Gospel Story Finder

I read of a similar contrast after the devastating hurricane that destroyed thousands of homes in Florida a few years ago. A news account quoted two different persons who had suffered the same tragedy and received the same blessing: each of their homes had been totally destroyed, but each of their family members had been spared death or injury. One said that this tragedy had destroyed his faith: “How could God allow this to happen?” The other said that the experience had strengthened his faith: “God has been good to me. Though my home and possessions were lost, our lives were spared, and we can rebuild our home.” For one, the glass was half empty. For the other, the glass was half full. The gift of moral agency empowers each of us to choose how we will act when we suffer adversity.

I had always dreamed that I would study something relating to medicine. And as a missionary I learned that the Lord always prepares the way for His children to achieve what He desires them to do.
Shortly after my mission, I met a young woman named Fabiola at institute. We began dating and fell deeply in love. The Holy Ghost confirmed to me that I should ask her to be my eternal companion, so I proposed and she accepted. As we planned our future, we realized that my salary would not be sufficient for the necessities of daily living. Fabiola offered to continue working for a time to support me as I finished school. But that would take quite a bit of time, and we wanted to have a family. So we prayed to Heavenly Father for His help. We wanted to do His will.
During my mission I had heard President Gordon B. Hinckley speak about the Perpetual Education Fund. As a returned missionary, I had attended some meetings at the institute about the PEF program. My eyes were opened and my hopes encouraged; I knew it was a program that could help my future family progress. So I spoke with Fabiola, and we set goals regarding my education.
I decided to study physical therapy. I wanted to wait a while to fill out my PEF application, but my fiancée insisted I do it right then. I submitted my loan request in December 2001, and also that month—on 22 December—Fabiola and I were sealed in the Mexico City temple. My loan was approved in January 2002, and I started school soon after.
One day when I was making a tuition payment, I met the director of my school. During our conversation I mentioned that I was a member of the Church and explained the PEF program to him. He told me he knew some Latter-day Saints and they were good people. He also said he had had some LDS students.
After I had attended one month of classes, the director invited me to finish my major early by taking double classes, graduating in 14 months instead of 24. I explained to him that I would not be able to pay the extra tuition until the next year when I renewed my loan, but he told me that my word was good enough since I was a Latter-day Saint. So again I was blessed. I began taking more classes, even though this required more studying and more hours in class, while continuing my part-time job.
I was amazed as I attended school how the Lord blessed me by increasing my knowledge. As part of my education I have helped people who had back problems, scoliosis, sprains, sciatica, and neck pain. Helping others improve their health and their lives through rehabilitation therapy is a pleasure—and a dream that has become a reality.
Everything is going well. I am elders quorum president in my ward. By the time I graduated in April 2003, I had taken all the required steps to have my own practice, and Fabiola and I were expecting our first child.
I know that the Lord has established the PEF and that this program helps us to be self-reliant. With my new employment I can better provide for my family, serve in the Church, bless the lives of others, and pursue further studies at the university.
Our lives have changed thanks to the Church and the PEF program. I know that the lives of many young people can change if they will follow this inspired program.

Wild fires burned out of control in the seaside town of Laguna Beach, California, for two days. When the smoke finally cleared, the young men and young women of the area went to work.
The youth sorted clothing, made thank-you signs and treats for firefighters, planted trees, and prepared meals for families who had lost their homes. When early-fall rains threatened to flood the fire-ravaged landscape, the youth were at it again, this time stacking sandbags to divert water away from the town.
The youth worked hard and helped each other out. Those who were fortunate to have their homes intact helped those who hadn’t been so lucky.
“My family came so close to losing our home, I feel like I should do my part to help others,” said priest Martin Bartholomew, after a long day of sandbagging. “Even though my back aches, I feel happy inside.”

Janean spent the day working with Lottie Dayton, putting size labels on clothing and hanging apparel on racks.
“If I weren’t here today, I’d just be sitting home, or maybe riding my horse,” Janean said. “This is more important—it’s more important to serve the Lord than to serve yourself. That’s what Christmas is all about, helping others. We had to put priorities in order. Sure, it was hard to squeeze everything in, especially when we were trying to do Christmas shopping of our own. But we were excited to come down here, and she’s so sweet …”
Her voice trailed off as she looked over at Sister Dayton, who was still hanging things on the rack as she softly hummed “Where Love Is.”
As young and old labored amid clothing baling machines, steam tunnels (used to remove wrinkles from clothing), label racks, and sorting tables, the workshop did turn out some Christmas magic after all. By the end of each shift, there were no young and old, no handicapped and nonhandicapped, just friends, co-workers, and fellow Saints.
The same spirit prevailed at a Christmas party ten days later.
“We brought all the workers to the stake center,” Nan Brian of the Uintah First Ward explained. “When they got there, we gave each one an ornament with his name and the name of one of the kids in the stake who had worked with him printed on it. Then we did all we could to make them realize we are their friends.”
That included a program of carols, stories, a visit from Santa Claus, and of course, the true story of the birth of Christ as recorded in the scriptures.
As the workers were escorted home and the youth of the Weber Stake returned to their final holiday preparations, there was a warmth and a glow about both groups. Some had learned that others still cared, and some had learned that caring is the solid foundation of December’s glorious celebration.

