Gospel Story Finder

“I believe my first experience in having the courage of my convictions took place when I served in the United States Navy near the end of World War II.
“Navy boot camp was not an easy experience for me, nor for anyone who endured it. For the first three weeks I was convinced my life was in jeopardy. The navy wasn’t trying to train me; it was trying to kill me.
“I shall ever remember when Sunday rolled around after the first week. We received welcome news from the chief petty officer. Standing at attention on the drill ground in a brisk California breeze, we heard his command: ‘Today everybody goes to church—everybody, that is, except for me. I am going to relax!’ Then he shouted, ‘All of you Catholics, you meet in Camp Decatur—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!’ A rather sizeable contingent moved out. Then he barked out his next command, ‘Those of you who are Jewish, you meet in Camp Henry—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!’ A somewhat smaller contingent marched out. Then he said, ‘The rest of you Protestants, you meet in the theaters at Camp Farragut—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!’
“Instantly there flashed through my mind the thought, ‘Monson, you are not a Catholic; you are not a Jew; you are not a Protestant. You are a Mormon, so you just stand here!’ I can assure you that I felt completely alone. Courageous and determined, yes—but alone.
“And then I heard the sweetest words I ever heard that chief petty officer utter. He looked in my direction and asked, ‘And just what do you guys call yourselves?’ Until that very moment I had not realized that anyone was standing beside me or behind me on the drill ground. Almost in unison, each of us replied, ‘Mormons!’ It is difficult to describe the joy that filled my heart as I turned around and saw a handful of other sailors.
“The chief petty officer scratched his head in an expression of puzzlement but finally said, ‘Well, go find somewhere to meet. And don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!’
“As we marched away, I thought of the words of a rhyme I had learned in Primary years before:
Dare to be a Mormon;
Dare to stand alone.
Dare to have a purpose firm;
Dare to make it known.
“Since that day there have been times when there was no one standing behind me and so I did stand alone. How grateful I am that I made the decision long ago to remain strong and true, always prepared and ready to defend my religion, should the need arise.”

A queer-looking bed wagon, with a woman comfortably settled in it, stopped at the toll bridge. The keeper smiled in amusement. Then he saw the anxious look on the face of the boy who was driving, and he hid his smile. The boy explained that his father had helped him make a special wagon for his ailing mother.
“Any boy who is that good to his mother can drive over the bridge without paying,” said the toll-keeper. He bowed low and waved the wagon on.
The boy was Brigham Young, who had been born in Whittingham, Vermont. His family moved to Smyrna, New York, a few years afterward, but today, 170 years later, he is still remembered in Whittingham. Opposite a store on Route 8, many visitors stop to see the marker that has been placed there in his honor. It reads:
“Brigham Young’s birthplace. Founder of Utah born here. Southward up the steep hill was the birthplace of Brigham Young, June 1, 1801. Three years later the family moved to New York state where he became a Mormon. He led the people from Illinois to Utah and founded Salt Lake City in 1847.”

I was busy shopping one day some years ago when two young women asked if they could speak with me. “Certainly,” I replied.
“If you died today,” they asked, “would you go to heaven?”
They must have noticed my surprise, because they immediately opened their copies of the Bible and quoted a verse from the New Testament. “All you need to do to go to heaven,” they declared, “is to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ.”
What followed is still a painful memory. I was amazed at their doctrine, and I tried to remember what I had learned at Sunday School, seminary and college religion classes I had taken on the New Testament; but I could give only one scripture to indicate that there was more to entering the kingdom of heaven than simply a profession of faith.
The two women quickly quoted other scriptures similar to the first. I could share some of my beliefs as a Latter-day Saint, but I could not quote the principles from the scriptures. Unconvinced by my feeble arguments, they soon left me. I watched them walking hurriedly up to the next shopper.
“It is a common thing,” President Spencer W. Kimball said, “to have a few passages of scripture at our disposal, floating in our minds, as it were, and thus to have the illusion that we know a great deal about the gospel.”
Such an illusion was mine!
“Each of us,” he continued, “at some time in our lives, must discover the scriptures for ourselves—and not just discover them once, but rediscover them again and again.” (Tambuli, September, 1976.)
The experience discouraged me, and I determined to never again be unprepared. I set aside some regular study time, and began to discover the gospel again.

