are going to the cave where he hid the Americans. Do you want to come too?”
At last! Thought Anthony. Maybe there’ll be a little excitement.
It was a long walk to the cave. His feet were beginning to ache from following Grandfather and Father over the hundreds of terraces. Anthony’s sneakers didn’t curl around the terrace ledges as Grandfather’s bare feet did. Looking at his birthday watch, Anthony noticed that nearly two hours had passed since they had set off for the cave. Would they ever get there? Grandfather is probably lost, Anthony thought.
Suddenly pain shot through Anthony’s leg like lightning. He turned, screaming, and saw a snake slithering into a rice paddie. In the same instant, Grandfather’s knife whizzed past, slicing the snake’s head off.
Anthony’s leg was already throbbing, and dizziness sent him stumbling from the sturdy ledge to the oozy ground nearby. He heard Father and Grandfather jabbering to each other in that strange language. Then Father started to run—away from Anthony.
Anthony wailed in pain and terror as he twisted in the mud of the soggy terrace. “Father! Don’t leave me! Please! It hurts! Oh, it hurts! Don’t leave me!” But Father kept running.
Grandfather quickly retrieved his knife and wiped off the snake’s blood on a clump of grass. Opening a small bottle that had been attached to the twine around his waist, he poured a smelly liquid on the knife. Then he knelt and looked into Anthony’s eyes. “U.S. boy—stop cry!” he ordered. But Anthony continued to scream for Father as if he hadn’t heard.
Grandfather gripped Anthony’s shoulders tightly. “U.S. boy—stop cry!”
This time something in Grandfather’s tone pierced Anthony’s fear. He knew that Grandfather was right. He must stop crying and lie still so that Grandfather could help him. Clenching his teeth and fists against the pain, he choked back his tears and held very still.
Grandfather took off Anthony’s T-shirt and tied it firmly above the bite. Then he cut Anthony’s swollen leg with the knife and sucked out as much of the poison as he could, spitting blood and poison onto the ground. The pain made large tears spurt down Anthony’s face, but he bravely allowed Grandfather to do what had to be done.
When Grandfather finished, he carried Anthony to a dry spot and gathered grass and dirt clods to prop under his head. With another firm look, Grandfather commanded, “U.S. boy, stay! I get medicine.”
Anthony nodded feebly. He awoke as Grandfather patted a mixture of leaves and mud onto the wound. The mixture seemed to relieve the pain a little, and Anthony dozed off again. When he next awoke, Father and two other men were moving him onto a stretcher. As they traveled toward the village, Grandfather jabbered with the men. Several times Anthony heard him say, “U.S. boy” with tones of both concern and pride.
Over the next few days, all the villagers came to help Anthony recover. Several boys near his age showed him the games of their village and taught him a few words in their language. The girls brought him bananas and special mixtures of rice and vegetables. The women showed him how they wove beautiful pieces of cloth.
Grandfather bragged to the villagers about Anthony’s bravery and called him a hero. But Anthony knew who the real hero was.
Each day, Grandfather brought a small present that he had made and wrapped in a banana leaf. After the present was unwrapped, Grandfather gave Anthony a lesson on weaving small baskets or carving wood trinkets.
The day that Anthony no longer needed to rest, Grandfather gave him a knife in a beautiful, carved holder.
Anthony had a surprise of his own. “Close your eyes Grandfather.” Then he buckled his birthday watch onto Grandfather’s wrist. When Grandfather opened his eyes and Anthony saw the look of joy and pride on his face, Anthony knew that he had the best grandfather in the world.

Martin enjoyed reading the Book of Mormon and recognized the Spirit and direction it provided in his life. A few months later, after receiving a personal testimony, Martin Biney was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. As a new member of the Church, Martin attended every week, but for many years, his wife and children stayed home. Brother Biney states, “After I was baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost, I felt blessed. I had more confidence and felt impressed to go back to boxing.”
The Lord blessed Martin and, in 1997, at the age of 34, Martin Biney again became the middleweight boxing champion in Japan.

Building anything in Alaska in the winter can prove quite a challenge, and constructing a temple is no exception. When work on the Anchorage Temple had to be delayed because of the weather, the youth in the area decided to give themselves a preview of what having a temple in their city would be like.
So they built a scale replica of the temple out of snow bricks, complete with an Angel Moroni statue on top. With a little help from the temple’s architect, who gave a youth fireside prior to the project, they came up with a pretty good likeness. The snow replica is about one-fifth the size of the real thing, which the youth can hardly wait to see.