The heat was sweltering and the rain was coming down in torrents. Still, the missionaries continued down the road, a mix of perspiration and rain rolling off their backs and faces. To their left and right they passed the humble houses of the people of Hong Kong.
Knocking on the plywood doors of these homes, Elder Tavita Sagapolu seemed a giant. Standing six feet tall and weighing 265 pounds, the college-football-star-turned-full-time-missionary towered over most of the people in this city. And now, he discovered he towered over their homes too. The buildings only came up to his chin.
After approaching one of the houses, Tavita’s more experienced companion, who had been on his mission several months, turned to the young Samoan man and offered him the door. It would be Tavita’s first door since arriving in Hong Kong, an experience that would remain with him throughout his life.
Tavita shook with nervousness as he prepared to knock. “My mouth went dry and refused to open,” he recalls. Nonetheless, he mustered the courage to approach the door, a door so small he had to kneel down to knock.
“As I was kneeling there, I forgot how strong I was. I didn’t even have to knock—my hand was shaking so much that all I had to do was put my arm up to the door.” Before Tavita knew what was happening the door fell in under the weight of his arm. Panic swept through him as he tried to put the door back on its hinges before anyone came.
Suddenly, an elderly woman appeared at the door. When she opened it, it fell on her. She came out screaming. “I grabbed my companion and put him in front of me. I said ‘Here, talk to him!’ The memory of that little old woman’s face after the door fell down will always be with me.” Now, when he recalls the episode, Tavita chuckles.