Our whole family worked as stake missionaries to the Salt Lake Stake Hmong Branch, and I taught Neng and Shoua and the other children how to fold their arms to pray, how to look at the pictures in Book of Mormon Stories, how to sing “I Am a Child of God.” They taught us how to say hello in Hmong—nyob zoo (knee-ah shong)—and we taught them all kinds of things, like how to turn on a light, use a pencil, or buy a chicken with money. At Christmastime generous people gave the Hmong some clothes, toys, fruit, candy, nuts, and cookies. They ate the oranges and nuts, but they threw away the candy and cookies!

As a missionary in Germany in 1967, I attended a few lectures at a Catholic theological seminary on what we called Diversion Day. There I heard about the writing style in the Bible known as chiasmus. My companion and I purchased a book that the professor had mentioned. We studied the book carefully and reread the entire gospel of Matthew with this tool of literary analysis in mind. Only after this effort and careful study was I awakened early one morning by the words, “If it is evidence of Hebrew style in the Bible, it must be evidence of Hebrew style in the Book of Mormon.” I wondered why no one had ever seen this feature in the Book of Mormon before; yet with faith that it might be so, I got out of bed and began reading where my companion and I just happened to have left off the night before. In a few minutes I discovered the classic chiastic passage in Mosiah 5:10-12, and soon after encountered several others. I never would have found this on my own. I don’t know that the Book of Mormon is true because I find these things; rather, I can find these things because I know that the record is true. As President Packer has cautioned, we should not say “I know the gospel is true, however . . . .” Rather, “I know the gospel is true, therefore . . . .”

I must respectfully disagree with a statement in the article “Mission Field Inside the Grand Canyon” by Cal Decker in the May New Era. The article states on page 31: “Mules and horses are valued in Supai because they carry in tourists, groceries, feed, and even the U.S. mail. The only other way into the 500-acre Havasupai Reservation is by helicopter.” In the summer of 1972 I hiked down the Supai trail with a group of LDS students. In Supai we had an inspiring testimony meeting and short Sunday School with the missionaries living in Supai. The hike down to Supai was pleasant, but the upward climb was breathtaking (physically as well as figuratively). The trip was an experience of a lifetime, and I will never forget the simple, humble faith of the Supai Indians. I found the article in the New Era to be well-written and thought-provoking.
David B. CrippsProvo, Utah

Standing by myself in the cabin, I scanned the room for my tape player and my notes for the devotional. Finding the items, I bent over to grab them, then realized I hadn’t the energy to do so. I dropped to my knees. The objects in my hand looked like pieces of Salvador Dali’s art as my eyes filled with tears. For nearly the first time all week, I had a moment alone. That was the real reason I’d left the group—under the pretense of needing supplies for the devotional—to be alone.
A nonmember best friend, Amber, and I had been acting as youth camp leaders at girls’ camp for the past week, and while I’d never loved anything more, I’d also never found myself working so hard. There had been midnight trips to drop off bags of garbage in the dumpster. One night, there had been bears to fend off with only flashlights. On another night, I accidentally boiled daddy long leg spiders while attempting to cook minidonuts on a camp stove. Amber and I had washed dishes long after everyone else had deserted. Birthdays, including Amber’s 16th, had been celebrated; devotionals had been given; hugs offered. Many embraces were shared in particular regarding our Sunday School teacher who had passed away the day before camp began. He’d been an especially good friend of our camp director, and with the funeral during the week, there’d been even more responsibility on our shoulders as well as aches in our hearts.
I stared at the stories and tapes in my hands. My throat hurt, and every word I’d said that evening had been like swallowing thistle. My back ached as well from carrying two girls’ packs on the six-mile hike after they’d become sick. I rubbed my eyes. Somehow I had to find the energy to be strong one more night, but the thought of walking to the fire pit we’d reserved for the evening was extremely unappealing. And what about Amber? I was convinced she hated the whole thing, and I hated myself for ruining her sweet 16th birthday.
With a sigh, I snapped. My head bowed, and a hot tear ran down a dirty cheek. I was out of power.
Out of power once again, I was in the cabin staring at my knees. The Lord may have cared enough to help with things as trivial as precalculus and malfunctioning calculators. Those drained batteries found power to make it through one class period. Surely he could help with this power failure. I closed my eyes, trapping a bead of moisture in my lashes. “Dear Heavenly Father …”
Taking a deep breath, I wiped my eyes, then began to stand up. The door burst open. One of the girls from our ward stood there, and I hoped I was enough in the shadows that she wouldn’t see the crimson embroidery in my eyes. She had been borrowing some things from me all week and was wondering if she could have my last something-or-other. I nodded, suddenly feeling even more exhausted. What type of answer was this?
As she turned to leave, she called over her shoulder, “Oh, it sounds like another ward is at our fire pit, so I guess we’ll have to have the devotional here.”
“But we’d reserved it!” I wanted to protest. The last night was always spent around a fire! I ran my hand through my hair, which by that point was desperately in need of a good shampoo, and angrily put the papers and tape player back where I’d grabbed them from.
The forced smile on my lips softened into a sincere one as the girls, leaders, and bishop filed into the cabin. Only then did it dawn on me. What a blessing not to have to go on a hike to the fire pit! What a blessing not to have to deal with building a fire and distributing marshmallows and graham crackers! It was only the start of the miracles. The dragon in my throat decided to take a nap, and the devotional rolled smoothly along. After we gave out humorous awards to all our campers, there was the testimony meeting. The Spirit filled the cabin, and tears filled my eyes as I listened to my sisters and best friends share their sweet testimonies.
I was the last to leave the cabin that night. In the dark, as I headed towards my own cabin, I reflected on the week. The murmur of girls getting ready for bed called a grin to my face, and I offered a silent prayer of gratitude. I’d entered that cabin a parched sponge, very much like my worn-out batteries from months before. I’d left it recharged. The instruction booklet for my calculator insists it cannot run without a continual source of good power. Neither can a spirit.

