Gospel Story Finder

On 27 February 1977 we began our journey to Santiago for the first area conference in our native country of Chile. My wife Teresa and I and our four children—Oriana, Doris, Mariela, and Mario, Jr.—were especially eager to go because President Spencer W. Kimball would be there. We had not been able to get bus tickets, so we would have to travel the 530 kilometers from our home town of Los Angeles by train.
Our family of six, plus about nine other members of the Los Angeles Second Branch, were traveling together. After making several transfers, our group arrived in Valdivia. From here, the last part of the journey would take ten hours.
At the Valdivia station, about 150 people were waiting to board the train to Santiago. When it arrived, it was announced over the loudspeakers that the engine was broken down. We were to wait another two hours for another engine to arrive. But already the train was so full that people were standing on the steps and hanging out the windows.
Another train from further south was due to arrive later that night. We gathered together to pray and plan. We agreed that each of us should try to get on the next train however we could, making sure that the youngest child, Mario, Jr., was on. Sometime after midnight, we heard a train whistle and people began to shout, “It’s coming! It’s coming!” By now two hundred people were waiting on the platform.
When the new train arrived, we were disappointed to see that it, too, was already full. As it slowed and stopped, we all scrambled to find a place to get on. Looking out for young Mario, I pushed him into one of the cars. But the train was already moving; it had stopped for only a few seconds! As it disappeared into the darkness, Mama asked, “Where is everyone?” All of us were there except ten-year-old Mario. “Where is my son?” Mama asked frantically. I tried to explain what had happened and told her we must trust in the Lord.
Heartsick, we looked at the broken engine from Valdivia. It was our only hope. We managed to climb aboard the back part of the coal bin—fifteen people carrying suitcases and packages, crammed into a space not more than four meters wide. An hour later another engine was hooked to our engine, and we began the ten-hour trip. There we were—men, women, and children—holding onto bars and railings, many standing on one foot with the other foot hanging off into space, some strapped on with belts. We were cold and wind-blown. Sparks from the engine’s smokestack rained down on us.
After two and a half hours of traveling, the relief engine was replaced by a diesel engine. Occasionally, our desperation turned to panic as we wondered what was happening to our little Mario, who was by this time three hours ahead of us.
It was one o’clock in the afternoon when our train finally reached our destination. The central station in Santiago was like a sea of people. Shortly after we began searching, we heard a small voice saying, “Mama, mama.” We hugged Mario and each other and wept with joy. The Lord had heard our prayers.
Young Mario told us how frightened he had been. The journey seemed so long that it made him feel like crying. Finally, he had found a space between two seats, where he had slept all night. When he arrived in Santiago, he didn’t know what to do. He told us that only his faith in the Lord and his desire to meet the prophet had sustained him.