“All right, I’ll listen to your message,” I told the young missionaries when they asked if they could visit me in my home in Mexico City. “But just to share ideas. I already know what I believe, and I don’t want to be a member of your church.” I had met them when the Flores family invited me to their family home evening. I never imagined that the evening would end with my allowing them to come to my house. Oh, well, it’s only an hour, I told myself. Then I can forget about them.
The following week, at exactly the appointed hour, I heard their knock. At least they’re punctual, I thought, and opened the door to see two fresh faces, eager to begin.
At first I was defensive, expecting them to attack my beliefs. But instead they talked about our Father in Heaven, who has a body like me; about his Son, who had died for me and then was resurrected; and about the Holy Ghost, who can communicate with me. It was all very logical.
Then they went on to say that Jesus Christ had visited the American continent; his visit was recorded in a book—the Book of Mormon.
If they think they’re going to sell me their little book, I thought, they are mistaken. To my surprise, they said that someone had already purchased the book for me and that the only price was to read it. For that reason I accepted it, although I felt that only the Bible contained God’s word.
When the elders came a second time, they asked me if I would be baptized. “I’m already baptized,” I replied. “I was baptized when I was a baby, and it was good for life.” The missionaries stated that baptism had to be done by immersion and that it was for the remission of sins at the age of eight, when a child was old enough to be responsible for his actions. In my heart I knew that I had been sinless when I was baptized. And I hadn’t been submerged. I decided to take a closer look at their beliefs.
I began to visit their church, although I would leave the meetings early to attend my own services. I found that everyone there smiled and greeted me as if they had known me for a long time. They just want to convert me, I told myself. The atmosphere is nice, and the classes are interesting, but that is all.
Although I didn’t touch the Book of Mormon, I continued with the discussions. I learned about a young man named Joseph Smith who, in the year 1820, saw God the Father and his Son Jesus Christ. At that moment, a new era had begun—lost truth had again illuminated the world. Could this possibly be true? There was only one way to find out, the missionaries said, and that was to pray. They taught me how to pray in a very simple way. They said God would answer me if I would only ask him this question, with sincere faith. My heart softened for a moment, but then I was afraid. What if he did answer? What if it were true?
The next time they came, they explained that before we were born, we had all lived with our Heavenly Father in a spirit world (could it really exist? I wondered) and that we came to this earth to get bodies and to learn to choose between good and evil. If we chose the good, we began to become like God. Isn’t this blasphemy? I asked myself. How can I become like God, who is perfect? The missionaries also explained that I should take care of my body. They asked me if I would keep the Word of Wisdom and the law of chastity. I surprised myself when I agreed to live by these standards, even though I did not believe in their church.
This is too much, I thought, when during the fifth discussion they told me about tithing, about fasting, and about the offering I should give for the poor. Why should I help others when I am the one who needs help? But the missionaries explained that Latter-day Saints consider it a privilege to pay their tithing and fast offering. “The Lord gives you ten apples and asks for only one back,” they explained. “How generous he is!”
Well, I said to myself, if he’s going to give me ten apples and then want one back, let him just give me nine in the first place! But I had always had financial problems. Was it because I was unfair with the Lord?
At the last discussion, the missionaries reviewed everything they had taught and explained the mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Again they spoke of baptism, and again I told myself that they would not succeed in baptizing me. I began to argue vigorously with them. The evening ended with my assuring them that they were wrong about everything. They listened sadly, then tried to respond with readings from the scriptures. But I refused to listen and asked them to leave.
At last I was free of the missionaries. Certainly, they were pleasing enough as people, but I wanted no more to do with them as representatives of their church. So why did I feel such an emptiness inside?
One Sunday afternoon, about six weeks later, the missionaries came again. This time, one of the elders suggested that I would have a difficult time reading the Book of Mormon in a week. I felt a challenge in his words. Did he think I wasn’t capable of reading his little book? I will read it in even less time! I also accepted their suggestion that the three of us fast together the following Tuesday while I came to a decision about the book.
That night when I began to read the Book of Mormon, I found that despite my former reluctance, I could not put it down. I read steadily, with no desire to sleep, until three o’clock in the morning. Although I had to work the next day, I found myself reading the book at each free moment. And as soon as I came home in the afternoon, I went back to it like steel drawn to a magnet.
That very evening, I visited the Flores family, who had introduced me to the missionaries. I told them that I was considering baptism. Brother Flores questioned me, wanting to know if I were serious. I answered that I was. Then the Flores family said that they wanted to fast with me and the missionaries the next day. That night I read until the early hours a second time.
On Tuesday morning, each of us, in our own homes, began to fast. I was in good spirits all day and was not hungry or thirsty. In the afternoon, I read a scripture that shook me: “For after this day of life, which is given us to prepare for eternity, … then cometh the night of darkness wherein there can be no labor performed” (Alma 34:33). I knelt and asked my Father in Heaven if the church I was investigating was true and if I should join it. As I listened, I knew deep within my soul that this really was the church of Jesus Christ. I should wait no longer. That night when I ended my fast, I told the missionaries of my decision to be baptized. Happiness filled their faces.
Day and night I continued my reading of the Book of Mormon until, six and a half days after I started, I finished it. I had done it! I had met the missionaries’ challenge. I knew that I would never again refer to the Book of Mormon as the “little book.” It was now a great book, another testament of Jesus Christ. And although Satan tried to put obstacles in my path, on 19 February 1990 I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
After all was said and done, it was true! God loved us so much that he designed a plan of salvation for us and gave his Only Begotten Son as a sacrifice so that we could return to his presence. Joseph Smith saw the Father and the Son and was chosen by God to restore the truth. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints holds the authority of God to perform those ordinances and offer those covenants that help us obtain a celestial home, if we are faithful and true to those covenants.
Each night I thank God for the opportunity I had to meet the Flores family and the missionaries. They all served as instruments in the hand of the Lord so that I could receive and accept his precious gospel.

