Gospel Story Finder

I experience this as the Primary general president. My calling is to care not only for the children in our church, but for the children in all of the world. This is a tremendous responsibility, and at first I could feel only the burden of it. But I seek for the Lord’s help constantly. I pray for enough strength and insight to do the work I have been called to do, and for the leaders around the world, that they might have the Spirit of the Lord to help them love and understand the children for whom they are responsible. I plead with Heavenly Father to give each teacher a sense of deep responsibility, so that they might help the children to know the gospel of love. I pray for parents to love and teach their children.

Then, just the other morning, I thought, “I have been asking for so much. This morning I am not going to ask for one thing. I’m just going to be grateful.” I knelt and thanked the Lord for my good health, for my understanding husband, for our children, for our missionary son, for the privilege of serving, for the board members and staff who assist me, for stake and ward members throughout the world who are serving, and especially for the teachers who give and care so much. I thanked him for the children everywhere. I thanked him for the prophet. And the list went on. My spirit soared. What an astounding experience to know that I have so much! It takes a grateful heart to experience that soaring, that realization of how much Heavenly Father loves you, how much he does for you.

I can’t refrain from telling you one other thing about that visit with my brother in Washington. He was to take a B-25 bomber to Texas to pick up something and return to Washington the next day. I went with him. That was the only time we flew together.

Many years later I was honored by Weber State University, where we both had graduated. He had been a student body officer during his college days. Because I would be in South America, he agreed to attend the banquet and accept the award in my behalf.

In his acceptance speech he told this story—part of which is true. He said that in Texas we were lined up side by side on the runway ready to take off. He radioed to me and said, “See you upstairs—if you think you can make it!”

Then he told them that after I became a General Authority of the Church, once in a while I would check on his behavior and add, “See you upstairs—if you think you can make it!”

Well, Leon made it. He is now where I hope one day to be.

A Sunbeam teacher wrapped each of her class members one by one in a blanket to teach them how the Spirit feels like the comfort and security of that covering. A visiting mother also heard the lesson.
Many months later the mother thanked the teacher. She told how she had been less active when she accompanied her young daughter to Primary. Several weeks after the lesson, the mother suffered a miscarriage. She was overcome with grief when suddenly she felt a great warmth and peace. It felt like someone had covered her with a warm blanket. She recognized the reassurance of the Spirit and knew that Heavenly Father was aware of her and that He loved her.

I was born in Armenia when it was part of the Soviet Union. My parents taught me and my two siblings to be honest, good, and morally clean, and they did everything to give us a good education. But one of the first things I learned in kindergarten was a philosophy that religion is the opium of the people. And until I was 12 years old, I never knew there was a God.
When I was 12, a terrible earthquake destroyed 90 percent of my hometown, killing more than 50,000 people. I was in school when the noise became louder and louder, and everything around us began to shake. I was pulled into the crowd, trying to escape the building. Amid all the confusion, I suddenly realized I might never see my family again. In that moment, I saw a red knit scarf my mother had made for me hanging in a large hallway to the right of the stairwell. Following an impression, I broke from the crowd and went to retrieve the scarf. In that instant the ground shook for the third and last time, and I witnessed the stairwell collapse with all my friends in its ruins. Upon regaining my senses, I found that the whole school was a huge mass of rubble—with the exception of that tiny area housing me and my red knit scarf.
My entire family of five survived. When my father saw my mom, my eight-month-old sister, my seven-year-old brother, and me sitting in the middle of the street after seven hours of searching for us, the only thing he said was, “Blessed be Thy name, God.” I had lost my home, but for the first time I heard the name of God.