As a young missionary, I spent three Christmases in Tonga. Christmas there was the hottest, most humid season of the year, but the spirit of the holiday was the same.
People thought more about others and less about themselves. There was lots of music and singing, and the feeling of peace and good cheer seemed to permeate everything.
There was not a lot of physical gift giving, since there weren’t a lot of things to give. But people gave marvelous gifts of love, service, and kindness.
A few days before Christmas, a nine-year-old granddaughter, who had come to spend the holiday with her grandparents, developed a high fever. They spent all their time caring for her, but the fever seemed to get worse. They called for the missionaries to give her a blessing. We did, and felt prompted to tell her everything would be all right. Then we went on about our other activities.
The day before Christmas, I was visiting various families with a teacher from the local Church school. As we concluded our visits, I asked him where else we should go that Christmas Eve. He said, “I’ve heard ‘Ofa’s granddaughter is still doing poorly, and the grandfather is out of town. I’m sure ‘Ofa is very tired. Why don’t we volunteer to watch her granddaughter tonight and let ‘Ofa get some rest?”
I thought, What a great idea! Why don’t I think of things like that?
It was early evening when we arrived at ‘Ofa’s house. As we explained what we wanted to do, I saw gratitude in her eyes. ‘Ofa looked at us a long time and then said, “She is very ill. I have been up day and night the last three days. I’m not sure I can make it another night. Thank you. Thank you!”
She then explained she’d been using a cloth dipped in water and a woven fan to cool her granddaughter and give her some air. All the girl had done for the last two days was moan.
“I’m not sure if she will get well or not,” ‘Ofa said. “Maybe I should try to stay up and help.”
My companion said, “No, you go on and rest. We’ll fan her and cool her forehead and she’ll be all right. You go get some sleep.” ‘Ofa finally left. I imagine she was asleep the second she got to her room.
We immediately started waving the fan and cooling the girl’s forehead. She seemed in a bad way. Her breathing was strange, her fever high, her eyes closed, and her moans pathetic.
We devised a system where one would hold the wet cloth and the other fan the air through it to get some moist air moving around her mouth and head. It doesn’t sound like much work, but the anxiety of the situation, the sweltering evening, and the effort to get water, rinse the cloth, and constantly wave the fan, caused us both to soon tire. I appreciated what ‘Ofa had been through the last few days.
There was an old wind-up clock where we were. Around 11:00 P.M. we realized we were going to have to do something different to make it through the night. My companion again came up with an idea.
“Why don’t we take turns?” he said. “You sleep for an hour. Then I’ll wake you and you care for her for an hour while I sleep. Then you wake me, and so on. We’ll get through the night that way.”
“Fine,” I said. “Who should start?”
“I’ll start,” he replied. “You rest first.” At midnight he woke me and I fanned with one hand and sponged her forehead with the other until 1:00 A.M. Then I woke him. He did likewise and woke me at 2:00 A.M. I, again, woke him at 3:00 A.M. I knew I would be awakened for my next turn at 4:00 A.M. I was very tired, but felt we would make it through the night all right.
The next thing I remember is sunlight streaming into my eyes. I suddenly awakened, jumped up, and said, “My goodness! What time is it?”
“It’s six o’clock.”
“Six o’clock! Why didn’t you wake me at four?” I asked.
He smiled broadly, a smile that came from deep within and seemed to encompass his whole being as he said, “Oh, you looked so tired. I decided to let you sleep. That’s my present to you. Merry Christmas!”
I couldn’t say anything. Again I thought, Why don’t I think of things like that? My companion stayed up for me! I thought of the Savior coming to his sleeping disciples and asking, “Could ye not watch with me one hour?” (Matt 26:40). The Savior stayed up nearly all night performing one of the greatest works this world will ever know, while those close to him slept.
I felt a little ashamed, yet I also felt happy, as I could see the joy in my companion’s face. He hadn’t been able to give me anything else for Christmas. There was, literally, nothing material for him to give. But what he could give, he had given freely, just by letting me sleep.
I wonder how many of us, in our Christmas giving and our giving all year long, think of not just exchanging material possessions, but of giving of ourselves, fully and freely. True giving comes from the heart, not the wallet.
Sometime during those early morning hours, the girl’s semidelirious moaning ceased, her fever broke, and we could tell the crisis was over. She stirred and opened her eyes.
We waited until midmorning and then knocked on the door to wake up ‘Ofa. She responded quickly, possibly expecting the worst. As she came out on the porch, her granddaughter was there, sitting with us. We were all smiles as we said in unison, “Merry Christmas!”

In December 1996, my wife was close to the end of her pregnancy with our last child. It was a Sunday, and my bride requested that I give her a blessing. She was concerned with the well-being of our unborn child.

For some reason--and, brethren, do not make this mistake--I took her request lightly, thinking that she was just overreacting. She was so close to having the baby that everything was sure to be just fine. I predetermined what "I" was going to say in the blessing, instead of remembering that we need always to seek those warnings, promptings, and revelations that Heavenly Father wants us to pronounce when we have the privilege to exercise His priesthood. We never give a blessing. It comes from Him.

After visiting with family that Sabbath afternoon, we retired to our little apartment in Logan, Utah, and tucked our three children into bed. We then prepared for the blessing. I placed my hands upon her head and closed my eyes, and then the most incredible thing happened. I could not remember what I was doing. I opened my eyes and could see my beautiful bride sitting in the chair with her head bowed, waiting. I remembered that I was giving her a blessing and began once again. I placed my hands on her head and started over, when, to my surprise, the very same thing happened. I went completely blank. I could not remember what I was doing. I then sat down by my bride and said something like "You are right, my dear; something is wrong."