In 2019 my husband Doug and I returned home after serving as mission leaders in Arequipa, Peru. Doug’s back had been bothering him the last few months we were there, pain we attributed to long trips in the mission van to be with our missionaries.
So, when we got back to Utah, Doug saw an orthopedist, who ordered physical therapy and then injections. As neither helped him, it was suggested that Doug have surgery. But the surgery didn’t relieve his pain; it got worse. So a second and then a third surgery were performed.
After three surgical tries, various treatments, and nearly four years, Doug was worse and never without pain.
I spent more than a week with Doug in St. Louis, Missouri, where he had a fourth surgery performed by an expert on spinal reconstruction. Doug’s spine now has all the right curves. It’s vertically straight—less than one centimeter to the left. And he has curvature in the lumbar spine so that he can stand up straight. He’s aligned again.
Doug did not get into alignment alone. He needed the help of a surgeon. If Doug had tried to carry this burden on his own, he would have remained misaligned. He couldn’t fix it alone.
The last few years have been a journey for Doug and for me. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, but the experience of watching someone I love battle pain has smoothed down some of my rough edges and improved my still imperfect patience.
More than ever, Doug and I have relied on the Savior’s healing, comfort, and enabling power made possible through His atoning sacrifice. Doug wasn’t immediately provided with physical relief; what we got was a more sustained and deeper relationship with Jesus Christ. His covenantal promises have never felt more significant to us. In a way we hadn’t before, we tested His promise that we could “always have his Spirit to be with [us]” (Doctrine and Covenants 20:77). That promise is real and fulfilled even in the midst of suffering.
The Savior provided us with spiritual and temporal relief, through the Comforter and through the acts of other people. As covenant keepers have aligned themselves with Jesus Christ, they have brought us closer to Him and have been instruments in His hands to help us experience His relief.

Pamela and I met at a dance when we were teenagers. I asked her for a dance, and as we talked, she told me that she was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That was the first time I had ever heard of the Church. I wasn’t interested in religion then—but she was so different from the other young ladies I knew!
She had a strong character; she knew what she believed, and she knew what she wanted. Early on, she let me know that there would be no chance of any marriage between us, because in the temple was the only place where she would marry. She had made promises, covenants, with Heavenly Father, and she had the loyalty to keep those promises. Soon I realized that what made her so attractive was the gospel. She reflected truths of the gospel in her life. We met in April, and I was baptized that August. Three years later, she agreed to marry me. We were sealed in the temple at last.

Let me tell you of just two cheerful givers in my experience. First, whenever I think of the widow’s mite, it brings to mind an experience in a small branch meeting in a row house on a street in a large eastern city in which branch my wife and I served for 18 months. It was located in a very distressed intercity neighborhood that had been burned over during the riots accompanying the Martin Luther King assassination in 1968. Much of it had not been rebuilt. The people in the branch paid their tithing in part with coins and in doing so paid an honest tithe. At one of our meetings, a woman handed me an envelope with the tithing slip and the relevant bills and coins and then after doing that said to me, “If you belong to a church, you ought to contribute. I can’t contribute much, but I can contribute the sacrament bread,” and handed me a baggie with two little pieces of bread in it. As we used her bread for the sacrament, the whole experience carried an additional meaning that day. Going through my mind continually was the verse dealing with the widow’s mite and that she, out of her poverty, had given more than they all.