To summarize the role of the appointed teacher in our Campus Education Week theme, I quote from cherished notes in my personal files from a talk given by Elder Spencer W. Kimball to missionaries that I heard as a young missionary fifty years ago:

Brother Lee is my senior, and I am Brother Mark E. Petersen’s senior. When we go to work together, he never says, “You do this, and you can’t do this.” Brother Lee always says, “Now, Brother Kimball, what do you think about this? Shall we proceed along this line; shall we go here; and what shall we do there?” Always. He never tells me what I must do. When Brother Petersen and I go, I try to do the same: “Brother Petersen, shall we move in this direction? What shall we do? How do you feel about this?” It works out perfectly, and everyone is happy. But there is the senior element. When one of us is senior, someone has to take the responsibility; someone has to lead out. And that is all that it is! Sometimes I use “stick men” to show what I mean. I’ve seen places in missions where the senior companion is the big “stick man” about six feet tall and the little junior companion is way down here. That is not how it should be. We should have two “stick men” the same size. The one has a little more training, and he has been out in the field a little longer, but that doesn’t give him any dictatorial rights. They are both the same size; the one leads out in suggesting. [Personal journal of Jay E. Jensen, from a talk given by Spencer W. Kimball, 2 January 1959]

The phrase “one leads out in suggesting” has become central to my life and ministry as a husband, father, grandfather, teacher, and Church leader.

When I was a boy, we had a horse named Junie. She was one of the most intelligent animals I ever saw. She seemed almost human in her ability. I couldn’t keep her locked in the barn because she would continually undo the strap on the door of her stall. I used to put the strap connected to the half-door of the stall over the top of the post, but she would simply lift it off with her nose and teeth. Then she would go out in the yard.
There was a water tap in the yard used for filling the water trough for our animals. Junie would turn this on with her teeth and then leave the water running. My father would get after me because I couldn’t keep that horse in the barn. She never ran away; she just turned on the water and then walked around the yard or over the lawn or through the garden. In the middle of the night, I would hear the water running and then I would have to get up and shut if off and lock Junie up again.
My father suggested that the horse seemed smarter than I was. One day he decided that he would lock her in so that she couldn’t get out. He took the strap that usually looped over the top of the post and buckled it around the post and under a crossbar, and then he said, “Young lady, let’s see you get out of there now!” My father and I left the barn and started to walk back to the house; and before we reached it, Junie was at our side. She then went over and turned the water on again.
I suggested that now, perhaps, she was about as smart as either one of us. We just couldn’t keep Junie from getting out of her stall. But that doesn’t mean she was bad, because she wasn’t. Father wasn’t about to sell or trade her, because she had so many other good qualities that made up for this one little fault.
The horse was as reliable and dependable at pulling our buggy as she was adept at getting out of the stall. And this was important, because Mother was a licensed midwife. When she would get called to a confinement somewhere in the valley, usually in the middle of the night, I would have to get up, take a lantern out to the barn, and hitch Junie up to the buggy.
I was only about ten or eleven years old at the time; and that horse had to be gentle and yet strong enough to take me and Mother all over the valley, in all kinds of weather. One thing I never could understand, however, was why most of the babies had to be born at night and so many of them in winter.
Often I would wait in the buggy for Mother, and then it was nice to have the company of gentle old Junie. This experience with this horse was very good for me, because early in life I had to learn to love and appreciate her for herself. She was a wonderful horse with only a couple of bad habits. People are a lot the same way. None of us is perfect; yet each of us is trying to become perfect, even as our Father in heaven. We need to appreciate and love people for themselves.
Maybe you need to remember this when you evaluate your parents or teachers or ward and stake leaders or friends—or brothers and sisters. This lesson has always stayed with me—to see the good in people even though we are trying to help them overcome one or two bad habits.

Another time when I felt really hopeless, I went to my room and said a prayer that Heavenly Father would let me know that everything was OK—that I was OK. I was worried about mistakes I’d made in the past and wondered if life would ever get easier. Then I opened up to Isaiah; that’s just what I do when I’m feeling down. And here’s what I read, first thing: “Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert” (Isaiah 43:18–19). And I was so grateful, I just cried. In those verses, I felt God telling me not to stay focused on the past but to move forward with faith. He had miracles in the works for me, and I would know them when I saw them.