What I was experiencing can be described only with the Lord's words:

"But, behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right. But if it be not right you shall have no such feelings, but you shall have a stupor of thought that shall cause you to forget the thing which is wrong."[11]

I have never experienced a stupor of thought even remotely as strong since that cold day in December 1996. Heavenly Father taught me in such a powerful way and prevented me from making a mistake from which I might not have been able to recover. After that experience, I have become much more sensitive to "if it be not right you shall have no such feelings."

The remaining portion of the story is sacred and does not apply to this subject today. Let me just conclude the story by saying that we immediately called my wife's doctor, who is a wonderful priesthood man. When we told him what had happened, he explained that he had felt anxious the last time she was in the office, but with no evidence as to why. Now he felt that we should leave immediately for the hospital, and he would be there to start labor as soon as we arrived. About 48 hours later, and after several very crucial moments, our beautiful youngest daughter was born.

My young friends, Heavenly Father is here to keep us from making very costly mistakes if we are seeking His warnings, promptings, and revelations from all available sources--and if we heed and act upon them. We have the right to have the Holy Ghost always be with us, especially in crucial moments of life.

Christmas is a giving time of year for the young people of the Mt. Pleasant Second Ward, Mt. Pleasant Utah Stake. The youth were involved in service projects that helped emphasize the true spirit of giving.
The Mia Maids of the ward spent weeks collecting pictures of all the children of the ward, which they used to make special Christmas tree decorations. The ornaments were presented to the parents after they were used to decorate the ward Christmas tree.

In the spring of 1829, Mary and Peter Whitmer welcomed Joseph and Emma Smith and Oliver Cowdery into their home so the translation of the gold plates could be completed. The demands on Mary’s time were high. She cared for nine people in her own home and assisted her married children who lived nearby.
Mary’s five sons and both of her (eventual) sons-in-law became official witnesses of the gold plates in June 1829. That same month, Mary received a witness of her own.
Outside her home, a gray-haired man with a knapsack over his shoulder approached Mary and said, “My name is Moroni. You have become pretty tired with all the extra work you have to do.” Taking the knapsack off his shoulder, Moroni continued, “You have been very faithful and diligent in your labors. It is proper, therefore, that you should receive a witness that your faith may be strengthened.” He then revealed the contents of his knapsack—the gold plates.1
Mary became a witness of the gold plates, like the Three Witnesses and Eight Witnesses, whose testimonies are in the introductory pages of the Book of Mormon. Mary’s humility and diligence prepared her to be a witness. Her testimony isn’t written in the introductory pages of the Book of Mormon, and her name isn’t on plaques, monuments, or the minds of many Saints who came after her. Although her daily contributions in her home and family likely went unnoticed by many, they were known by God.

