Gospel Story Finder

Heavy clouds blew across the New Mexico sky as apprentice jockey David Shepherd, 18, perched atop his horse Dirt Farmer and waited for the starter to press the button. He ignored the sounds of the 24,000 spectators in the grandstand on the west side of the track. He had only one thing in mind—to beat 11 other riders to the finish line less than three-fourths of a mile away. Because Thoroughbreds run at 40 miles-per-hour, the race would last scarcely longer than one minute.
With nearly 30 wins under his belt in a little more than four months, David is considered one of the better apprentice jockeys. “I guess I’m luckier than most,” he said quietly. “I’ve had two goals in life—to go on a mission and to be a professional jockey. What I earn riding is helping me build up my mission fund. I’ll turn 19 in two months, and the bishop back home has already talked to me about it.” Back home is Genola, Utah, about 25 miles southwest of Provo. David is the oldest of 11 children and was recently ordained an elder.
Earlier, while waiting for his race, David explained that he has been riding for several years in bush league races in the Intermountain West. He used to receive $10 a race. Last spring he won his first race on a recognized track and began his apprenticeship. By June he will be a journeyman jockey.
During the years on the small tracks, he watched his weight carefully, never exceeding by much the 98-pound limit that is the requirement for a jockey.
“I’m only five foot four inches, and I look small because I have small bones,” he said as Dirt Farmer and the other horses were brought into the paddock area in preparation for the race. Jockeys look deceptively small, but their weight is almost pure muscle. It takes strength to control a racing horse weighing ten times as much as its rider.
David noted that a jockey gets a flat fee, usually about 1 1/2 percent of the purse, for participating in the race. If he wins, he then receives ten percent of the money given the owner of the winning horse.
“From that I have to pay my agent, who gets 25 percent of all I make, valet expenses, Jockey Guild fees and living costs. I also pay for my helmet, riding clothes, saddles, cinches, and goggles.
Paddock judge Jim Wilson, clipboard in hand, stepped out to check the horses. He stopped briefly at stall five and chatted with Tom Phelan of Scottsdale, Arizona, owner and trainer of Dirt Farmer. The valets then saddled the horses. The clock noted that only 16 minutes remained before the next race.
“There is generally a half hour between each race,” David continued, “to give everyone a chance to get ready.”
The talk turned to racing accidents. David said that though he has fallen twice during a race, he has never broken a bone. “In one of the races my mount stumbled just out of the gate. I was still rolling in a tight ball when the rest of the horses went past. I was clipped a couple of times, but nothing serious happened. Another time I went down when I was in front and slid on my head along the track. I wasn’t hurt too badly, just bruised, and my neck was sore for a few days. None of the horses hit me.”
Before Albuquerque he raced several weeks in Denver. “The horses here carry 106 or better, but in Denver they were getting in at 103. In order to ride I had to keep my weight at 97 pounds.” David doesn’t diet as such, but he admitted that he always watches what he eats.
“You have to keep your weight down because the saddle, girth, irons, boots, and whites weigh another four or five pounds altogether. While I’m on my mission I’ll watch my weight all the time so I won’t be too heavy when I get back.
“Living the standards of the Church has helped me be a better jockey. I never have a hangover, and I am always alert. When I told my parents I wanted to go on the track professionally, they told me they trusted me and expected me to live the standards. There are a lot of good people in the horse racing business who aren’t LDS, and they respect you for your standards.”
Others interviewed at the track voiced their respect for David as a person and a professional. He has given away a number of pamphlets on the Church. “I try to tell people about the good things in our church,” he said.
During the week David will ride as many as 20 horses in the morning to get them ready for races. In the afternoon he may race as many as six out of the 12 races scheduled.
The clock showed that 12 minutes remained before David’s race. Jim Wilson pushed a button to alert jockeys still in the jockey room. “Jockeys,” he said, and the riders entered the paddock. David walked over to Dirt Farmer who was quietly waiting with Mr. Phelan. The owner and David discussed the race strategy. “Hold him, hold him, hold him,” he told David. “Leave him something for the last. Then, if you can move up on the inside. do it.”
At a signal from the paddock judge, Tom Phelan gave David a leg up on the chestnut gelding. David thrust his toes through the irons strapped high up on the side of Dirt Farmer. His upper legs now horizontal, he adjusted the reins as Mr. Phelan led them out of the paddock and up to the race course.
Several of the horses had to be led along the track by another rider to ensure that they remained under control until the race started. Although David’s mount had been raced for several years, he had not lost a quiet disposition. David needed no other help. The outrider, mounted western, escorted the 12 horses in front of the stands before taking them toward the starting gate on the other side of the track.
Tom Phelan stood by the rail. “I met David in Denver. He was riding for another owner who had horses in the same barn. I liked the way David rode, and when I had an opening, I put him on. He’s fitting in really well. David’ll do well; it just takes a lot of time and a lot of experience.
“He listens, and he tries to ride according to instructions. That’s what I like about him. He’s the pilot, though. When the race is being run, we try to follow the race plan, but a lot of things can happen. That’s when it takes a boy who can think. David’s doing all right in that department.