She was 12 years old. But she somehow seemed older. Ungainly, awkward, embarrassed—it was a painful age. Our family had just moved to El Sobrante, and I was new, but even that very first day in class I noticed her. She was slower in just about everything, but there were a lot of kids in the class who had just arrived at that stage in life when arms and legs were getting longer. That wasn’t it. Somehow I could sense it—sort of an unwritten law in the tightly woven society of that classroom that barred her from the rest of the class. Almost no one would have anything to do with her—it was like a class creed.
That was the spring they put some of the fifth and sixth graders together in the same class. I remember a lot of muttering about “corresponding IQ’s” and the “revolution in the elementary school system,” but we didn’t care too much about that sort of thing. All that mattered to us was that we had to go to school.
At recess we would climb a rough dirt road that led to a huge field of long, tickley weeds, sprinkled with wild mustard flowers and tiny purple daisies and acres of golden poppies. It was a sin to pick a poppy, a brand of treason peculiar to Californians.
She would always trail behind us as we climbed up the hill. Sometimes I’d sneak a glance backwards. She wouldn’t even touch a poppy—she’d very carefully pick her way over to a clump of them and reverently inhale. I never could understand that. I could never smell anything, but she could detect a fragrance, I know—her face would betray the secret as a slight smile would form momentarily across her face. Then it would vanish.
Others of us would go running, hand in hand, across the field, or we would play catch or try to play baseball. We weren’t too good at baseball and would usually settle for a modified game of kickball. She would always stay apart from us. Not because she wanted to, I’m sure, but because she had to. It was the unwritten law.
But she withstood the giggling and smirking behind her back. It was behind her back enough so as not to incriminate any of her assailants, yet blatant enough to sting. Seemingly unsophisticated children could so easily hurt her. Yet there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t help her.
There was one other girl in the class who felt the same way I did about the situation. She was quiet. Linda would go over and talk to the girl sometimes. She would smile at her and heal over, just a little, the wounds of the day. She didn’t care about what the others thought. The girl wouldn’t ever say much to Linda, though. I think she was afraid. But every once in a while she would look at Linda and smile just a little.
I remember graduation time. It was the big event of the year. There would be graduation ceremonies for all the sixth graders. They would wear the choir robes, and all the fourth and fifth graders would watch, round eyed, and after the diplomas were handed out and all the handshaking finished, they would sing, “I Believe.” And the mothers would cry a little.
She was graduating that night. I was in the choir. I got to wear my pink flowered dress with the long bow that reached down the length of my dress. Linda was sitting next to me. She was holding a small white package with a fancy blue ribbon wrapped around it. When we were ready to sing, she inconspicuously slid it under her chair.
“I believe for every drop of rain that falls a flower grows …” The mothers cried a little. We sat down again, and Linda picked up the package. I had just about gathered up enough courage to ask her what it was, when it was time for the benediction.
It was over at last; the sixth grade class was a thing of the past. There were grins drawn across all our faces. Linda started walking across the room, and I followed, not knowing where else to go. She was looking for someone—then she saw her. She pushed her way over to the girl. Linda hesitated for a moment in front of the girl, then smiled a little, shyly, and handed her the present. “Happy graduation,” she said and walked away.
I’ll always remember the expression on that girl’s face. At first it was puzzlement. I could painfully read her thoughts. And then she started crying. Silently, to herself. And she walked out the door of the school.
That night I went home and cried. I didn’t really know why. But it hurt to think of the girl; and I hoped with everything in me that I would be able to feel for people like Linda did. And that things would get better for the girl. I wonder if she’s still crying.