“Well, Cory, based on what we’ve talked about, I would be pleased to recommend you for full-time service as a missionary,” my bishop said, nearing the end of the interview.
“So, I guess I’m pretty well on my way to the mission field after this,” I said. I was already picturing myself in an exotic land, saving lost souls. But the bishop interrupted my daydreams.
“Actually, there’s one more very important thing I wanted to talk about before we end this evening,” he said. “Far too often potential missionaries are so involved in checking off items on their ‘to do’ list that they don’t keep their temple ordinances in the right perspective.” I felt like the bishop was describing me as he went on, “For some missionaries, receiving their endowment is sandwiched between checking the dimensions of their luggage and hitting next weekend’s two-pant suit sale.” My bishop’s words made me realize that I needed to consider the temple with the importance it deserved.
During the rest of the interview he explained the sacred nature of the endowment. By going through the temple, he told me, I would be making sacred covenants with my Heavenly Father that go far beyond the mission and are essential to my exaltation. “Not only that,” he continued, “your temple experience will fill you with the desire to serve. You will want those you teach to receive the same blessings of the temple that you have received. The strength you’ll receive from your temple covenants will benefit you as a missionary, but they also have eternal significance.”
The bishop’s words weighed on me as I walked slowly home. I began to feel nervous. I had looked forward my whole life to the time when I would enter the temple, but now I was especially eager to be ready.
A few weeks later I received my mission call. With excitement I read the words “Brazil Porto Alegre North Mission.” I could hardly wait to be among the Brazilian people, sharing the message of the restored gospel. I shared the news of my call with my extended family, ward members, and friends. I also noticed how many people were just as eager to know when I would go through the temple. Many had words of advice to offer me on how I should prepare myself mentally and spiritually before entering the house of the Lord.
During the next few months I made sure to attend temple preparation classes. I read my scriptures and prayed for a continuing reassurance of my decision to receive my endowment. The Spirit comforted me again and again. I also read the pamphlet Preparing to Enter the Holy Temple, written to assist those preparing to attend the temple for the first time. I was so grateful for the statements about the reverence and peace that prevail in the temple. During this time of preparation I gained a much stronger testimony of the sacred nature of the Lord’s house and the work that is performed inside.
I will always remember the sight of the temple the day I arrived to receive my endowment. I was filled with deep respect and reverence. I was humbled by the thought that I would go inside and make sacred covenants with my Father in Heaven.
I had arrived dressed in my Sunday best, knowing that my outward appearance reflected my inward respect for the house of the Lord.
“Welcome to the temple,” I was greeted as I showed my recommend and walked inside. Everything about the temple was beautiful. It felt like a piece of heaven on earth, and the friendly temple workers seemed like angels.
I remained in awe at the Spirit I felt. While I didn’t immediately understand everything that was taking place, I did realize the importance of the covenants I was making. It was clear to me why my bishop had spoken of the temple the way he had. The endowment I was receiving would extend not only far beyond the two years of my mission but even into the eternities. More meaningful to me than any of the advice I had received from various people was a scripture I had read as part of my preparation, “And that all people who shall enter upon the threshold of the Lord’s house may feel thy power, and feel constrained to acknowledge that thou hast sanctified it, and that it is thy house, a place of thy holiness” (D&C 109:13). I knew that the temple was the Lord’s house, sanctified and holy. I went expecting to feel God’s love, and I did.
Throughout my mission I frequently reflected on my first temple experience. I was also thankful for having attended the temple each week at the MTC. The blessings of the temple fortified me and gave me strength through difficult times. I was filled with the desire to serve and bring others to a knowledge of God’s plan. I wanted everyone I taught to have the same opportunity to make covenants with Heavenly Father and receive a greater understanding of His infinite love.
I am grateful for having realized that the temple will be a part of me forever and not something to simply check off before leaving on my mission. Since returning home from my mission, I have made temple attendance a priority in my life. The temple is a place of clarity and renewal for me. It is a place of holiness where I can feel God’s love for me and for all His children.

I can promise you that by sharing your time, effort, and ability you’ll leave yourself and others richer. This year I gave my mom a certificate for helping with the spring cleaning. After a full day of scouring walls, scrubbing floors, washing windows, and ironing curtains, I told her it would be much easier just to buy a nice present. “Yes,” she said, “but it wouldn’t be appreciated as much.” And I knew that it wouldn’t be my last “gift certificate” after all.

One of my favorite “cry out during the night children’s stories” is about a four-year-old boy who came during the middle of the night to his parents’ bedroom, sobbing and crying. His mother put her arms around him to give comfort, saying, “What happened?”
He said, “I fell out of bed.”
She asked, “Why did you fall out of bed?”
And he cried, “Because I wasn’t in far enough.”
It has been my experience that most people who fall out of the Church do so because they were not in far enough.