Later, after I started dating the wonderful guy I’d end up marrying, I reread this scripture and, of course, I cried. Again. God had done “a new thing” and truly had made “a way in the wilderness.” And I did know it.

They all came to Utah and settled in Tooele County. They were just getting settled and making things go when they were called by President Brigham Young to St. George, and they went, like all good Latter-day Saints did in those days. But they had not been in St. George very long when they were called to settle in Meadow Valley. That is a place you folks probably have not heard about. It is now known as Panaca, in what they thought was southwestern Utah, but which actually later came to be Nevada. These people, obeying the call, again without question, were the first family to move to Meadow Valley, and they made a dugout house. Sister Young said that you may not know what a dugout house is. I replied that most of the folks would know: One digs a cubical hole in a hillside and covers it with a roof of wooden poles topped with clay.
Troubles of the few settlers with the Indians caused the authorities in St. George to give them permission to abandon the project, but Sister Jane Johnson Lee refused to leave. She said she was there to stay, and stay they did. Later two Indians came into her dugout home, and one of them, seeing a rifle in one corner of the room, demanded it. Sister Lee refused to give it to him. He started for the gun, but she struck him so hard with a piece of stove wood, it knocked him down. He staggered to his feet and drew his bow, aiming the arrow at her. She let him have another piece of wood, which smashed the bow and arrow. Both Indians departed.

It was Christmas Eve. Alone in his car, Dan Lytle had driven four and a half hours through the thick California fog. For the same four and a half hours he had followed the same white Volkswagen bug with the same green and white Washington plates through the same unending fog.
Dan hadn’t been this tired since his mission. But he had a diamond ring in his pocket, and there was a girl in San Leandro waiting up for him. Dan reckoned there would be at least another three hours of driving before he could put the ring on Callie’s finger.
Looks like a long night, he said to himself as he and a thousand other drivers rushed through the fog.
Dan turned the car’s radio dial, looking for Christmas music to help pass the hours. Funny, he thought, how sometimes at night your car radio can bring in Los Angeles or Salt Lake or Omaha—and how at other times the same radio brings in only static. He turned the radio off.
For perhaps another hour Dan passed through a foggy world where literally all he could see was the back end of a white Volkswagen bug with green and white license plates. It was tense, tedious driving, requiring full attention.
And then into his mind came a still, small, prompting thought: “Dan, pull over into the far right lane and slow down.”
Slow down? Why? Weren’t all the other cars and trucks doing just fine hurtling through the thick mist as if there were no such thing as ten-foot visibility?
Besides—it was late. Even if he kept to his present speed, Dan couldn’t hope to open the ring box until well after this foggy Christmas Eve had turned into a foggy Christmas day.
Dan wondered. Had the Spirit really warned him? Or had it been just the normal workings of a cautious mind? Couldn’t he just continue at the same speed as everyone else? Was it really important that he pull over to the right and slow down?
Again came the prompting: “Dan, if there were a wreck on the freeway, there is no way you could stop in time: You’d slam right into the wreckage. You really should pull over to the right and slow down.”
Dan Lytle had been taught that he should never ignore the promptings of the Spirit. Reluctantly, he signaled, then pulled his car over and cut his speed. The white Volkswagen bug with Washington plates sped on, and instantly was swallowed up in the impenetrable fog.
Better late than not at all, I guess, he thought ruefully. He calculated that at his new speed, he likely would be on the road for quite some time.
What if Bishop Clark had not been in tune with the Spirit that Christmas Eve so long ago? thought Dan Lytle. Or what if he had ignored the prompting?
Dan Lytle peered intently through the fog. “Modesto, 12 miles,” he read. Got to be careful I don’t miss the Oakland turnoff. A fellow could drive right past it in this fog.
And then, suddenly, out of the fog came the red glare of tail lights. Flares appeared on the roadway, along with highway patrol cars with flashing lights. A trooper, walking between lanes of now halted cars, passed the word: “Terrible accident up ahead—dozens of cars and trucks in a big pileup. Be patient, folks—we’re trying to clear out one lane so you can get by.”
It took a long time for the four lanes of northbound cars to merge into one lane. Dan’s concern for the accident victims grew to disbelief and then near nausea as he was waved past the massive jam-up.
He saw crumpled cars, jack-knifed trucks, ambulances, patrol cars, paramedics—and motionless human forms under blankets at the side of the road.
As his car crept past the wreckage, Dan counted the demolished vehicles—10 … 20 … 30. How many more people on Christmas Eve, delayed at best, dead on the highway at worst?
And there: number 41. A horrified Dan Lytle recognized what had been a white Volkswagen bug with Washington license plates—now jammed into an accordion between the wreckage of number 40 and number 42.
For hours and hours I followed that car, thought Dan. For hours and hours—until the Spirit told me to move over and slow down.
What if I hadn’t been in tune to receive the warning? Or, what if I had received the warning and then had ignored it? He shuddered at the thought. Dan understood now as never before the principle his bishop had learned those many years ago.
With the massive accident scene finally behind him, Dan resumed his previous slow speed. He turned on the car radio, and from a station a thousand miles away came Christmas music, clear and sweet and reassuring.
There was not the slightest trace of static.