Years ago I taught a seminary class filled with some of the best and most successful students in the school. And because of who they were, they had a great influence in the lives of others. They were looked up to and admired by the other students. Sometimes, even without knowing it, they could create a social pressure among the other students in the school. The effect of this peer pressure—this attitude of one’s age group—was demonstrated to us one day in class. We all learned a sorry lesson that almost any of us can bend to peer pressure. Here’s how it happened.
I had read a magazine article on negative peer pressure. The article described an experiment I was tempted to try on my class of students. The experiment was designed to show, in a very convincing way, how powerful peer pressure can be. It didn’t really occur to me that the experiment might have some negative consequences.
In class the next morning I did as instructed in the experiment. On the chalkboard I drew a star, a circle, an oval, and a square. I told my class that for the class period, the objects on the board were to be identified as a star, a circle, an oval, and a triangle, even though the square was obviously a square. It was now to be called a triangle and nothing else! In a moment they would have an opportunity to convince an unsuspecting visitor that the square was actually a triangle.
Five of my most influential students were invited to sit on chairs at the front of the class. We had a football player, a young lady very involved in various school activities, the school student president, a top scholar, and a young man successful in everything he attempted. A sixth chair was left vacant for our visitor, a freshman, a student in his first year, who immediately recognized that he was among the “best” of the high school. My class students made him welcome, and he began to relax and enjoy himself in their company.
I invited him to take the vacant seat in front of the class. I explained that when it came his turn, he was to simply identify the objects drawn on the board. He agreed. The others smiled. The lesson began.
“Mr. Footballer, will you identify the objects on the board?” I asked.
In a deep, manly voice he said, “Star, circle, oval,” and then, coming to the square, he confidently said, “Triangle.”
Our visitor, forgetting himself, let out a laugh, but the rest of the people in the room were absolutely silent. He quickly searched the faces of those present for acknowledgement of Mr. Footballer’s obvious mental fumble, but my students were playing their parts. To them that square was nothing more than a triangle. Mr. Freshman had a bewildered expression.
I then turned to the young lady.
“Would you please identify the objects on the board?”
She enthusiastically replied, “Star, circle, oval, triangle.”
The freshman fidgeted in his seat.
The class remained silent. Twice more the question was asked. The student president and the successful young man answered as we had planned.
By now our visitor looked slightly ill and had that “may-I-please-be-dismissed” expression on his face.
The scholar responded to my question, “Star, circle, oval, triangle.”
Now it was the freshman’s turn. With each object his voice grew weaker, shakier, and less confident.
“Star … circle … oval …” Then silence.
We looked at him. He looked at us.
“What’s the last object?” I asked.
Silence.
“Come on, what is it?”
Then finally, quietly he spoke.
“Triangle.”
I thought we’d all break the tenseness of the moment with a good laugh. The experiment had worked. But instead there was silence.
I searched the students’ faces. They were all deep in thought. Some heads were bowed.
Then I realized something. Each one in the class knew how the embarrassed freshman felt. Each in a foolish moment, wanting so badly to be accepted or to be part of a group, had in his own way called a square a triangle, had committed a wrong when there should only have been a right. Even I could add my name to the list. And we all realized, especially me, that we had been unkind to put the freshman in such an awkward situation.
We spent the remainder of our class time sharing feelings and regrets, but more importantly sharing desires, hopes, and longings to be more courageous. Mr. Footballer put his arm around the freshman, and we all reassured him that we’d made the mistake of giving in to pressure before, too. By the end of the class he was accepted by his peers—not because he’d given in, but because we’d all come to see the importance of never surrendering, of calling a square a square despite the consequences.
When the bell rang, we left as a group, wiser, more hopeful, and with a greater resolve to stand for that which is right even though we were subject to the pressures of the world.

After I had investigated the Church for two months, the missionaries taught me about the law of tithing and invited me to pay tithing after I joined the Church. It seemed impossible with my limited income, but before I could tell them how I felt, we ended the discussion.
That Sunday at church, the branch president greeted me. I asked him about tithing, and he promised to meet with me privately after the meeting block.
When we met, I explained, “The missionaries told me that I need to pay one-tenth of my income to the Church when I become a member. I don’t know if I can do it.”
After listening to my concern, the president opened the Book of Mormon, turned to 3 Nephi 24:10, and read, “Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse … and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of Hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing that there shall not be room enough to receive it.” Then he said, “Brother Ko, look carefully where the Lord said, ‘Prove me now herewith.’ That is His invitation to you. Why don’t you try Him by paying tithing first thing next month and see if He will not bless you.”
Shortly thereafter I began my experiment with tithing and joined the Church. Since that time I have developed a new concept of money management. Most of all, I have learned for myself that God has poured out a blessing, and there has not been room to receive it. I learned that we must keep God’s commandments before we can expect His blessings.