Before I was born, my family had four boys. My mom and dad thought their family was complete. Then my mom felt the Spirit tell her they needed to adopt a daughter.

My family had to wait almost two years before they could adopt a baby! So my grandparents, parents, and brothers were all very excited to meet me at the airport. Six months after I arrived, my family took me to the Spokane Washington Temple, where I was sealed to them forever. The gospel teaches me that I am a child of God. He knows me and loves me. Because of the temple, I can receive every blessing that my brothers, who were born to my parents, can receive. I can be part of an eternal family!

“I grew up in the city, but each summer I stayed with a farmer in our branch for two or three weeks, and I learned to enjoy farming. One day while we were working in a field and the cows needed to be brought up the hill to pasture, the farmer said, ‘I’ll take the wagon down to get the cows.’ I asked, ‘Can I do that?’ He replied, ‘Do you think that you can do it?’ I was small for my age, but I was happy that he thought that I could do the job.”

“Hans, Mein sohn, was machst du da?”
“Vater, Ich studiere.”
“Hans, Mein Sohn, das kannst du nicht.”
“Vater, Ich probiere.”
“Hans, my son, what are you doing?”
“Father, I’m studying.”
“Hans, my son, that you cannot.”
“Father, I am trying.”

“That was one of the first readings that I learned in school. Because it included my first name, Hans, it was very meaningful to me then, and it still is. I’m still trying today.”

The adoption of our second child was just as miraculous. The opportunity to go to Korea for a semester came about unexpectedly. It came just when I was coming up for tenure, and when I told my wife we needed to go, not for research or teaching but for an administrative assignment, she said it didn’t make sense. It didn’t. But I told her I had a strong feeling that we should go. Two weeks later, after she had wrestled with the idea, she told me that she finally agreed; we needed to go. Then she said, “There is another baby waiting for us.”

My jaw fell open. I was flabbergasted, but it suddenly made sense. Things fell into place. I went to see my department chair and told him that I needed an emergency leave and that I needed to go to Korea. He was surprised—and skeptical. But I put all my cards on the table and told him about the adopted daughter that would soon be born, and he completely supported my request. As it turns out, he had special sympathies for me—he, too, was adopted. On short notice I found a perfect replacement to teach my classes. Details on the Korean side were much more complicated, and a series of obstacles appeared in our path, but one by one everything fell into place.

My wife’s mother had died the previous year, and my wife and I are convinced that somehow—I don’t know how these things work—she engineered the details from her side of the veil. Our second baby is the sweetest child a set of parents could ever hope to have. She is a joy to us, and she has become our second greatest blessing. We love these gifts from heaven. They have given us life. They have given us love. We have been sealed for time and all eternity, and we enjoy all the blessings of the temple.