Once there was a man and his wife who were very happy living in their big house. But one evening as the man read his newspaper while his wife did her knitting, she looked up and said, “We have a lovely house with many nice things, but don’t you think something is missing?”
The man folded his newspaper and said, “Yes, something is missing. Our house is too quiet. Maybe we need a dog.”
So the man and his wife went to the pet shop and bought a cute little soft and cuddly puppy.
One evening as the man read his newspaper while his wife did her knitting and the puppy lay sleeping on the floor, the woman looked up and said, “We have a lovely house and many nice things. We have a cute little puppy, but don’t you think something is still missing?”
The man folded his newspaper and answered, “Yes, something is still missing. Our house is much too quiet. Maybe we need a kitten.”
So they bought a playful little kitten. The kitten liked its new home, and the man and his wife and their little puppy liked the kitten.
One evening as the man read his newspaper while his wife did her knitting and the puppy and kitten chased each other, the woman looked up and said, “We have a lovely house and many nice things. We have a cute little puppy and a playful kitten, but don’t you think something is still missing?”
The man folded his newspaper and said, “Yes, something is missing. Our house is still too quiet. Maybe we need a bird.”
So they bought a pretty canary that sang beautifully. The canary liked its new home, and the man and his wife and their little puppy and playful kitten liked the canary.
One evening as the man read his newspaper while his wife did her knitting and the little puppy and playful kitten chased each other and the canary sang, the woman looked up and said, “We have a lovely house with many nice things. We have a cute little puppy and a playful kitten and a pretty canary that sings, but don’t you think something is still missing?”
The man folded his newspaper and said, “Yes, something is still missing. Our nice house is too quiet. Maybe we should get a parrot.”
So they bought a parrot that talked and squawked. The parrot liked its new home, and the man and his wife and their puppy and kitten and canary liked the parrot.
One evening as the man read his newspaper while his wife did her knitting, the little puppy and playful kitten chased each other and the pretty canary sang beautifully and the parrot talked and squawked. The woman looked up and said, “We have a lovely house with many nice things. We have a cute little puppy and a playful kitten and a pretty canary that sings beautifully and a parrot that talks and squawks, but don’t you think something is still missing?”
The man folded his paper thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said, “something is still missing. Our house is still too quiet. Maybe we need to adopt a baby to come and live with us.”
“Oh, yes,” said his wife.
“Arf,” barked the little puppy.
“Meow,” agreed the playful kitten.
“Tweet, tweet,” sang the pretty canary.
“Squawk, indeed,” replied the noisy parrot.
And so one day the happy man and his happy wife welcomed a tiny baby girl into their house.
Then the little puppy was happy.
The playful kitten was happy.
The pretty canary was happy.
The noisy parrot was happy.
And the beautiful little baby girl was happy too, for now the big house was a home full of love.

At the risk of having all of you lose your faith in me, I am going to tell you a story about my own life. When most of you were still in the spirit world, I signed an Edsel franchise with Ford Motor Company. Some of you may not know what the Edsel was. The older brethren know that it was one of the most disastrous national marketing mistakes ever made in the United States. Ford Motor Company spent over two hundred million dollars producing an automobile that would carry the name of Edsel Ford, the father of Henry Ford II, who was then the president of Ford Motor Company. The sales promotion, anticipation, and the excitement were unbelievable. You can appreciate what it was like, being a relatively young businessman and having all the power of the Ford Motor Company brought to bear on me to encourage me to become the Edsel dealer for Salt Lake City. I wrestled with the decision. I said to my father, who was a great man in my life, “Before I sign the franchise, I want to see the car.”

They made special arrangements for us to fly to California to see the car. Now, as I wrestled with this, I was also asking the Lord about it, asking for direction. It was a big decision; it involved a lot of money, a lot of commitment on my part. The minute my father and I saw the cars I had the distinct impression not to go ahead with the franchise. When I got away from the new car showing, the sales power of Ford Motor Company started to work on me again—they assured me the car was going to be the greatest thing that ever came into the automobile industry. And I allowed myself to drift from the promptings of the Spirit that I had earlier. I had followed the counsel of the ninth section of the Doctrine and Covenants, but I wavered from the impression the Lord had given me. I made the decision to sign the franchise, then went through the torments of the damned, almost. If we had more time, I could tell you that it is not fun to lose a lot of money fast. Regardless of what I did, it didn’t matter; I couldn’t stop the losses. Ultimately I had to sell the franchise at a great loss. This was a learning experience. I am now able to sit down with just about anybody who wants to talk about the automobile business and instinctively draw from my bank of experience to give pretty good counsel.

I can think straight now when it comes to those kinds of decisions because of what I suffered. Perhaps we need to understand that failure is part of life. We are not going to be successful in everything we do, but we never need to fail to learn the lesson and to place in the bank of our memories those things that will then cause us to become increasingly powerful and, most importantly, increasingly helpful to the building of the kingdom of God.

It isn’t your typical activity at the Byrd Springs Ward cultural hall. Two hundred young men and women from all over the Huntsville Alabama Stake have gathered here on a Saturday afternoon, but they’re not attending a dance or a youth conference, not playing sports or putting on road shows. They’re tying quilts, more than two dozen of them. The quilts will be donated to a center for children whose parents are in jail or otherwise absent. The massive quilting bee is Tyler Williams’ Eagle Scout project.
Tyler got his idea of holding a massive quilting bee by talking with the stake Young Women presidency. “They came to me, actually,” he explains. “Of course, my mother is in the presidency, and she knew I was looking for a project!” But he quickly realized that providing the quilts could do what he hoped to do—he could organize a lot of people (including some non-LDS friends he had helped with their projects), he could help the community, and he could let some lonely children know they were loved.
He learned quickly that other things were required, too. “You can’t just crash it through,” he says. “You’ve got to have a plan. You have to be organized. You have to delegate; you’ve got to have it mapped out mentally and be assertive, so people know what to do.” With donated yarn and fabric, fliers and announcements throughout the stake, and half a dozen borrowed quilting frames, the project, from start to finish, was completed in about one month. “And that,” he says, “was rushing it.” His advice to others: “Get it done before you’re about to turn 18.”