Brent Robinson rescued a woman’s son who was stranded on a cliff. “A lady knocked at our door and said her son was trapped. We got a rope, and I climbed to where he was stranded. I couldn’t get him down from below the cliff, so I came down to him from above and then pulled him up with the rope,” Brent said. Brent, 16, is from Post 363, Kanab Third Ward, Kanab Utah Stake.
Brent advised hikers to always travel with a partner and not to take shortcuts. “Stay on the trail or you’ll get in trouble,” he said. Daniel warned swimmers to know the water they’re swimming in and not to swim in conditions beyond their capability. Kristin advised everyone to learn how to swim and to become familiar with lifesaving techniques. Brother Crockett advised those who find themselves in an emergency to do something, rather than just watch, which complemented Brother Johnson’s advice to “be quick and alert, but think things out before you act. Keep calm and don’t panic. Move as quickly as possible and listen for guidance from the Lord.” Mike Poppleton said Scouts should pay attention during classes on lifesaving techniques so that when an emergency does arise, they’ll be able to think of what to do. And the entire group agreed that proper training is vital and that people should be careful about what they do if they have had no training.

You are always concerned for the people you have baptized, and you always wonder how they’re doing. About seventeen years after that first mission, my wife, Carol, and I had an opportunity to travel to Brazil. When we landed in Rio de Janeiro, our taxi driver happened to be a Church member. We told him who we were, and I talked to him about being in Brazil on my mission. No sooner did we get checked into our hotel room than our telephone rang. I thought, Who could be calling us here at this hour? It was someone from the mission office, inviting us to dinner at the mission home the next evening. We arrived at the appointed time, the door opened, and there stood my ex-Protestant minister convert. He was the mission president! What a thrill!

More than thirty years ago, as a young ­missionary in Canada, I experienced a time of great personal confusion. I had been in the field for about three months, and I felt all alone—no one knew who I was, and sadly I began to wonder if I knew who I was. I found myself on a path of doubt and discouragement, and I was holding onto mere threads of a testimony.

One Sunday evening as I washed the dishes and pondered my predicament, I thought about what it would be like to have to go home early from my mission and explain how I no longer thought I had a testimony of the gospel.

In that moment of deep despair, I suddenly heard my mother’s voice in my head. She was singing a song that she had sung a few times while sitting at the piano during the summer prior to my departure. I had never sung this song myself, I had never learned the words, and I had not heard the song in months, but the words and music were ringing distinctly and beautifully in my mind:
When your world is filled with darkness, doubt, or fear,Just hold on, hold on,The light will come.

While I stood there at the kitchen sink, tears welled up in my eyes as I “listened” to my mom singing. I pictured her at the piano, and for that small moment, my whole body was filled with light, and there was no darkness in me (see Doctrine and Covenants 88:67). I don’t know if my mom was actually at the piano on that Sunday evening, but the image in my mind’s eye was clear, and I could certainly hear her voice testifying of the Savior’s light, promising me that I only needed to “look unto [Him] in every thought; doubt not, fear not” (Doctrine and Covenants 6:36).

At the kitchen sink that evening, the light came as I believed on the words of my mother. Like the stripling sons of Helaman, I had been taught by my mother that if I did not doubt, God would deliver me. And because of this witness as a missionary, I do not doubt my mother knew it. As we read in the Book of Mormon:
They had been taught by their mothers, that if they did not doubt, God would deliver them.
And they rehearsed unto me the words of their mothers, saying: We do not doubt our mothers knew it. [Alma 56:47–48; emphasis added]
The heavens brought peace to my mind and comfort to my soul through the angelic ministering of my mother. From that point on I began to experience the joy that comes from full-time missionary work, and I was able to rebuild the foundation of a testimony that continues to grow to this day. I believed on the words of my mother, and the witness I received is that Jesus Christ is the light of the world.