When we had submitted our papers, the COVID-19 pandemic had already started and foreign missionaries were forced to return home, and we were uncertain if we would serve a full-time mission. Two weeks later the prophet declared that we had to close the doors of the meetinghouses and 30 days later I received my call to serve a mission in the Kinshasa East mission with six months of preparation and saw the increase in the number of cases related to COVID-19.

I was still in a state of uncertainty, and I knelt down and asked the Lord if He wanted me to be a full-time missionary as I knew personally that He knew the situation perfectly, and my MTC date was postponed three more weeks. On Oct. 15, 2020 I started my training at Accra Ghana Missionary Training Center through technology and I experienced a most memorable experience of my life, spending the training on Zoom every day for three weeks made my faith grow and increase my trust in the Lord because He knew that He had prepared me to serve Him in this moment of technology in His work to learn the best ways to use technology and to help others to come to Him through this medium.

When I was 10 or 11, I started learning how to play hymns on the piano. I enjoyed playing the piano, and I really wanted to learn to play the organ too. Playing the organ would be so much fun!
My mother, who teaches me, told me that I could start learning to play the organ when I learned to play 100 hymns on the piano. That seemed like a big task, but I was driven to succeed. At first, I learned a hymn once every few weeks, but eventually I got to the point where I would learn two each week. The number of hymns kept growing.
The summer that I learned my 100th hymn, my mother organized a small group of students and taught us all to play the organ. Learning the organ took a lot of practice.
At the end of the summer, the first counselor in the bishopric pulled me aside during a bishopric youth discussion. “Our ward needs a new organist,” he said. “The bishopric has discussed this, and we would like to call you as ward organist.” I felt the blood draining from my face, but I nodded.
My first time playing the organ during sacrament meeting was terrifying. I arrived early to play the prelude music. I played the opening hymn, which went rather well; there were only a few jarring notes. As I played, I had to be careful to watch the chorister, press the keys with my hands, and use my feet on the bass pedals. Between the opening hymn and the sacrament hymn, I was very nervous. But when I played the soft and sweet notes of “How Great the Wisdom and the Love” (Hymns, no. 195), I felt the Spirit fill me with joy and peace.

International students from Weber State College in Ogden, Utah, spent an evening with the Young Men and Young Women of the North Ogden Third Ward fixing dishes from their native countries using everything from dried mushrooms to seaweed.
The students came from Japan, Kuwait, Lebanon, Mexico, and Nigeria. It was an opportunity for the ward’s youth to get a firsthand look into some of the world’s cultures. And the international students, in turn, had the opportunity to rub shoulders with some typically American kids.
The language barrier caused some amusing moments at first, but by the end of the evening friendship overcame any language inadequacy. The fact that there was very little food left over was proof of the success of the event, and both groups left feeling like they knew the other a little better.

First, many people will mourn with us; they won’t judge us. Due to severe panic attacks, anxiety, and depression, our son returned home from his mission after just four weeks. As his parents, we found it difficult to deal with disappointment and sadness because we had prayed so much for his success. Like all parents, we want our children to prosper and be happy. A mission was to be an important milestone for our son. We also wondered what other people might think.