“Dirt Farmer has done well, but he’s been having trouble with a cracked front hoof. We’ve had to shoe him special for the race.”
With just a handful of minutes left, David’s agent, Bob Bernhardt, came up to the fence. A jockey himself until he got too heavy, Bob is aware of the qualities it takes to make a good rider. “I watched David ride in Denver this spring. I asked someone if he had any experience and was told to keep an eye on him, that he would probably make a rider. He was getting up early in the morning and galloping but wasn’t racing much. I knew he was light, that he worked hard and deserved a shot at it. So, we got together. It was one of those things that you do because you feel you should.”
As his agent, Bob talks with the various owners and trainers to arrange rides for David. He promotes his jockey, even to the point of boasting, by pointing out when he is riding well. Bob also handles travel and living arrangements for the two of them.
Others advised Bob to choose other jockeys instead of David. “I don’t know, there was just something about Dave that made me want to become his agent. As far as I was concerned, he had a lot more potential than other apprentice jockeys in Denver at the time. It’s working out that way; he’s going to be a good rider. He had ridden only eight head the first three weeks of the meet; then we were able to arrange over 30 rides the following week. One day he rode three winners in six races.
“Dave takes care of himself. He doesn’t party, smoke, or drink. He’s serious about racing.”
The horses moved to the starting gate. The truck that pulled the gate was started up. Handlers took the racers by the bridle one at a time and ran them into the narrow enclosures. Another person expertly closed the back of the gate, confining the nervous animals until the starter would press his button and the gates would spring open. David’s chestnut was placed in the fifth position from the rail. The two peered through the grillwork, waiting for the race to begin.
Veteran starter Dean Turpitt, standing a few feet to one side and in front of the gate, watched for a time when all 12 horses were still. It came. He hit the button. Twelve horses jumped out of the gate almost simultaneously. Within a half-dozen strides Dirt Farmer was carrying his rider at 40 miles an hour. “You can’t get that kind of acceleration with a car or a motorcycle. You just have to be able to move with the horse or you’ll never make it.”
The truck pulled the gate off the track; its wheel marks were raked over by two of the workers.
The field was strung out slightly, and announcer Bob Dudich gave the placings over the loudspeaker. Dirt Farmer was seventh. With the race just 5 1/2 furlongs (eight furlongs to the mile), the gate had been placed on the far side of the field because the finish line is never moved. Without binoculars it was hard to discern the different riders, despite their varied colors.
“Hold him, hold him, hold him,” the trainer had said, and David held Dirt Farmer. Muddy sand flung up by the leading horses coated David’s face and goggles. The horses neared the north end of the track and began rounding the curve.
“Usually horses will pull away from the rail on a turn. That’s when you must be ready to move up on the inside.” There was only one curve in this race. David moved.
The spectators rose to their feet as the horses approached. The cheering reached a crescendo seldom heard even at a homecoming football game. Several horses were still ahead of David’s gelding.
“You’ve got to run the horse straight; keep him from wandering over the track, or you’ll lose strides.” Those ahead had continued to pull slightly away from the rail at the curve because of centrifugal force. There was enough room for Dirt Farmer to continue his drive up the rail. David urged him on even faster.
“You have to be willing to take chances, but know when to take them.” Should one of the leading horses move into Dirt Farmer’s path and they tangle, then Dirt Farmer would go down or crash into the rail. “It’s always the horse behind that trips and falls.” David continued to move up the rail safely.
“Dave’s only thinking one thing when he’s out there, and that’s to win.
“This is a claiming race. Several have indicated they want to buy my horse—if he does well in this race. If he wins, he’s sold for sure.”
Dirt Farmer continued to gain on the last horse ahead of him while the announcer swiftly told the positions for the last time. David began to tire, and his breath was ragged. “When you really race, it’s as though you’re running the distance yourself. It is just like running a mile on foot.”
The terrific strain was telling on Dirt Farmer, also. “It takes 90 minutes to cool a horse off after a race, to get his heartbeat and respiration down to what it should be before we can put him in a stall. Dirt Farmer hasn’t an ounce of fat on him; he’s just like his rider. Still, it will take 90 minutes.”
Running his athletic best under David’s urging, Dirt Farmer burst across the finish line in front.
“And the winner is Dirt Farmer!” Bob Dudich shouted to a crowd gone wild.
Elsewhere the race stewards watched the running on video tape, searching for any irregularities before declaring the race official. (A horse the day before had been disqualified because of a jockey’s mistake.) After several reruns, they concluded there were no obvious problems. The race was declared official.
By this time Dirt Farmer and the other horses had slowed down and were trotting back to the finish line where they would be unsaddled and taken off the track. David and Dirt Farmer moved into the winner’s circle for the official photograph. The crowd cheered.
“David did just exactly as I told him,” Tom Phelan commented as he and his wife joined them in the circle.
For David it was one of the last races of the meet. Tomorrow he and his agent would be on their way to Detroit where David would continue to ride and to build up his mission fund.
Dirt Farmer was unsaddled and led away. After David’s weight was checked, his valet took the saddle and cinch. David walked along the track back to the jockey’s room to await another horse, the next start, and a new race.