When Carl Hendricks, who’d been home from the California Fresno Mission for two days, realized the problems people were having with cleanup, he called a local radio station and offered his services. Soon after, he got so many phone calls that it kept him busy cleaning up from early morning till late at night for over a week. He recruited his brother Gary, 16 (and newly elected student-body president of his high school), and another friend, Skip Behar, to help.
“It was dirty, but I really enjoyed it,” said Carl. “We were having a good time.”
The trio came to be known as “The Mormon Boys” in a trailer court of retired people where they spent much of the week cleaning up. And while they cleaned roofs, patios, and walkways, they talked to people about the Church.
“We were just out to help people,” said Gary Hendricks, “but we got a good chance to talk to people about the gospel. Our main goal, however, was to help get the ash off the roofs. People were worried about their roofs caving in from the weight if it rained.”
One of the elderly people they helped, Charles Royce, said those three changed his attitude about young people today. “I don’t know what we would have done without their help. These young people are tops and really know how to work. They don’t fool around any. They gave me a good impression of the younger generation, that they’re not all bums. You Mormons do a nice job.”

For the next year I went to church by myself. I didn’t really feel like I fit in, and I didn’t understand much of what was taught. But I was active. The next year I lived away from home and attended a Church-owned high school in Mexico City. Although I had loved the high school during my initial visit and worked hard to be accepted to the school (and to convince my parents to let me attend), I quickly found that being on my own wasn’t easy. I still didn’t have a testimony. I didn’t really understand who Joseph Smith was or what the Book of Mormon taught. More than ever I felt like I didn’t fit in.
Of course, I didn’t tell my parents. I had spent a lot of time convincing them to let me come to this school. How could I admit that maybe this wasn’t the place for me after all? Because of my pride, I just struggled silently.
My difficult situation became worse when I received news that my parents were divorcing. I felt as though my whole world was being destroyed.
It was at that point that my bishop took me aside and asked how I was doing. I told him about all of my frustrations and my sorrows. “I feel like I really don’t know anything anymore,” I said.
That good bishop started teaching me about the gospel. We started with how to truly communicate with Heavenly Father. Over time we talked about the Atonement. He taught me truths of the gospel, and for the first time, I felt I had a testimony. I was glad I had something to cling to in that shaky period. Even though I felt powerless to help my family, I was able to feel a sense of happiness in being close to Heavenly Father. I knew that He knew me, and that changed everything.

When I was 12 years old, I had an excellent Young Women leader named Sister Smith. She noticed that my friends and I loved to talk about all the popular music groups. We all declared that one boy band was definitely the most awesome music group since our favorite girl band had broken up. When the boy band came along, they stole all our hearts, and they became all we could talk about.
Sister Smith became concerned about us and our obvious obsession with these popular bands and their music. One Sunday, she expressed her concern. I remember speaking for my friends and myself when I said, “There’s nothing wrong with pop music, even if some of the words aren’t very good. It doesn’t really affect us.”
Giving me a skeptical look, Sister Smith said, “If you’re so sure music doesn’t affect you, let’s try an experiment.” She gave us all two crossword puzzles. Then she told us to do the first puzzle while listening to classical music. For the second puzzle, we were told to listen to our favorite pop music while completing it. We all wondered what she was getting at, but we agreed to do what she said.
The next Sunday, Sister Smith began by giving us the hints from the first crossword puzzle and asking us to give her the answers. We all remembered every answer. However, when she gave us the hints from the crossword puzzle we had completed while listening to pop music, we couldn’t remember many of the answers. That day I learned that good music could help inspire me to remember things, while music with words and fast beats distracted me and got stuck in my head, causing me to forget the things I had learned.
I learned that the music I listen to really does affect me.

Two weeks after graduating high school in American Samoa in 2002, I boarded an airplane for basic training in Fort Sill, Oklahoma – marking a new chapter in my life as an enlisted service member in the United States Army.

In January of 2003, I was assigned to the northern part of South Korea for my first tour of duty. Although only 18 years old, I felt like I was a grown man. I was making my own money and now had the liberty of doing whatever I wanted to do with my free time. I loved buying clothes and eating out, so the new experience of making and spending money was quite exhilarating.

After my first couple of months in my new duty station, soaking in all my freedom as an adult, I often felt a little distant from Heavenly Father. Buying clothes and hanging out with friends did not bring the enduring peace I yearned for.