The Pukalani Ward, Kahului Hawaii Stake, has an early-morning seminary class eagerly participating in a genealogy project. The nine students were given family group sheets with names extracted from a ward member’s genealogical sketch. After an introduction and instructions, the group filled out individual and marriage entry forms. The class submitted 57 names to be cleared for temple work. The youth enjoyed the actual hands-on experience of learning about genealogy.

by Cathe Chapman
The memory of piles and piles of crushed granite remains in the minds of 70 youth from the Mesa Arizona Stake. As a service project in conjunction with their youth conference, they gathered at 5:30 in the morning at the Ho Ho Kam Park, winter home of the Chicago Cubs baseball team. They had been asked by the bicentennial committee of the city of Mesa to help improve the looks of the park. The piles of crushed granite had been dumped into the meridians that bordered the driveways and parking lot. Seventy-five tons needed to be shoveled and raked evenly.
“It’s a great project,” said Tony Curtis, a priest in the Mesa 23rd Ward, “because we are in service to the community.” The group worked at a fast pace because they were determined to beat the heat of the blazing Arizona sun.
When they finished the work, they were dirty, hot, and tired, and more than ready to participate in the water carnival planned for the afternoon.
The city of Mesa was so pleased with the work, they wrote a special letter thanking everyone who participated.

Sister Quashigah remembers hearing for the first time the Primary song, “I Know My Father Lives”. She felt empowered by the words “He sent me here to earth, by faith to live his plan. The Spirit whispers this to me and tells me that I can.”1
When she is faced with a difficult task, she has learned that the Savior will give her the power and strength that she needs, and the Spirit will guide her steps. Upon receiving her first Come Follow Me book, Sister Quashigah was devastated that she could not read it, but through the gospel literacy program, she has learned to read and can now explain the doctrines and principles of the gospel to her family and friends.

Photographs by Christina Smith
For violinist Claire Z. of Idaho, USA, music has always been important. “It just makes everything better,” she says. “It gives you something to focus on and enjoy and share with others.” Music also gives Claire a way to share her beliefs. “I’m not very outgoing. Music is a way to bear my testimony.”
Growing up, Claire loved playing the violin and thought about studying it in college. But a four-wheeling accident almost changed her path forever.
When Claire was 13, she and her friend were riding a four-wheeler together near Claire’s house. At a curve in the road, Claire lost control of the vehicle and it flipped. Claire’s friend was unharmed, but Claire’s left hand—the hand she most needed to play the violin—was crushed underneath a metal bar. Claire and her friend crawled out from under the vehicle and walked home, singing hymns and Primary songs to keep up their spirits.
It took several surgeries and a year of physical therapy before Claire could even think about playing the violin again. At first it seemed impossible because the fingers of her left hand were weak and most of her ring finger had been amputated. Between surgeries, Claire found comfort playing the piano with her right hand.
Claire struggled with feeling angry and sad at the beginning of her trial. She remembers one night when she was having a hard time. “I felt like I was suffocating,” Claire says, “like something really heavy was lying on my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. Finally, I just knelt down and prayed, ‘Heavenly Father, please help me to get through this and be OK.’ And immediately that weight, that pressure just lifted, and I felt like I could do it. That was a really amazing experience. You can get through hard things with Heavenly Father.”
Before the accident, Claire had been the youngest member of her city’s symphony. After the accident, she was worried she would never play the violin again.
Claire’s violin teacher started to research how to build a backward violin that could be held with the right hand instead of the left. Everything on and inside the violin had to be moved around. Other music teachers and professional musicians said it was impossible, but Claire, her mother, and her violin teacher knew it could be done and eventually found someone who would make the violin.
Once the new violin was ready, it was very frustrating for Claire to learn to play with her right hand. She’d spent years training her left hand and fingers to move quickly across violin strings. Now she had to start over and teach her right hand to do it all. She felt discouraged by her memories of playing, because she was now unable to play as well as she had before. But with time, practice, and prayer, she did improve.
After six months of daily practice, Claire eventually earned a spot back in the symphony with her friends. She also put on a piano and violin recital with her friends at the hospital where she’d been treated. Those who know her think of her as an inspiration and have learned from her example of hard work, determination, and faith in the Lord.
Claire has learned a lot from her trial, but she thinks the most important lesson is to stay positive. “Don’t let your anger control you,” she says. “You have to get negative feelings out because they’re all in there, but make sure you’re focusing on the good in your situation and finding the positive after you have those moments. You have to make yourself think positively and find the good things, however few or little you think they may be.”
Claire says that good support also helped her stay positive. “I have great family, friends, and neighbors who were just happy, visited me, and brought me lots of treats.”
Claire’s life is very different from the life she may have imagined a few years ago, but she says, “I don’t think I’d ever want it to change. I’ve met so many amazing people.” With the Lord’s help, hard work, determination, and a positive attitude, Claire can once again follow her dream and continue playing the violin.