Erin Woodward’s sixth great-grandfather walked across the plains. Erin, from Westminster, Colorado, thought of this grandfather and his family as she participated in the trek with her stake.

“Now I feel like the silliest girl in the whole world,” she said. “I mean, I have been so into my materialistic things. Seriously, I have a curling iron in my pocket. I even have makeup and everything. I feel horrible because the real pioneers didn’t live as well as I do. Before this I never really understood how blessed I am.”

I had often heard that home teachers may receive inspiration for the families to which they are assigned. But how real that blessing is became evident to me through an experience we had a few years ago.
The semester at the university had ended, and I was spending my summer hours at a part-time job painting homes. I was also teaching an evening class at the Institute of Religion. Our family had recently purchased a new car big enough to comfortably seat our family of seven—just the kind of automobile we had always wanted.
One evening as I was preparing to go to class, our two little daughters, then about three and five years old, came running into the house with white all over their arms. Not suspecting what they had been up to, I thought they had been playing with the flour. But suddenly I noticed that the white on their arms was dripping! In an instant I knew what had happened. I had left an unopened gallon of white oil-base paint out in the car—and a wide paintbrush conveniently next to it. Our little girls had pried open the can and painted the inside of the car. And they had been thorough! The ceiling, the floor, the seats. …
As I stood there looking at the horrible sight before me, one of my little daughters said with a smile on her face, “See Daddy, pretty car.” I picked up the two girls, trying with all my heart to control my emotions, carried them into the bathroom, and put them into the bathtub. I then called for my wife to come and help clean them up while I tried to take care of the car.
At that very moment our telephone rang. I picked up the phone and with some impatience said, “Hello.” A voice at the other end said, “Brother McIntosh, this is Brother Wilde, your home teacher. I was just sitting here wondering how you and your family were getting along.”
“Brother Wilde, you will not believe what our two little daughters have just done,” I moaned. “They have painted the inside of our new car—and I don’t even have an ounce of turpentine to clean it up with!”
My home teacher then gave a response which, to this day, is an inspiration to me: “Brother McIntosh, you may not believe this, but about a half an hour ago, I was walking through a department store. Something said to me, ‘Buy a gallon of turpentine.’ I bought it, not knowing why. It’s still sitting out in the car. I’ll be right over to help you clean up the mess.”
Within minutes, he arrived. About twenty minutes later, we had the entire mess in hand, and I was able to make it to my class on time.
As I walked in the door of the building, I looked up into the sky and said a short prayer: “Thank thee, Father, for a home teacher who cares, who thinks about my family, and who seeks inspiration about us.”

I conclude with an example from my own life. I once had a treasured friend who seemed to experience more of life’s troubles and frustrations than he could bear. Finally he lay in the hospital terminally ill. I knew not that he was there.
Sister Monson and I had gone to that same hospital to visit another person who was very ill. As we exited the hospital and proceeded to where our car was parked, I felt the distinct impression to return and make inquiry concerning whether my friend Hyrum might still be a patient there. A check with the clerk at the desk confirmed that Hyrum was indeed a patient there after many weeks.
We proceeded to his room, knocked on the door, and opened it. We were not prepared for the sight that awaited us. Balloon bouquets were everywhere. Prominently displayed on the wall was a poster with the words "Happy Birthday, Daddy" written on it. Hyrum was sitting up in his hospital bed, his family members by his side. When he saw us, he said, “Brother Monson, how in the world did you know that today is my birthday?” I smiled, but I left the question unanswered.
Those in the room who held the Melchizedek Priesthood surrounded this, their father and grandfather and my friend, and a priesthood blessing was given.
After tears were shed, smiles of gratitude exchanged, and tender hugs received and given, I leaned over to Hyrum and spoke softly to him: “Remember the words of the Lord, for they will sustain you. He promised you, ‘I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you’ (John 14:18).”

As a Church member, I received many blessings. Then came a period that greatly tried my faith. In February 1988, I lost my job as a teacher and my position as a leader in the teachers’ union. I was thwarted on all sides in my efforts to find work. My life had been dedicated to teaching. How would I now support my wife and six children? And how would I feed the eleven other relatives who, for economic reasons, were living in our home?

Everybody worked hard to bring in money. My wife took in sewing, while Amadou and Gausou used a lathe to make tools to sell. Their younger brother cleaned shoes. Even my mother opened a small business selling spices. Eventually I had to sell the family car, for which we had saved for years. I pleaded with the Lord to help me provide for my family.