Luckily, a chapel on a hill was about a twenty-minute walk from my barracks that held sacrament services at noon. I knew that my ticket to once again access the comforting power of the Holy Ghost was on that hill. I was determined that I would not miss a Sunday. One of the blessings that came from going to church was my desire to keep God's commandments and be a good person.

Unfortunately, my desire to be a good person seemed to lose momentum as the week progressed. Many of my buddies would entertain some outing ideas over the week, which were appealing but deep inside, I could sense that these activities would not lead to a place that I wanted to be spiritually.

In hindsight, I believe that attending church services throughout my military service has helped me maintain a relationship, although distant at times, with Heavenly Father. I felt Heavenly Father was pleased with my efforts to attend church. This sense of reassurance reinforced my desire to be good and do good.

However, I often felt confused and frustrated as to why I didn't feel the desire to do good all the time. It seems as if I only felt those feelings the strongest on Sundays and maybe Mondays, and as the week progressed, the appeals of worldly and unrighteous activities seemed to be winning the battle for my soul.

“Why can't I always have the desire to do good?” This question comes to mind often whenever I ponder my life and the person I hope to be.

During my military service, my conversations with God were often in the form of questions, partly due to my inexperience in figuring out how to be an adult. I felt many of those questions went unanswered. But as I look back on my life, I can see why. The answers to those questions would eventually come at a time when I was ready to receive them.

The second story is a little closer to home. It involves an eight-year-old grandson. It seems as little Sam, our wonderful grandson, has been collecting Yu-Gi-Oh! Cards (I had not heard of them before and know little about them) and happened to acquire one of the most cherished and sought-after cards called the Blue-eyed White Dragon. A friend learned Sam owned the rare card and attempted to negotiate a trade. After much give and take, a deal was struck between the two boys. Sam would receive a whole stack of his friend’s cards and in turn Sam would surrender the Blue-eyed White Dragon card. During Family Home This evening on the day after conference Sam’s family talked about conference talks. On Sunday, Sam had attended General Conference to render much needed support to his grandfather. Sam, of course, heard the more can be less talk. Late Monday evening Sam came to his mother sobbing. She inquired why he was crying. Between sobs he tearfully said: “Grandpa is right. More is not better. I want the Blue-eyed White Dragon more than all the cards I received in trade.” Mother and son had a soothing conversation.

The rest of the story follows. Unbeknownst to Sam his older brother was a witness to the negotiations and the ultimate trade. He quietly negotiated a trade himself. By parting with a popular toy he gained possession of the valuable card. He didn’t share his secret with Sam. On Tuesday morning Sam asked his mother if it would be OK if he went to his friend and asked him to reverse the trade. Sam’s wise mother said, “You can ask but know that you likely will not be successful and remember a deal is a deal.” It was when he approached his friend that Sam learned his own brother was the owner of the favorite card. Appropriate arrangements were made, and now Sam has resumed ownership of the much revered Blue-eyed White Dragon and is also much wiser when it comes to more may not necessarily be better.