Graduation came and I went off to college at Utah State to major in aeronautics and she stayed home and worked and dated all the returned missionaries that came back to our little town. That worried me greatly. One night, on a Sunday night, as I had come home on the weekend to spend time with my family and of course my girlfriend, it was a winter night in my freshman year. The snow had started to fall about ten o’clock, and I was worried about driving back the two hours to Logan and going through Sardine Canyon with a snow storm, and so I was in a rush to get ready. I had spent a little too much time saying goodnight I think, and I was in a rush to get back to school. As I rushed around the home collecting my freshly pressed clothing and a cake that my mother had baked, my father said, “Let’s have family prayer before you go back, son.” Oh, no. He prayed forever, and I thought “I don’t have the time,” but dutifully, as a good son would, I went in and knelt at the foot of the bed, and he asked me to pray. Well, I was relieved, because I thought, “Well, this is going to be over faster than I thought! I’ll be on my way shortly!” And I’m afraid my prayer was just that - a short prayer, and meaningless. Afterwards, my mother kissed me as she always did, helped me with my clothing as I loaded it into the car, and I turned around and there was my father, walking me to the car, which he never did. I knew I’d said a rather poor prayer, but I knew ever more when he grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me around and said, “Son, do you prayer every night, and every morning?” And I said, “Well, just about, Dad. Whenever there is a test or an athletic event or something, or if I’m sick.” And he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Son, promise me that you’ll pray night and morning, on your knees, out loud, thanking the Lord for the many blessings you have, and pleading with him to direct your life, and to direct you in the paths of righteousness.” I promised him I would, and he gave me a brief hug. As I drove back to school that night, I thought a lot about prayer, and the defining moments of my life. You see that was a defining moment, too, because that week my father died, and those were the last words that I heard from his mortal lips. I think if I were to leave any last words to my son, they would be the same: to pray continually. My advice to you is the same.

Have you ever wondered how it might feel to go through life deaf, blind, or confined to a wheelchair? The youth of the Pleasant Grove 19th Ward in Utah recently found out when they participated in a “Handicap Awareness Week.”
“I can’t even get through the door into the bathroom!” exclaimed one girl who tried a few turns in a wheelchair. Getting a drink of water from the fountain was also difficult.
The youth listened to speakers and voluntarily took on disabilities of their own while participating in different activities. Experiencing handicaps first-hand helped the youth develop a new-found compassion for their disabled brothers and sisters. But they were also consoled. “We were actually relieved to realize that one can have lots of fun even with a serious disability,” said one participant.

In a worldwide leadership training meeting, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland told this story: “For many years, I have loved the story that President Packer has told about William E. Berrett’s boyhood Sunday School teacher. An elderly Danish brother was called to teach a class of rowdy boys. … He didn’t speak the language very well; he still had a heavy Danish brogue; he was much older, with big farm hands. Yet he was to teach these young, rambunctious 15-year-olds. For all intents and purposes, it would not have seemed like a very good match. But Brother Berrett used to say—and this is the part President Packer quotes—that this man somehow taught them; that across all those barriers, across all those limitations, this man reached into the hearts of those rowdy 15-year-old kids and changed their lives. And Brother Berrett’s testimony was ‘We could have warmed our hands by the fire of his faith.’”