During this difficult time, a package arrived from Church officials in Salt Lake City containing a simplified version of Gospel Principles, which had been translated into Bambara. They asked if I would check the translation and then translate twelve hymns. As soon as I began this work, I realized its importance and tried to do it as correctly as possible. I struggled many times to find the right word or expression. Then, at other times, my mind would open in a remarkable way—as though someone were dictating to me. (When I finished the translations, I asked them to keep most of the money they were to pay me. I considered it my tithing.) I continued to pray constantly because of our desperate situation.

Little did I guess what would happen next. In May, I received a letter from an old friend, an American doctor named James Ferwarda. I had met Dr. Ferwarda during his visit to Mali in 1985. At his request, I had accompanied him on a tour of my country. Now, to my great surprise, he was sending me a round-trip airplane ticket and inviting me to visit him at his home in the United States!

I was astonished, overwhelmed at his offer. But it seemed impossible for me to leave my family at this critical time. The Church members urged me to accept the invitation, however. Perhaps, they said, the Lord would open the way for me to go to the temple while I was in the United States. Like many members, I cherished the dream of attending the temple “someday.”

Still dumbfounded, I did go, “not knowing beforehand the things which I should do.” (See 1 Ne. 4:6.) It was incredible that someone who was barely surviving financially could make such an expensive trip. After I arrived in the United States, Dr. Ferwarda learned of my deep desire to attend the temple, which was more than 2,000 kilometers away. Although he was not a member of the Church, he told me, “I respect your opinion, and I will pay for your ticket to Salt Lake City, too.”

I visited the Church offices as soon as I arrived in Salt Lake City. I will never, ever forget that day. Elder Alexander Morrison of the Seventy ordained me an elder. Then I went to the temple and received the endowment. Everyone in the temple was so kind. The beauty and serenity there moved me deeply. I was also impressed by the young missionaries, whom I saw for the first time. Now I knew that I wanted my sons to serve missions.

The next day, I visited the offices of a humanitarian organization that sponsors a number of agricultural and educational projects in Mali. Hoping that they might need my services, I met with several administrators but returned to Mali without a job offer.

Our family’s trial of faith lasted five more months. During that time I was grateful for the temple ordinances, which strengthened me. Nevertheless, I often felt like a man who was drowning in a deep river. Daily I entreated the Lord to deliver us from our economic crisis. Then, in November, the miracle came. The humanitarian organization that I had met with in Salt Lake City sent me a telegram, notifying me that I had been hired as their new field director. I knew without a doubt that only the Lord’s hand had plucked me from the river.

My job is a challenging one, requiring negotiations with government officials, local trainers, and village chiefs. Whenever I begin something that seems impossible, someone is sure to say, “You will never accomplish that!” But I know the Lord has the power to help me. I pray, and things work out somehow. I am still not rich, but I can feed my family and the others who depend on me. And now I am able to travel to Utah on business once a year. During these visits, I go to the temple, and I am sometimes able to attend general conference.

Other things have happened, wonderful things. In 1992 my son Amadou completed his mission to French-speaking Canada. There he helped to teach and baptize many people, including African immigrants and Moslems. Now both he and Gausou are studying in the United States. Gausou, too, wants to serve a mission some day. I pray that he will, and that all the rest of my family will join the Church. I pray that all of my children will be good students and honest citizens.

I look forward to the day when the Church will be organized in Mali. As of this writing, I am the only resident member of the Church here. I sustain myself spiritually by praying in all circumstances and by reading the Book of Mormon. And I still have in my care a worn green book with the word Record on the cover. But in my heart I carry another record. I will remember forever how the Lord has poured out his blessings upon me.

You recall the legend of a king who became bored with his routine living. He announced to his subjects that the person who could provide him with a game that would give him constant pleasure would be rewarded greatly, even unto half of his kingdom. Of course everyone wanted a “piece of the action.” Day after day, month in and month out, he reviewed all of the games that were invented. Finally a subject came to him and told him he had invented a game that would entertain the king as long as he lived. The subject demonstrated the game—he told the king that the game must be played on a board with 64 squares. He said the name of the game was chess. He taught the king all the moves and played several games with him. The king was so enraptured by the game that he told the subject to ask for anything. The man declined, suggesting that he had received enough pay if the king enjoyed the game. However, the king would not take no for an answer. Finally the subject said, “If you are determined to pay me something, give me one grain of wheat for the first square on the chessboard, two for the second, four grains for the third, eight for the fourth, and so on, doubling the number for each square until all 64 squares of the board are covered.”
The king was very disappointed that this was all the subject desired of him. Finally he agreed and sent a servant out to get a bushel of wheat and pay the man off. Well, by now you have the message—it wasn’t that simple. By the time the king tried to pay off the 64th square in wheat, he found that all of the crop of his country was not adequate to pay the debt. To do so would have required 18,446, 744,073,709,551,615 grains!

Before reviewing some of the discrimination Church members have experienced, let me be clear that this discrimination is not comparable to the devastating personal impact and societal consequences of slavery.