Unbeknownst to us, our son’s return was infinitely more devastating for him. Note that he loved the Lord and wanted to serve, and yet he could not for reasons he struggled to understand. He soon found himself at a point of total hopelessness, battling deep guilt. He no longer felt accepted but spiritually numb. He became consumed by recurring thoughts of death.

While in this irrational state, our son believed that the only action left was to take his own life. It took the Holy Ghost and a legion of angels on both sides of the veil to save him.

While he was fighting for his life and during this immensely difficult time, our family, ward leaders, members, and friends went out of their way to support and minister to us.

I have never felt such an outpouring of love. I have never sensed more powerfully and in such a personal way what it means to comfort those in need of comfort. Our family will be ever grateful for that outpouring.

I cannot describe the countless miracles that accompanied these events. Gratefully, our son survived, but it has taken a long time and much medical, therapeutic, and spiritual care for him to heal and to accept that he is loved, valued, and needed.

I recognize that not all such incidents end like ours. I sorrow with those who have lost loved ones far too early and are now left with feelings of grief as well as unanswered questions.

Now 15 years old, I went to live with a foster family for about a year. That was when the fifth miracle came. While sleigh riding with two friends, I met an LDS family with two nice daughters. During the ride home, one of the daughters spoke up, saying, “I think the Lord wants us to adopt Ephrem Smith.” Remarkably, the other three members of the family had also received the same inspiration. The father worked with the Department of Social Services, and soon I moved to my new home. From the very beginning my amazing new father gave me agency. For example, he explained that their family goes to church on Sundays. He allowed me to choose to join them or stay home; he said that they still would love me if I chose not to attend church. I chose to attend church, and I have since made many other righteous decisions.

It had always been my dream to live in Germany, and at age 16 I left home for a year to be an exchange student abroad. Although my host family would not be Latter-day Saints, I didn’t think it would have a big effect on me and how I lived. It ended up being a little different than I had imagined.
My host family did not support my going to church on Sundays, and because I had to rely on other Church members for rides, I was only able to go to Church a few times during the first months that I was in Germany. I thought I could handle it, but with no seminary, no family home evenings, no home teachers, no family scripture study, and no family prayer, I felt myself slipping, and temptations became stronger.
I went to Berlin for a week to stay with some friends during the fall holidays. The week was packed full of fun and excitement, but I was sometimes with people who were smoking, drinking, and doing drugs. I never participated, but by the end of the week I had become accustomed to it all. I didn’t realize it at the time, but during that week I didn’t pray or read my scriptures. Instead, I let worldly things distract me, and I felt like there simply was not enough time for prayer and scripture study.
When I returned home there was a note from my host family informing me that they would be out of town for a few hours. I felt exhausted, confused, and alone. For the first time in my life no one understood how I felt, and there was no one I could talk to who could relate to how I was feeling. After such an amazing week in Berlin, how was it that I felt so unhappy?
When I went into my room, I noticed a letter from my dad had arrived earlier that day. I tore open the letter and began to cry as I read the message that he must have been inspired to write. He wrote about the Church, the value of living the standards, and that he had full confidence that I was making good decisions on my own. How could he have known what I was facing? The message was brief, but it was the perfect thing for me to read. The letter concluded with: “Interesting how 16-year-olds can legally drink in Germany. … Just remember that freedom to do something means freedom not to do it as well.”
Dad’s letter reminded me that just because something is “legal” doesn’t mean that it isn’t still wrong. It brings far more happiness to live the standards of the Church than to live the standards of the world.
After I read the letter, I realized my father knew me better than I thought he did. I was quickly reminded of another letter I had from my Heavenly Father. He had also written me a very personal letter in the form of my patriarchal blessing. It was, once again, exactly what I needed. My patriarchal blessing became more personal and special to me in that moment when I realized how it really was a “letter from my Father” as well.
Heavenly Father knows and understands our needs, and I am so grateful I had that letter to read, to remind me of who I am, and who my Father is. We are children of God, and although worldly things can be distracting at times, they don’t bring true happiness. The week I spent in Berlin was fun, but I still felt alone, and that fun was only temporary. When I read my patriarchal blessing, I felt a joy and a closeness to God that was far better than the short-lived pleasures of the world.
I know that God lives, that He knows us personally, and that He truly wants us to be happy because He loves us more than we can imagine. He is our Father.