By the time my plane approached the Salt Lake airport, I felt worn out with the traveling and emotions of the day. The plane had crossed the high Rockies, which in the early sunset presented a fairy world of peaks and crevices, clouds and shadows in changing, shifting patterns before my eyes.
But now, as the plane touched down, as I moved with the press into the crowded terminal, it seemed everyone had someone to meet them and some place to go. I hesitated, uncertain what to do or where to go next. I noticed a woman approaching, an older woman, very attractive, with rich brown hair and a lovely face. As she drew closer, I thought she looked familiar, so I glanced at her again. It looked as though she was coming directly my way. I shifted my feet and stared down at the floor, and when I glanced up again the woman was standing right beside me. She smiled, and the feeling that I had seen her somewhere before grew stronger.
“Michelle?” she said, with a little question at the end of the word. “You are Michelle Briggs, aren’t you?”
“Why … yes …” I stammered.
“I thought so,” she said. “You look very much like your mother, Michelle; you have her beautiful eyes.” She smiled again. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my dear, but I’m your Aunt Beth.”
“I don’t understand,” I cried. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me … or … or that I exist at all?”
“Your mother, Michelle,” she said, and took my hand gently in hers. “All these years I have written to your mother, but not once did she reply.”
“You, you mean, my mother’s known where you’ve been all along?”
“She’s known, but she hasn’t wanted to admit it. Your mother was very young when I went away, and your Grandpa Hunter did a good job of poisoning her mind. By the time she was old enough to understand … well, it was too late.” “Understand? Understand what?”
She paused, and her eyes began to sparkle. “When I was a girl I defied my father and joined the Mormon church. I was young and unwise. I hurt his pride, and he refused to forgive me. When I left and went to Utah, he refused to tell anyone where I had gone or what had really happened to me. He died without knowing that I had married and that he had three grandchildren he had never seen and another one on the way.
“But, you see, Michelle, I kept taking the Franklin City paper and I read about your mother’s wedding, and I wrote to her faithfully, hoping that sometime something would touch her heart and she would respond to me.”
“All these years?” I breathed in amazement.
“All these years. And all these years I have prayed that the Lord would soften her heart; and he has answered my prayers, Michelle, through you.” The sparkle in her eyes was wet now and her hand tightened over mine.
“But what …” I stammered, “how …” I still didn’t understand.
“Your mother wrote to me telling me you had joined the Mormon church, telling me you were coming to BYU and asking me to take care of you.”
“My mother … did that … ?”
My aunt nodded. “She told me what a special girl you were and how much she loved you.”
I couldn’t see too well, for my own eyes were clouded with tears and my throat ached trying to hold them back. My prayers and Aunt Beth’s prayers—and the prayers of a mother whose concern had overcome her pride and prejudice, and who could still teach me something about sacrifice and love! I smiled at the lovely woman who held my hand.
“I’ve got a long way to go,” I said.
“You’ll make it,” she replied, and I felt she understood all the things I was unable to say.
“Yes, yes,” I agreed, “I have to make it. I want to be a real Latter-day Saint. I want to make my mother proud of me.”

Before getting into bed, Karen and Katie knelt to pray. Karen soon finished and jumped back into bed. Katie was still praying.
Karen fluffed her pillow a few times and curled up under her nice warm quilt. Katie was still praying.
Karen closed her eyes. After a while, she opened her eyes again. Katie was still praying.
Karen adjusted her quilt again and snuggled in. Katie finally finished her prayer.
“What could you possibly be praying about for that long?” Karen asked.
“Well, I was thanking Heavenly Father for all He gave me today.”
Karen sat up. “Really? He gave you that much today?”
“Oh yes!”
“Like what?”
“Well,” Katie said, “when I woke up this morning, I opened the curtains, and the sun warmed my face. I was thankful for sunshine. I got dressed and rushed downstairs for breakfast. When we all knelt for family prayer, I thought, I’m so thankful to have a wonderful family!
“After breakfast, I went for a bike ride. I heard birds singing. I saw flowers of all colors and shapes. I saw the big shady trees up and down our street. I could smell the fresh air. I thought, I’m so thankful for this wonderful world!
“Then I saw my Primary teacher, Sister Smith, in her front yard. She waved and said hello. I felt blessed to have a nice Primary teacher who loves me and teaches me.
“When I got home, Brady was there to wag her tail while I petted her. I was thankful for Brady.
“Tonight at family home evening, Mom and Dad taught us more about Jesus Christ. I’m thankful for them. I’m most thankful for Jesus and all He’s done for me.”
“Wow!” Karen exclaimed. “I never realized how much there is to be thankful for.”
“There’s more,” Katie said. “When Mom reminded us to say our prayers, I was thankful for prayer itself. Not only can I talk to Heavenly Father any time and thank Him for all He’s given me, but I can ask for help with my problems.”
With that, Katie turned off the lamp and snuggled down in her bed.
Suddenly Karen turned the lamp back on.
“What’s wrong?” Katie asked.
“Nothing. I just need to say another prayer. I have a lot to thank Heavenly Father for, too.”
Katie closed her eyes tight and turned toward the wall. She had a feeling that Karen would be praying a long time.