With this in mind, in the early 1830s, as Latter-day Saints moved to Jackson County, Missouri, to establish Zion—a covenant community—opposition arose from other settlers based on numerous issues, including the Saints’ sympathetic views toward Native Americans and the Saints’ disapproval of slavery. The early Saints took seriously Book of Mormon prophecies that the gospel would be taken in the latter days to the descendants of the Lamanites, whom they understood to be Native Americans. These prophecies and the Saints’ attempts to preach to Native Americans raised suspicions among Missourians who were generally hostile to Indians. Even more concerning for other Missouri settlers was the issue of slavery. Already by the 1830s, significant cultural and economic differences were arising between Americans in the northern states, where slavery was largely outlawed, and the southern states, where slavery was expanding. Most Church members were from the northern states and did not own slaves. Most other Missouri early settlers were from the South, supported slavery, and worried that large numbers of non-slaveholding Saints would shift the control of local politics.

In July 1833, William W. Phelps published an editorial in the Church’s newspaper that heightened these fears. Titled “Free People of Color,” Phelps’s editorial cautioned freed Black Latter-day Saints to have proper paperwork if they migrated to Missouri due to state law. Local citizens misinterpreted the editorial as an invitation by Church leaders for freed slaves to settle in Missouri. The Saints were accused of inciting a slave rebellion, promoting interracial mixing, and giving free Blacks rights of citizenship upon their arrival. Despite attempts to calm the situation in a follow-up article, vigilantes demanded that the Saints leave Jackson County. When Church leaders refused, vigilantes destroyed the Church’s printing office and tarred and feathered two men. The Saints were violently driven from Jackson County later that year.16

Testimonies abound in Tonga of the power of the priesthood as a means of bringing comfort or healing to those in distress. When 44-year-old Sione Siaki of Tongatapu fell ill with fever and pain, many feared he would die. The hospital in Tonga was full, but a nurse brought medication to his home. Day after day he suffered, for more than a month. “I was waiting to die,” says Brother Siaki. “Then our Relief Society president suggested a ward fast. She talked with our bishop, and twice our ward of 300 members fasted for me. Before the fasts, I couldn’t move. Two weeks after the second fast, I sat up and gradually got better. Now I am a temple worker. When I am in the temple, it comes straight into my mind that maybe this is why I was saved.”

As a surgeon, I found that a significant portion of my professional time was taken up with the subject of pain. Of necessity I surgically inflicted it almost daily—and much of my effort was then spent trying to control and alleviate pain.
I have pondered about the purpose of pain. None of us is immune from experiencing pain. I have seen people cope with it very differently. Some turn away from God in anger, and others allow their suffering to bring them closer to God.
Like you, I have experienced pain myself. Pain is a gauge of the healing process. It often teaches us patience. Perhaps that is why we use the term patient in referring to the sick.
Elder Orson F. Whitney wrote: “No pain that we suffer, no trial that we experience is wasted. It ministers to our education, to the development of such qualities as patience, faith, fortitude, and humility. … It is through sorrow and suffering, toil and tribulation, that we gain the education that we come here to acquire.”1
Similarly, Elder Robert D. Hales has said:
“Pain brings you to a humility that allows you to ponder. It is an experience I am grateful to have endured. …
“I learned that the physical pain and the healing of the body after major surgery are remarkably similar to the spiritual pain and the healing of the soul in the process of repentance.”2
Much of our suffering is not necessarily our fault. Unexpected events, contradicting or disappointing circumstances, interrupting illness, and even death surround us and penetrate our mortal experience. Additionally, we may suffer afflictions because of the actions of others.3 Lehi noted that Jacob had “suffered … much sorrow, because of the rudeness of [his] brethren.”4 Opposition is part of Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness. We all encounter enough to bring us to an awareness of our Father’s love and of our need for the Savior’s help.
The Savior is not a silent observer. He Himself knows personally and infinitely the pain we face.
“He suffereth the pains of all men, yea, the pains of every living creature, both men, women, and children.”5
“Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.”6
Sometimes in the depth of pain, we are tempted to ask, “Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?”7 I testify the answer is yes, there is a physician. The Atonement of Jesus Christ covers all these conditions and purposes of mortality.
There is another kind of pain for which we are responsible. Spiritual pain lies deep within our souls and can feel unquenchable, even as being racked with an “inexpressible horror,” as Alma described.8 It comes from our sinful actions and lack of repentance. For this pain too there is a cure that is universal and absolute. It is from the Father, through the Son, and it is for each of us who is willing to do all that is necessary to repent. Christ said, “Will ye not now return unto me … and be converted, that I may heal you?”9
Christ Himself taught:
“And my Father sent me that I might be lifted up upon the cross; and after that I had been lifted up upon the cross, that I might draw all men unto me. …
“Therefore, according to the power of the Father I will draw all men unto me.”10
Perhaps His most significant work is in the ongoing labor with each of us individually to lift, to bless, to strengthen, to sustain, to guide, and to forgive us.
As Nephi saw in vision, much of Christ’s mortal ministry was devoted to blessing and healing the sick with all kinds of maladies—physical, emotional, and spiritual. “And I beheld multitudes of people who were sick, and who were afflicted with all manner of diseases. … And they were healed by the power of the Lamb of God.”11
Alma also prophesied that “he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and … he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people. …
“That his bowels may be filled with mercy, … that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.”12
Late one night lying in a hospital bed, this time as a patient and not as a physician, I read those verses over and over again. I pondered: “How is it done? For whom? What is required to qualify? Is it like forgiveness of sin? Do we have to earn His love and help?” As I pondered, I came to understand that during His mortal life Christ chose to experience pains and afflictions in order to understand us. Perhaps we also need to experience the depths of mortality in order to understand Him and our eternal purposes.13
President Henry B. Eyring taught: “It will comfort us when we must wait in distress for the Savior’s promised relief that He knows, from experience, how to heal and help us. … And faith in that power will give us patience as we pray and work and wait for help. He could have known how to succor us simply by revelation, but He chose to learn by His own personal experience.”14
I felt the encircling arms of His love that night.15 Tears watered my pillow in gratitude. Later, as I was reading in Matthew about Christ’s mortal ministry, I made another discovery: “When the even was come, they brought unto him many … and he … healed all that were sick.”16 He healed all that came to Him. None were turned away.