I have learned for myself, brothers and sisters, that there is a God and that he loves us and that through the Holy Ghost he answers our prayers when we are sufficiently humble and meek to listen. As a young missionary in Central America, I was the leader over the missionaries in a particular country. We all went on a p-day activity to see the crater of a supposedly extinct volcano. There were two ways to get down into the crater of the volcano. One was to go down some steep ledges into the face of the volcano and the other was to walk through a jungle area around the rim of the volcano and come in on the back side that gently sloped to the crater. Most of the missionaries took the path through the jungle area. Some of us went down the cliffs. We met safely at the bottom and enjoyed seeing the volcano, (which, by the way, erupted a couple of months later). As we prepared to leave, it began to rain. I had not brought my raincoat or umbrella. I was getting soaked as we walked, and said to the others, I’m getting sopping wet and the rest of you have protection, just tell me how to get back through this jungle area, and I will meet you at the bus. I always tried to be an obedient missionary, and I knew I should always be with my companion, but out in the middle of the jungle there was no danger of immorality, so it seemed harmless to go ahead alone. Off I went. I soon came to a little fork in the path, and did what I thought I had been told to do. I continued for sometime through some very dense jungle growth. I wondered why the elders and sisters hadn’t complained about having to go through this. I could hardly see because the rain was now falling in torrents and my glasses were muddy. I tried to go faster but soon realized I was lost. I tried to retrace my steps, but I had left no trail. I began to panic. I ran and pushed through the dense undergrowth. At one point I fell into a big pit that had been covered over by vines and other growth. I managed to crawl out, but it was very obvious to me that I was lost in a jungle, I had no idea where I was or how I was ever going to get out.

Finally I dropped to my knees in the mud and told Heavenly Father I was awfully sorry and that I really needed His help. In my mind I could see the headlines “Missionary Lost in the Jungle” or “Other Missionaries Lost Trying to Find Their Leader,” or “Mission President in Helicopter Looking for Lost Missionaries.” I was absolutely terrified, not only for my own safety, but for fear that others would come looking for me and be placed in jeopardy themselves. After prayer, the only thought that came to me was that I should climb a tree and yell. I had been yelling, so that didn’t seem like much of a prompting, but I climbed a tree. I remember seeing an orchid on the limb that I crawled out on, and began yelling as loud as I could yell. I was really discouraged and frightened. As I recall, there was a brief ray of light that shone through the dark sky and gave me hope. I yelled louder. I thought I heard something so I yelled again and then I climbed down out of the tree and continued to yell, to listen and follow in the direction of what I hoped I was hearing. After what seemed like an eternity, I found my way to the company of two wonderful missionary companions. They told me they had come looking for me, but that they were certain that I had not gone the way I had because it was going exactly opposite of the way I should be going and was heading deeper into the jungle. They told me they had turned around and started back but felt to go just a little further before turning back. As they did so they heard my voice and began calling to me.

I know through this and many other experiences, some as recent as this week, that God hears and answers prayers and that the promptings of the Holy Ghost are real. I had been unwise. I hadn’t committed a great sin, but I had been disobedient. I assure you, my heart and mind were open and eager for inspiration.

“Just before I take part in competition, I always ask Heavenly Father to help me get through,” says 13-year-old discus thrower Leanne Grey, of Sutton Coldfield, England. “This is a great comfort. Having a clear conscience and feeling good inside helps too.”
It seems to be working. She’s won first place in the Independent Schools 16-and-under age group, after facing stiff competition from the rest of the country.

Many youth in the Church have had the opportunity to do baptisms for the dead, but for the priests and Laurels of the Adelaide Australia Modbury Stake, this great blessing has come only in recent times with the completion of the Sydney Australia Temple.
Even so, the trip to Sydney was a long one. As a fund-raising project, the young people committed to deliver 50,000 telephone directories. With many ward members helping, the youth spent Saturdays and many evenings making the deliveries.
The 26 enthusiastic youth attended two baptismal sessions. Many were baptized for their own ancestors or those of other members of the stake.
What may have seemed like a trial to some when they had spent several Saturdays delivering heavy directories turned out to be one of the most wonderful experiences of their lives.