The door burst open. Cold winter air rushed into the hall with Billy. Mike, his older brother, crowded in behind, followed by Mom and Dad.
“Grandma! We’re here for dinner!” Billy shouted. He hurried into the kitchen, smelling spicy pumpkin pie, roasted turkey, and sage dressing.
Grandma smiled. “It’ll take a while to get dinner on the table, boys,” she said. “You’ll find crayons and paper on the hall table. How about a picture?”
At the table, Mike began coloring, but Billy peered into the living room. It was full of porcelain figurines, an old sugar bowl, and other treasures. Grandma called them heirlooms. Each had its own pioneer story.
Billy’s gaze fastened on a small mirror on a shelf. Billy loved the mirror most because its story was his favorite.
Billy turned away from the living room and was reaching for a red crayon when the big oval mirror at the end of the hall caught his eye. He forgot about the crayon, walked to the mirror, and stretched as tall as he could.
“What are you doing?” Mike asked.
“Trying to see a child of God.”
“Too short, huh?” Mike said. Under the mirror, a low shelf held Grandma’s prized Boston fern. “I’ll give you a boost up to the shelf.”
With Mike’s arms around him, Billy kicked his feet in search of the shelf. He found the shelf, but knocked the fern to the floor. Black dirt spilled all over the carpet. The fern was smashed and broken, its bare roots sticking into the air.
Suddenly the shelf gave way. Billy bumped heads with Mike as he fell, then landed facedown in the dirt.
“What will we do?” Billy whispered, pushing himself up.
“Sometimes the cat gets on the shelf,” Mike said. “Maybe Grandma will think the cat did it.”
“But it wouldn’t be the truth,” Billy said. “We did it, so we should tell.”
“OK, but let’s wait until after dinner.”
“Wash up and come to dinner, boys,” Mom called.
When the two boys sat down at the table, Grandpa said the blessing. Everybody started to eat, but the food tasted like rubber in Billy’s mouth.
“Is something wrong?” Dad asked.
“I don’t like peas very much,” Billy mumbled.
Dad frowned. “How did you get the bump on your forehead?”
“Excuse me,” Billy mumbled, and fled to the bathroom.
Mom and Dad followed him. “Are you sick?” Mom asked.
Billy shook his head. “I stood on Grandma’s shelf. It broke. When I fell, Mike and I bumped heads. I just wanted to see a child of God in the big mirror.” Billy’s chest heaved. “Grandma’s fern is ruined. I feel awful—not at all like a child of God.”
“I helped him get on the shelf,” Mike said in a soft voice from behind Mom and Dad. “We didn’t know it would break. I don’t feel like a child of God either.”
“We thought maybe you’d think the cat did it,” Billy said. “We decided to tell the truth after dinner.”
“Well, now,” Grandma said, joining them. “No matter what you do, you are always a child of God. But I’m glad that you chose to tell the truth.”
Grandpa looked at the bent brackets that had held the shelf to the wall. “I reckon this can be fixed,” he said. “Grandma’s fern can be repotted. It looks pretty bedraggled, but it’ll likely grow out again.”
Grandma put the broken fern into the pot. “Even if it doesn’t grow, I can get a new plant,” she said. “But I could never replace these two children of God.”
“Look,” Dad said, holding Billy up to the mirror. “See the child who was tempted to blame the cat, but didn’t? How about giving him a smile?”
Billy managed a weak smile.
Back at the table, Billy noticed that everything—even the peas—now tasted delicious.
After dinner, Billy held the little mirror as Grandma told the story of how it had comforted the girl who was his long-ago grandma.
When the story was finished, all of them took a turn telling something each was thankful for. Billy looked into the little mirror and said, “I’m thankful to be a child of God.”

I had just turned 18 when a member of my bishopric, Mark, hired me to help him transport some business supplies. It required a lot of driving, so I was often left alone with my thoughts. During that time I wrestled with a couple of big questions, especially “Should I serve a mission?” and “What should I be when I get older?” These questions became a burden because I was unsure and needed to decide soon.

One day as Mark and I drove around a corner, we came upon an accident. A truck had just smashed into the side of a small car, and both vehicles were still sliding to a halt. The accident looked severe. When the vehicles stopped sliding, Mark pulled to the side of the road, and we both rushed to the scene. Inside the crumpled car, we found a young boy and girl in the backseat, with their babysitter behind the wheel. All of them were unconscious.

Mark had been a volunteer firefighter for years, and I was a lifeguard trained in emergency rescue. As we assessed the wreck, we noticed that others were stopping to help the couple in the truck, so we focused on the three people in the car.

Mark went to the driver, and I opened the back door to check on the children. The boy, who was in a car seat, began to move. I unbuckled his seat belt and quickly checked for injuries. Miraculously, he was unhurt. I set him down next to the driver, whom Mark had just helped out of the car. On the crushed side of the car, the little girl was still unconscious. She eventually started to wake up, and relief swept through me. That relief was short-lived, however. I looked down and saw that her legs were caught in the twisted wreckage of the car. I stifled my tears and the lump in my throat as I thought, “Even if this girl survives, she will never be able to walk again.”