Sometimes Heavenly Father provides us an opportunity to avoid challenges—if we are willing to listen and learn. Elder M. Russell Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once faced this very dilemma.

“Years ago when I was in business, I learned a very expensive lesson because I did not listen carefully to the counsel of my father, nor did I heed the promptings of the Spirit giving me guidance from my Heavenly Father. My father and I were in the automobile business, and the Ford Motor Company was looking for dealers to sell their new line of cars. Ford executives invited my father and me to a preview showing of what they thought would be a spectacularly successful product. When we saw the cars, my father, who had over 35 years’ experience in the business, cautioned me about becoming a dealer. However, the Ford sales personnel were very persuasive, and I chose to become Salt Lake City’s first—and actually last—Edsel dealer. And if you don’t know what an Edsel is, ask your grandpa. He will tell you that the Edsel was a spectacular failure.

“Now, there’s a powerful lesson for all of you in this experience. When you are willing to listen and learn, some of life’s most meaningful teachings come from those who have gone before you. They have walked where you are walking and have experienced many of the things you are experiencing. If you listen and respond to their counsel, they can help guide you toward choices that will be for your benefit and blessing and steer you away from decisions that can destroy you. As you look to your parents and others who have gone before you, you will find examples of faith, commitment, hard work, dedication, and sacrifice that you should strive to duplicate.”2

I was raised by atheist parents and as a young man felt that my life was fine without God. That changed in 1989, however, when my large intestine ruptured, and I lay in a coma for eight days.
I have few memories from my time in the hospital, but I strongly remember envisioning a man in white standing next to me after my operation and telling me it was time to “return and wake up.” When I resisted, he added, “My brother, you are dead. You either go back, or you stay here.” I did as he said and woke up full of pain.
After leaving the hospital, I had strange dreams that included people I had never met. I had the feeling that I had promised to do something, but I didn’t know what it was. I set about searching and reading about different religions. As I read the New Testament, I realized that if the truth was on the earth, it would be found in Jesus Christ.
I searched from 1989 to 1994. I felt lost and confused as I searched for the people I kept seeing in my dreams. My struggle and confusion became great, and I found myself praying desperately for answers.
Shortly after these prayers, I met a new co-worker. She learned that I was struggling, and I told her that I was searching for the truth. She brought me a Book of Mormon, which I adamantly refused to accept. But she persuaded me to take it, and I read it all in one night. I immediately knew that I had found what I had been looking for.
When I met with the missionaries, I was astonished to see that one of them was someone I had seen in my dreams. I soon asked to be baptized, but I had to take all the lessons first.
As I studied the gospel and attended church, I found all of the people from my dreams. I knew that the gospel was what I had needed to find. The day of my baptism was one of the happiest days of my life. Six months later, I was called as the branch president. Now, nearly 20 years later, I’m still happily serving in the Church. Along with my family, the gospel is my most precious possession.

1 Wilford loved to play with his two brothers, Thompson and Azmon. They spent many happy hours playing in the barn or outside in the fields.
2 One Saturday evening the boys were sitting around the house, bored. Thompson suggested that they explore the attic.
3 The boys’ father had told them not to play in the attic. It was dark and dangerous. Wilford hesitated because he didn’t want to disobey his father. But the mystery of the attic attracted him, and he agreed to join in the adventure.
4 The boys raced up the stairs, eager to see what treasures they would find in the forbidden room.
5 However, just before Wilford got to the top stair, he tripped and fell all the way to the bottom.
6 Wilford felt a horrible pain in his arm, and he knew that he had broken it. It took a long time for his arm to heal, and Wilford learned how important it was to be obedient.
7 From then on, not only did Wilford obey his parents, he also obeyed the Lord. And many years later, Wilford Woodruff became the fourth President of the Church.