My dad had said that we could go away for the weekend—just him and me. We were going to camp up at Muskrat Bridge Park. Then Dad lost his job.
He had worked for Mr. Stapley at the warehouse on Fulmer Street, but it burned down last month. All the money that Dad had been saving went for my little sister, Elizabeth. She was born the day after the fire. Mom had had to go to the hospital two weeks before Elizabeth was born, because of complications. Then our car broke down, and we couldn’t afford to get it fixed right away. Mom is better now, though, and Elizabeth is just fine.
We had a family council and talked about us not having enough money and about Dad’s not having found another job yet. Dad said that the Church was going to help us with food for a while. Then he stopped talking, and his eyes got all watery. That had happened before, when he bore his testimony one fast Sunday.
I went and got the money that I’d been saving to buy a hamster and gave it to Dad. It wasn’t very much—one dollar and seventy-six cents—but it was all that I had. I told him that I wanted to help.
Dad didn’t say anything. He just pulled me close to him and held me longer than I could ever remember. I think that he was crying again, because my cheek felt wet.
After supper that night Dad asked me if I wanted to sleep out in our backyard. It’s a lot smaller than any campground at Muskrat Bridge Park, but the sky looked just as big in the yard as it did there. And there weren’t any more stars there than there were right here, only these weren’t quite as bright.
We lay in our sleeping bags and looked at the sky. We saw a shooting star. It seemed to go by about as fast as summer did. And that was too fast.
We talked, too, about lots of things. Like Grandma Chaboude’s laughing spells. One time she laughed so long and hard that she cried more tears than most people do when somebody they love dies. We talked about how far dandelions can fly. We wondered aloud about the dent in the blade of the old cavalry sword that was handed down to Dad from his Great-Great-Great-Uncle Wakefield. Had the dent been made during a battle in the War Between the States?
Most of all we talked about something else that was on my mind. I told Dad that I had been praying all week for something to happen so that we could still go to Muskrat Bridge Park. But nothing had happened. And looking up into the night sky and seeing how really big space was and how really small I was, I started thinking that maybe I was too little for God to bother with.
Dad turned his head toward me, his lips turning up into a smile as high as the points of the skinny moon. “God hears everyone’s prayers, Nathan,” he said. “And that includes children’s. Maybe especially children’s. And when a person prays with all his heart, he receives answers.”
“But I didn’t get an answer!”
Dad took a small crawly thing off my pillow and put it on the lawn. I think that maybe he was giving me time to think. I looked over at Dad, and he was staring up at the stars, looking harder at them than I’d ever seen him look at anything before. His eyes were shiny, like the leaves on our cherry tree on frosty mornings. Then he looked at me in a gentle way. “You are a child of God,” he said softly. “That means that you are very special. Heavenly Father loves you even more than I do—and I love you with all my heart and soul.
“The Lord created this whole world for you,” he continued. “Our Elder Brother Jesus gave His life for you—and for all of us. So don’t ever think that you are too small for God to bother with. Heavenly Father is happy when you’re happy. And so am I.”
Now that I think about it, I guess that it isn’t important where Dad and I spend time together. In fact, I’m glad that we camped out in our backyard. I liked it just as much as I would have at Muskrat Bridge Park. Maybe even more—because we talked about some pretty important stuff that night that we might not have discussed at the park because things would have been different. I would have gotten a “yes” answer to my prayer and not wondered about things. But as it was, we had spent a special night together. Just me, my dad, and the stars.

Sri was married and had a family when Elders Larry White and Carl Hansen met her in 1968. “I did not like the missionaries very much at first,” says Sister Sri, “but they kept coming back. I put the Book of Mormon on the shelf for three months. One night I decided to look at it, so I held it up and prayed, ‘If there is something good in here for me, let me know it.’ I opened it and read until I couldn’t read anymore. Tears came to my eyes. Then I held the book to my chest. Soon I went upstairs to my room and closed the door. It was the first time I knelt down and prayed. I cried and called out, ‘My Father, my Father.’ I knew He could hear me. I prayed and cried for a long time. When I got up, I began to read again without stopping.” Sri and two of her children were baptized on 4 July 1968, her 44th birthday.

When I was 14, my father was diagnosed with cancer. Doctors estimated that with chemotherapy, he had a 50 percent chance of living eight years or longer. Since the alternatives were even less encouraging, my father decided to suffer through the six months of weekly treatments.
At the end of the chemotherapy, my ward in Bountiful held a special fast for my father. It was a marvelous experience to join in faith for a common cause. When the diagnosis came back, the doctors could find no sign of cancer. After I left for my mission, I received letters from my father telling me of his continued improvements and how he even ran a marathon. Things seemed to be going well.
The summer before my mission ended, I was serving with a missionary named Elder Causse. He was from a branch in Bourdeaux, France, a place I had once considered “out there in the mission field.”
One morning my mission president called me into his office and told me my father would be calling. When the phone rang, the president excused himself and left me alone. I was apprehensive as I picked up the phone.
My father greeted me, then told me his cancer had relapsed. He would again go through chemotherapy. I then spoke to my mother, who told me our ward was going to fast again. I said I would join in the fast as well. After I hung the phone up, I wiped away a few tears and walked out of the office.
On the way back to our assigned area, I explained the situation to Elder Causse. He promised to fast with me, and his promise gave me comfort. But he did not stop there. He wrote to his family in France and told them what had happened. They, too, said that they would fast for my father and that they would ask the members of the Bourdeaux Branch to join the fast as well. I was astounded that they would fast for the health of a man they did not know.
At that moment, the Spirit spoke softly to me, and suddenly I understood what it means to be “fellow-citizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Eph. 2:19). We are of one faith, united in the gospel with bonds stronger than illness or death. We are truly brothers and sisters. None of us is a stranger, no matter what land we happen to worship in.