As the girl regained consciousness, she started to realize what was happening and began to go into shock. She screamed in fear and then struggled to free her legs. I knew that because her legs were probably severely injured, moving them was one of the worst things she could do. I had to calm her down, but I didn’t know how.

Suddenly the thought entered my mind, “Did you think to pray?” (see Hymns, no. 140). I took a deep breath and held the girl’s head close to mine. As I closed my eyes, I quietly prayed, “Father in Heaven, please help. Please, let Thy daughter live. And if it be Thy will, let her legs be freed.” As soon as the words left my lips, the girl stopped screaming. I could see calmness in her eyes.

The paramedics arrived and started preparing to cut the girl free. But instead of leaving, I felt that I should try to free her by positioning my hands in a certain way between the girl’s legs and the passenger seat, which was trapping them. I didn’t know how it would work, but I followed the prompting, and, under the supervision of the paramedics, I pushed and pulled as hard as I could. Nothing happened. I pushed and pulled again. I was about to give up when her right leg suddenly popped free. I was astonished, and I was even more surprised to see that her leg was unharmed. I pushed and pulled again and her second leg came free, also in seemingly good shape. The paramedics and I fitted her onto a backboard and loaded her into an ambulance, which rushed her to the hospital.

Afterward I sat on the curb and reflected on what had happened. A paramedic patted me on the back and said, “That was quite the miracle.” As his words sank in, I thought of what Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once said: “Young men, you will learn if you have not already, that in frightening, even perilous moments, your faith and your priesthood will demand the very best of you and the best you can call down from heaven. … You must be ready and clean, worthy to act.”1

I now have a burning testimony of the principle he taught. The Lord hears and answers our prayers. The accident that day reminded me that Heavenly Father loves every one of His children. He needs our help, especially in “perilous moments.” This experience strengthened my desire to be a missionary and faithful priesthood holder so that I will always be ready to help others get through the “perilous moments” of life.

The youth of the Dublin (California) Ward and the Pleasanton Second Ward had to move quickly. With just three days’ notice from Children’s Hospital in Oakland, California, they pulled together a group to put on a party for all the cardiology patients and their families.
The youth manned refreshment tables, a popcorn machine, face-painting booths, and the check-in table. They also gave instruction in ’50s style dancing.
“It was so fun to watch the kids learn that dance,” says Jessica Cooper. “Every single one of them was smiling. It really made me feel good.”
“I’m not sure who had more fun,” says Beth Patterson, “us or the kids!”

I have always admired my great-grandmother Mary Bommeli’s devotion to sharing the doctrine of Jesus Christ. Her family was taught by missionaries in Switzerland when she was 24.

After being baptized, Mary desired to join the Saints in America, so she made her way from Switzerland to Berlin and found work with a woman who employed her to weave cloth for the family’s clothing. Mary lived in a servant’s room and set up her loom in the home’s living area.

At that time, teaching the doctrine of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was illegal in Berlin. But Mary found she could not keep from sharing the things she had learned. The woman of the house and her friends would gather around the loom to hear Mary teach. She spoke of the appearance of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ to Joseph Smith, the visitation of angels, and the Book of Mormon. Remembering the accounts of Alma, she taught about the doctrine of the Resurrection. She testified that families can be reunited in the celestial kingdom.

Mary’s enthusiasm to share the doctrine of the restored gospel soon caused trouble. It was not long before the police took Mary off to jail. On the way, she asked the policeman for the name of the judge she was to appear before the next morning. She also asked about his family and if he was a good father and husband. The policeman described the judge as a man of the world.

In the jail, Mary requested a pencil and some paper. She spent the night writing a letter to the judge, bearing witness to the Resurrection of Jesus Christ as described in the Book of Mormon, discussing the spirit world, and explaining repentance. She suggested that the judge would need time to reflect on his life before facing final judgment. She wrote that she knew he had much to repent of, much which would deeply sadden his family and bring him great sorrow. In the morning, when she had finished her letter, she gave it to the policeman and asked him to deliver it to the judge, and he agreed to do so.