One summer, my mother and I went on a humanitarian trip to Guatemala. One day, we went to the Semac Champey, a park with pool after pool of deep blue water connected by rock terraces overflowing with water.
Our group hiked up the steep, rugged path to the cliff top overlooking the pools. The hike involved many staircases along a sheer drop-off. Several times we had to stop by a bench just to catch our breath.
After hiking for hours, my mother was winded and tired. She stopped alongside the trail, saying she would join us on our way back down.
I continued about 200 feet farther and came to the clearing with the lookout. The view was beyond words. Hurriedly, I ran back to my mother and encouraged her to come and see it.
As we rested and took in the view, I thought about how that hike is like our lives. Though the pathway of the gospel is straight and narrow, sometimes it seems like a vertical climb. We get discouraged as friends give up or turn back to paths that seem easier. And the adversary is constantly there, telling us that we’re foolish or just not spiritually cut out for the journey.
But we shouldn’t give up. Eternal life, just like that view, will be beyond words. Though we won’t achieve perfection in our mortal state, we can reach any heights through Christ, and He will always be there to help us for those last 200 feet.
Since this experience, I’ve tried to not give up on my hike to heaven. The Lord has blessed me in my efforts to fulfill His commandments and serve others. I know that He will help all of His children. Our part is to keep pressing on.

One day I joined my siblings at the table to do our family scripture study. My mom started our Come, Follow Me lesson, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I was thinking about something else: Is Jesus really real?
In church and in Primary we learned that He is real, but I didn’t know for myself. I thought and thought, but I couldn’t find the answer.
After scripture study, I asked my mom, “Is Jesus real?”
“Good question,” she said. “How about you pray about it?”
“OK,” I said.
That night I said a prayer and asked, “Heavenly Father, is Your Son real?” Then I felt a really warm feeling inside. I knew God had answered my prayer. After that, I said a thank-you prayer to Heavenly Father for answering me. I know He listens to my prayers and that He will also listen to yours.

I have heard President Nelson share the story of his eight-year-old daughter who came to him one Sunday and asked if she could go sleigh riding with a family in the ward. He said, “I knew it was not wise to answer either yes or no. We opened the Bible to Exodus 31:13: ‘Verily my sabbaths ye shall keep: for it is a sign between me and you throughout your generations.’ Then I asked her how she felt about going sleigh riding on the Sabbath. She said, ‘Dad, I want to show Heavenly Father that I love Him, so I’m not going.’”
President Nelson continued: “After a generation had passed and my daughter was now a mother, I was in her home when her young son asked her permission with a very similar request. It was fascinating and gratifying for me to watch her open the Bible with my grandson and read that same verse.”

Then there was Picoco Primary School, where 1,300 children were being taught from just three classrooms.
“The story of these children and just three classrooms is a touching one,” said Gilberto Albano Chiburee, the director of the school.
Originally, the school’s three classrooms accommodated its 200 students. “But over a short space of time, our community flourished in numbers,” said Chiburee.
The number of students kept increasing. The primary school was strained to evenly distribute students into three sessions, the first group in the morning, the second group in the afternoon, and the third group of students in the evening.
When the number of students passed the 500 mark, Chiburee and his faculty of teachers knew that they had to do something different. They approached nonprofit organisations, government and corporations to ask for assistance, but to no avail.
So Chiburee and his staff started planting trees.
“We used these trees as makeshift classrooms because we did not have any other option. We had sought the help of various companies, nonprofit organizations, and the government but to no avail,” Chiburee said.
This predicament only made matters worse when the number of students enrolling in the school kept climbing. The first and second graders were prioritized to learn in classrooms, while third up to seventh graders learned under trees.
“It broke my heart to have children arrive as early as 6 AM only to sit on the hard and uncomfortable ground until noon. Some of the children started experiencing back problems,” an emotional Chiburee said.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, along with No Poor Among Us, then heard about the school and arranged to construct five new classrooms.
The news about the construction of five new classrooms was received with great excitement, many thanks, and tears from teachers, students, and locals. Chiburee expressed how thankful he was that no student of the school would be sent home as a result of rain or the wind.
The project was expected to be completed by the end of June this year. An additional 900 students will be accommodated.

Sister Hinckley’s roots sink deeply into rich pioneer soil, leaving an indelible imprint on her life and character. She wrote this about her great-grandfather:
“On a beautiful Sunday morning in the fall of 1841, my great-grandfather, William Minshall Evans, then sixteen years of age, was walking down the streets of Liverpool, England, on his way to church. Suddenly he heard singing that thrilled him beyond anything he had ever heard before. He followed the sound down an alley and up some rickety stairs into a room where a few people were holding a meeting. John Taylor, who later became president of the Church and who had a beautiful tenor voice, was the singer. The song he sang was so beautiful that William remained to hear the sermon.
“Upon returning home, William was reprimanded by his elder brother, David, for being absent from his accustomed place in the choir. Asked to give an account of himself, William replied, ‘I have been where you should have been, and I shall not be satisfied until you all hear the wonderful truth I have heard this morning.’
“… William and David were converted to the gospel, and then helped convert other members of their family” (Marjorie P. Hinckley, “Music Was the Missionary,” Ensign, July 1981, p. 48).
Sister Hinckley commented, “I never sing the hymns of the Church without remembering that it was the singing of a hymn that opened the door to the gospel for my family and made it possible for me to enjoy all the blessings that have followed” (p. 48).