One of my colleagues on the President’s Council, Kelly Flanagan, recently shared an experience he had early in his career. At a lunch gathering with colleagues in his department, Kelly, who had taught a particular class several times in succession, lamented, “I am so sick of teaching this class.” One of those in the lunch group was a senior colleague whom Kelly admired and acknowledged to be a superb teacher and who had taken an interest in Kelly as a young faculty member. This experienced and wise mentor responded to Kelly’s complaint: “This semester, why don’t you try teaching the students.” This retort by his respected colleague stung a bit, but, after reflection, Kelly changed his teaching approach, and both he and the students benefited for the rest of his career. His colleague’s simple suggestion reflects a unique vision of students, each of whom has a different potential and learning style. We sometimes see our courses as a composite of syllabi, lectures, homework assignments, essays, quizzes, term papers, review sessions, midterms, and on and on. We might do well to remind ourselves of the obvious when we sometimes suffer from “faculty fatigue”: that all we do centers on our students. We teach people, not courses, and we do it in the classroom, the hall, the lab, the studio, the library, the cafeteria, on the quad, and in our homes.

When my parents got married, they bought the refrigerator secondhand. My mother took it upon herself to paint it a strange yellow color I have never seen on any other refrigerator. (She also ended up painting the floor, some of the other furniture, and a new dress.) But we actually saw the strange yellow color only when the refrigerator broke down, had to have a new part, and Mama took everything off of it.
Its color was hidden because my mother covered it with all sorts of things: a good cartoon from the newspaper, a well-known saying, my dad’s picture, scriptures to be memorized, the ticket from the cleaners, an ad for some product, a letter to be answered, a recipe, the shopping list, the ward telephone directory, and even our report cards. As we got older, she put up lists of weekly assignments, schedules, and messages for the family. We didn’t have a chalkboard or a bulletin board, so our parents also posted gospel pictures on the refrigerator.
In February, my mom would put up a big heart with all our names written on it; in March, her wedding picture and a list of some things she would like for her birthday. June she dedicated to Dad, because it was the month of his birthday—she did the same in the month each of us was born. In September, a Mexican flag was displayed. In November, the month in which my parents remembered their ancestors, Mom put up pictures of loved ones, providing an opening to talk about them. In December, she displayed a small nativity scene she had fashioned out of cloth.
Each time one of us went on a mission, Mom stuck a missionary photo on the fridge and didn’t take it down until our return. When Mom’s only brother died, she displayed on the refrigerator a picture of the two of them together and never took it down. She didn’t ever mention it, but to see her so profoundly contemplating that picture, we knew how much her brother meant to her.
Together, the refrigerator and my mother united the family.