Later, the policeman was summoned by the judge to his office. The letter Mary had written was irrefutable evidence that she was teaching the doctrine of the restored gospel and, by so doing, breaking the law. However, it wasn’t long before the policeman returned to Mary’s cell. He told her that all charges were dismissed and that she was free to go. Her teaching the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ had caused her to be cast into jail. And her declaring the doctrine of repentance to the judge got her cast out of jail.

Mary Bommeli’s teaching did not end with her release. The record of her words passed true doctrine down through generations yet unborn. Her belief that even a new convert could teach the doctrine of Jesus Christ has ensured that her descendants will be strengthened in their own battles.

I remember my father stretched out by the fireplace, reading the scriptures and other good books, and I would stretch out by his side. I remember the cards he would keep in his shirt pocket with quotes of the scriptures and Shakespeare and new words that he would memorize and learn. I remember the gospel questions and discussions at the dinner table. I remember the many times my father took me to visit the elderly—how we would stop by to pick up ice cream for one or a chicken dinner for another or his final handshake with some money enclosed. I remember the good feeling and the desire to be like him.

Clay said quietly, “I ran the marathon today. Twenty-six-point-two miles. It was a killer.”
“You should have told us!” Mom said. “We would have come to cheer you on.”
He looked at me. “I thought about what you said about praying. The whole time I was praying that God could help me understand why Ryan died and help me know that he wasn’t gone for good. Near the end of the race, I was the only one in front. I don’t even remember passing the other runners. It was like Ryan was running next to me, saying, ‘Go for it. You’re gonna win. Listen to your feet; keep up the rhythm; keep up the pace.’ And I won. I think I understand now. Ryan was like a sprinter. His race was quick, over in a few seconds. The rest of us are going for distance, though we don’t know when our own race will end.” His eyes filled, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand.
His voice dropped. “Ryan’s alive. His spirit is still alive.”
Elder Martin turned to Clay. “You’re right. You will see him again and be with him.” His eyes shone.
Elder Weiss said, “Hey, Clay, you’ve inspired us to start running every morning. What if we come by here on our way and pick you up? We can do some running together, and you can give us some pointers.”
Clay nodded. His breathing had slowed. He looked more healthy and alive than he’d looked for a long time. “Yeah, sure. That’d be okay.”
I watched the elders pedal away, smiling and talking like brothers, their long coats flapping behind them, ears already red with cold. Even though they wore dark suits, they seemed as bright as our flowers against the dull sky. Part of the pattern was becoming clear to me, and I knew those two young men would be connected to our family forever.

As a teenager, however, I started falling away after I moved to a new ward. I attended youth activities most weeks, but I kept to myself and didn’t participate much. I didn’t enjoy church on Sunday, but I attended off and on. I realized that I was not really converted to the gospel and its teachings. I didn’t have a testimony of my own.
As usual during one fast and testimony meeting, my mind wandered. I wasn’t really listening as ward members bore their testimonies, but I said amen at the end of each one. Then a sister went up to the pulpit and started bearing her testimony. When she mentioned cake, I looked up and started paying attention.
“I always speak to Heavenly Father, even when I’m baking a cake,” she said. “I say a little prayer that the cake will rise and come out well. I know He answers our prayers.”
I didn’t think much about that testimony until our car wouldn’t start when we needed to go to the store to get some food. At that moment I remembered the words of the sister. So, I went back to my bedroom to ask God to help us so that the car would start. I knelt and prayed. When I finished, I took the car keys and put them in the ignition. And then came the answer to my prayer—the sound of the car starting.
Because of that answer to a simple prayer, I went from almost falling away to continuing on a path that has helped me gain a personal testimony and become fully converted to the gospel. The words to my favorite Primary song, “I Feel My Savior’s Love,”1 became more than just words of a song. They became feelings that I really have.
I pray about everything now. And though the answer or the timing isn’t always what I desire, I still choose to hear Him as I remember Nephi’s words: “But behold, I say unto you that ye must pray always, and not faint” (2 Nephi 32:9).