In 1856, at age 13, Mary joined the Church with her family in England, traveled to America, and joined the Martin handcart company. In her personal history she recounts the difficulty of the journey—the loss of her baby brother and older brother, the freezing of her own feet, and finally the death of an infant sister and her mother. When she arrived in the Salt Lake Valley, the doctor amputated her toes, but she was promised by the prophet, Brigham Young, that she would not have to have any more of her feet cut off. She recounts: “One day I sat … crying. My feet were hurting me so—when a little old woman knocked at the door. She said she had felt someone needed her there for a number of days. … I showed her my feet. … She said, ‘Yes, and with the help of the Lord we will save them yet.’ She made a poultice and put on my feet and every day after the doctor had gone she would come and change the poultice. At the end of three months my feet were well.”

But Mary had sat in her chair so long that the cords of her legs had become stiff and she could not straighten them. When her father saw her condition, he cried. He rubbed her legs with oil and tried to straighten them, but it was of no use. One day he said, “Mary I have thought of a plan to help you. I will nail a shelf on the wall and while I am away to work you try to reach it.” She said that she tried all day for several days and at last she could reach the shelf. Then her father put the shelf a little higher. This went on for another three months, and through her daily diligence her legs were straightened and she learned to walk again.

I believe that you are learning, like Mary Goble, to reach just a little higher to the shelf our leaders have raised for us, and that if you will reach higher as those ideals are raised, you will become able to walk into the future with confidence.

I received a lovely surprise today. When I came out of Relief Society, a brown envelope containing the New Era was handed to me. I asked who it was from and was told that it was a secret. But I have a very sneaky suspicion that it was from the elder who recently baptized me. He had given me two New Eras before he left, obviously knowing how much I enjoyed them. It is a truly wonderful gift!
Gwen NapierSalisbury, Rhodesia

Even though I had the gospel in my life, life was hard. My father was still not working and had Parkinson’s so during a secondary school vacation, I would pick up any menial work I could find. My father, amidst the challenges of life, quit the Church but allowed me to continue. After secondary school, our stake started the Young Single Adult Gathering Place. I signed up for shoemaking class, but I was alone, so the stake president arranged for me to learn the craft with the instructor at his shop. I am passionate about fashion, especially footwear, because everyone needs footwear, and well-made shoes do not go out of fashion.
I worked long hours for very little pay. Attending church became difficult as I was often required to work on Sundays. I apprenticed for over two years and then was able to break out on my own by saving small amounts until I had enough to buy one tool. It would take me 2–3 months of saving to buy another hand tool, but I had a goal. I had examples of what I was going through in the scriptures, I knew that it would worth it. Sleeping on a bare floor, eating one meal a day, working literally day and night would all prove to help me in the future.
My stake president connected me with a couple who were able to help me get some machines to start my business, Kuatsikor Shoes. I named it after my father, to honor him since he never lived to see my business, having died in July 2019. My motto is “Walk Miles”. In August 2023, I was endowed in the house of the Lord in the Accra Ghana Temple. It was such a great experience. The moment I stepped into the temple, I felt a heavy burden had been lifted, it’s hard to explain. I felt a new peace and joy. The gospel of Jesus Christ has significantly impacted my life because I had the feeling that I was in the right place, my first Sunday at church. I will always be grateful for the self-reliance programs organized at the stake center that gave me insights and knowledge about how to grow my own business and to manage my finances. I believe if I continue to stick to these principles, my vision of becoming the best shoemaker in Africa shall come to pass. I know that God speaks to his servants, the prophets.

A man in our community had a son who when he was the age of 16 got involved with the wrong crowd, began to drink, and got involved in drugs. One day he came home high on drugs. His father and mother had talked to him several times. This time when he came home, the father called the sheriff. He asked the sheriff if he would come and pick his son and take him to a treatment center in Ogden, Utah.

As the sheriff got there, the father told him what they were going to do. The son was furious. He screamed and yelled and cursed at his mom and dad as the sheriff carried him out to the car, took him to Ogden, and put him in the treatment center. As he went through the treatment center, they said that he must have his parents come down and his family for counseling as well. He finally admitted and allowed them to come down, and got out of the treatment center.

He was married and then had one child. About three years later, he had a problem come up again. This time he called his brother and he said to his brother, "Will you take me back to the treatment center?" He said, "Do you think dad will come up with the money?" It had cost his father $10,000 for the first treatment. His brother said, "I'm sure we can come up with the money and I'll take you down." So he took him down to the treatment center.

Just before we came on our mission I met with him and he said to me, "If it had not been for a mom and dad that had cared enough for me to take me to a treatment center, I wouldn't have what I have today. I would not have a wife and four children that bless my life."

Brothers and sisters, there's nothing that's too expensive for us to do to help save our Heavenly Father's children from the temptations of Satan.