On the large Idaho farm where I grew up in the 1940s, the work horses had been displaced by the tractor, so my father left them to graze, except when we children wanted to ride them. I always chose Banner, despite his thick, aging, work-worn body.
On summer evenings, my father helped me saddle Banner, then sent us off to bring the cows home for milking. The cows pastured in a field fenced on three sides but open on the fourth to the Teton River. Beyond the river’s main channel, a large flood plain was crisscrossed by lesser channels. In springtime, the swollen river formed many islands and swamps crowded with brush.
Occasionally the cows would notice untouched grass across the river and swim across the swift current to eat it. They then wandered into the thick brush and could be hard to find. Father had given me strict orders that if the cows ventured across the river, I was never to go after them but must return home for help.
One Saturday evening in early spring just after my seventh birthday, I was in a great hurry to bring the cows home for milking because my parents had promised that we could go to a movie if we got our chores done in time. I trotted Banner as much as he could endure at his advanced age, but when I arrived at the pasture, I saw that the cows had swum across the river, even though it ran at high flood stage.
I didn’t know what to do. I knew that if I went for help, the movie would probably be half over before we could find the cows, milk them, and get the other chores done. I decided to go after the cows myself, even though I had been warned many times not to.
I knew that horses could swim well, as I had seen them cross the river before, but Banner hesitated as I urged him down into the cold, swift stream. As he swam with quick, jerking motions, his head barely cleared the water. An adult sitting on him would also have had his head above water, but at my age, the water quickly covered me. I had to grip the saddle horn to keep from washing downstream in the treacherous current. That kept me underwater, though, except when Banner lunged forward several times, bringing my head above water enough to gasp for air.
When Banner finally climbed the other bank, I realized that my life had been in grave danger and that I had done a terrible thing—I had knowingly disobeyed my father. I felt that I could redeem myself only by bringing the cows home safely. Maybe then my father would forgive me.
Banner and I wandered for some time across the flooded plain, crossing swamps and streams and searching in the thick brush for the cows. In the dusk I began to realize that I might not find them at all. Further, I didn’t know for sure where I was, and I began to fear that I couldn’t find my way back.
Finally I heard the cows in the distance and found them on a small island. We crossed to that island and began rounding up the cattle just as full darkness fell. Normally at milking time, the cows would be eager to return to the barn, but on this night, because of the darkness and the cold water they would have to swim across, they had no desire to leave. I tried every way I knew to get them to move, but just as we approached the water, they always turned and ran back to the center of the small island. Despair overwhelmed me. I was wet and cold, lost and afraid, and, worst of all, well aware that my disobedience had landed me in this fix.
I began to cry as I climbed down from Banner and fell to the ground by his feet. Between thick sobs, I tried to offer a prayer, simple but deeply sincere, as I repeated over and over to my Father in Heaven, “I’m sorry. Forgive me! I’m sorry. Forgive me!”
I prayed for some time with my head bowed, and when I finally looked up, I saw a figure dressed in white come up out of the river and walk toward me. In the dark, I felt certain it must be an angel sent in answer to my prayers. I did not move as the figure approached, but felt overwhelmed by what I saw. Would the Lord really send an angel to me, who had been so disobedient?
Then a familiar voice said, “I’ve been looking for you, Son.” I recognized my father and ran to his outstretched arms. He held me for several moments until I finally stopped the emotional sobs. He then said gently, “I was worried. I’m glad I found you.”
I tried to tell him how I felt, but only disjointed words—“Thank you … dark … afraid … river … alone”—came out of my trembling lips.
I will never understand how my father coordinated the next few minutes. We both climbed on Banner and started herding the cows. Father gave a piercing whistle, and the cows seemed to line up in single file and march through the numerous channels of the river toward home. I learned later that when my father noticed that I had not returned from the pasture, he drove the pickup truck out to investigate. When he couldn’t find me or the cows, he knew that I had crossed the river and was in danger. Because it was dark, he did not take time to go for additional help but removed his clothes down to his long white thermal underwear, tied his shoes around his neck, and swam the treacherous river in search of me.
He was a hero to me. He had saved me from the most terrible experience of my young life and replaced fear and danger with love and security. I will always remember what it was like to ride on Banner encircled by my father’s warm arms and hearing him say, “Everything is fine now. You’re safe.”
I had been disobedient and had learned the fear and regret that come with it. My father had searched for me, his lost son, and brought me safely home. I had never felt greater gratitude to my Heavenly Father, recognizing that when I exercise poor judgment and disregard his commandments, he still is willing to rescue me as I repent and turn to him again.

Like perhaps some of you, in going back to school I felt woefully inadequate to compete at the high level that was expected of me. I leaned on the worldly philosophies of "fake it til you make it" and even suffered at times with the imposter syndrome. It was in my second year of grad school (where I was affectionately known as “the old guy”) when I had a profound experience that changed me and my confidence level. I was beginning my clinical rotations and had a mock counseling session with a fellow classmate. At first, she played the part of the client in need, but soon the act gave way to heartfelt emotional reveals and vulnerable disclosure that was real, very real- and that needed my full attention. She didn’t mean for the discussion to lead down a difficult and unsettling journey of transparency, but there we were, staring reality in the face. I leaned on my academic learnings, clinical experience, and proven interventions to help this new friend in need. I felt inadequate, unprepared, and completely out of my league. It was then the power of this scripture came to me:

“Let thy bowels also be full of charity towards all men, and to the household of faith, and let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God, and the doctrine of the priesthood shall distill upon thy soul as the dews from heaven."
"The Holy Ghost shall be thy constant companion, and thy scepter an unchanging scepter of righteousness and truth; and thy dominion shall be an everlasting dominion, and without compulsory means, it shall flow unto thee forever and ever.” 1

At that moment, I needed confidence. I needed to know that I belonged there. I needed guidance from the power of God to distill upon me dews of wisdom from heaven. And He did. In that instant I realized it wasn’t about me- it was about Him and how he wanted to help this young woman who, by professed belief, knew little of Him. Words came to my mouth that led to clinical mending and spiritual healing. After the tears dried and class ended, she reached out to me (she DM’d me) to say that she felt something she had never felt before. I knew what it was- and so do you. Brothers and sisters, because of Him and his majesty, I knew I belonged there!