Jon Fuller is watching the horseshoeing demonstration when we catch up with him. He first heard about his Mormon Battalion ancestor in a general priesthood meeting talk. Jon was impressed with the story of a John Barnet Cole, who helped rescue a stranded handcart company and who had seen in a dream the woman he would marry. When he repeated the story to his mother, she told him that John Cole was his ancestor. Now, he is learning that his forefather was even more impressive than he had imagined. Jon sums it up: “He was pretty brave!”

Julius Caesar himself would have been proud of the costume.
A brass breastplate, red cape, centurion’s helmet, and pleated warrior’s toga made President A. Brent Brockbank, second counselor in the San Jose California Stake presidency, look like one of Rome’s conquering legionnaires. President Brockbank was participating in a weekend of games and service projects planned by the youth of the stake. The activities included a multi-stake dance and a fireside.
His outfit was in complete harmony with the final Saturday afternoon event—a chariot race pitting homemade vehicles from each ward in the stake against each other.
The stake’s teenagers, divided into six groups by wards, had labored on service projects since early Saturday morning. No wonder they were happy now to relish a well-earned lunch (organized by the Laurels), served from food-laden tables in the Del Mar High School stadium. Let the second counselor steal the spotlight—momentarily.
President Brockbank’s biceps bulged under the weight of a gold-painted plaster-of-paris statue of a charioteer cracking his whip over the heads of six galloping stallions. He explained to the crowd that the Ben Hur Memorial Traveling Award was destined for the ward whose team was fastest in a 440-yard dash around the track. One person was to ride in the chariot, six would pull. Turning first to those still heaping their plates with food, then to those in the stands basking in the west coast sunshine, President Brockbank raised the trophy in the air.
“Those who are about to die, we salute you!” he shouted to rivals in another ward, making fun of ancient Coliseum rites. Stake members, young and old alike, cheered the “emperor” on. The tone for the afternoon—a mood of happy excitement—was set.

One autumn many years ago I was a new graduate student at Columbia University in New York City. In a large classroom full of students, our professor was discussing modern imitations of ancient texts. As he cited a list of forgeries, I was startled to hear him add the Book of Mormon to his list.
Instantly I knew I could not leave the classroom without doing something. I could not disappoint my ancestors, whose testimonies of the Book of Mormon had led them to sacrifice everything.
After class I approached the professor, who held the Charles Anthon chair at Columbia. More than 100 years before, Martin Harris had come to visit Professor Anthon at Columbia. Martin carried a paper with engravings copied from the plates from which the Book of Mormon was translated.
I remembered my father sharing with me a letter his father wrote about Martin Harris. My grandfather told of seeing Martin shortly before Brother Harris died. When grandfather asked him about the Book of Mormon, Martin raised himself up from his bed and bore a strong testimony. He did see an angel, he did hear his voice, and he did view the plates of gold.
“My name is Diana, and I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I said shakily to my professor. “The Book of Mormon, for me, is a book of scripture. I would like to hear your reasons for calling it a forgery.”
As we walked across the campus, the professor, who had read the Book of Mormon, listed several objections to its authenticity. I hurriedly wrote them down, and when he had finished, I asked him, “May I write what I learn from sources on the subject in response to these objections?” He agreed.
I walked back to the dorm, closed the door of my room, knelt in prayer, and began weeping. I felt weak and inadequate. Fortunately, that evening we had a Church activity. Following a discussion that lifted my spirit, I asked for help from the full-time missionaries, who had attended. They shared some sources of information that covered most of the points raised by my professor. Then I searched the vast library of Columbia. In my paper I addressed the professor’s questions and offered my testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. Then I gave it to him.
I waited several weeks for his response. Finally I asked him if he had read it.
“Yes, and I gave it to my wife to read. She told me, ‘Whatever you do, don’t destroy that student’s faith.’” He then turned and walked away.
As Christmas drew near, I was strongly impressed to give him a copy of the Book of Mormon. I found a copy, added my testimony, and thanked him for reading my paper. I then wrapped the book in Christmas paper and gave it to him. Shortly afterward, I received a handwritten note from him in which he expressed gratitude for receiving a copy of “this remarkable book.”
When I read his words, my eyes filled with tears. The Spirit whispered that this professor would no longer hold up the Book of Mormon to ridicule. I was grateful the Spirit had softened hearts and helped me know how to teach my teacher.