Many years ago my children and I hiked to the top of South Sister, a 10,358-foot (3,157 m) mountain in Oregon. After several hours we encountered a long 45-degree slope of tiny volcanic pebbles. With the summit in sight, we pressed on, only to find that with every step, our feet would sink in the pebbles, causing us to slide backward several inches. My 12-year-old son forged ahead as I stayed with my 8-year-old daughter. Fatigue and discouragement soon set in, and she was heartbroken, thinking that she might not join her brother at the top. My first impulse was to carry her. My spirit was willing, but sadly my flesh was weak. We sat down on the rocks, assessed our situation, and devised a new plan. I told her to put her hands in my back pants pockets, hold on tight, and—most important—as soon as I lifted my foot to take a step, she should quickly put her foot in its place. She mirrored my every move and relied on the lift that came from hanging on to my pockets. After what seemed like an eternity, we made it to the top of the mountain. Her expression of triumph and satisfaction was priceless. And yes, she and her brother were, in my estimation, real hikers.
With the current conditions of the world, we desperately need real learning and teaching in our homes, meetings, and gospel classes. I know that your quest to improve may seem overwhelming at times. Please do not become discouraged with your progress. I think back on my experience hiking with my children. We agreed that every time we stopped to catch our breath, rather than focusing exclusively on how much farther we needed to go, we would immediately turn around and look down the mountain. We would take in the scenery and say to each other, “Look how far we’ve come.” Then we would take a deep breath, quickly turn, face uphill, and start climbing again one step at a time. Brothers and sisters, you can parent, lead, and teach after the manner of the workings of the Spirit. I know you can do this. I testify you can do this, and lives will change.

When I was in my second year of secondary school, I met a boy named Marco Aurelio Granados Dávila. He wanted me to be his girlfriend, and he wanted to come to my house and ask my mom for her permission. I told him that in our Church, we don’t even date until we’re 16. But he kept insisting. Each time he insisted, I would tell him a little more about the gospel.
One day my mom advised me to invite him to our house. She talked to him, and then we both asked him to come to church. He accepted, and eventually the missionaries began to teach him the discussions. At one point, he asked if he would need to change religions. The missionaries told him yes. He didn’t seem to like the idea much, but he didn’t stop listening to the discussions.
And as he kept participating in the discussions, his desire to be baptized grew. Unfortunately, his mother was out of the country. Since he needed his mother’s permission to be baptized, his baptism didn’t take place for about a year. Meanwhile, he went to seminary, Sunday meetings, and youth activities.
Finally his mom came home, and he asked for her permission. She eventually agreed, and he was baptized on 8 July 1997.
Now we both try to share the gospel with our friends.

In his autobiography, Parley P. Pratt told of his conversion and then of his compelling desire to share the gospel with others. Parley’s brother William, however, was more impressed by Parley’s material success and could not understand why he would give it all up to teach the gospel.

William asked Parley, “This is your all; you have toiled for years to obtain it, and why not now continue to enjoy it?”

Parley responded, “I see plainly you know but little of my circumstances—of the changes which have taken place with me since we parted five years ago, nor how vastly wealthy I have become within that time. Why, sir, I have bank bills enough, on the very best institutions in the world, to sustain myself and family while we live.”

Again William questioned, “Well, I should like to see some of them; I hope they are genuine.”

Parley replied, “There is no doubt of that. They are true bills and founded on capital that will never fail, though heaven and earth should pass away.”

Parley then unlocked his treasury and took out a large pocketbook full of promissory notes like the following: “Whosoever shall forsake father or mother, brethren or sisters, houses or lands, wife or children, for my sake and the gospel’s, shall receive an hundred fold in this life, and in the world to come life everlasting.” Parley explained to William that the words of Jesus Christ will not fail, and then he said, “I feel called upon by the Holy Ghost to forsake my house and home for the gospel’s sake; and I will do it, placing both feet firm on these promises with nothing else to rely upon.”

Still not fully convinced, William left to do his business, and Parley made preparations for a mission that would be lifelong. Parley was not “conformed to this world.” With all his heart he sought to both obtain and share those treasures that money cannot buy.

Later, after I was baptized and confirmed, I attended a banquet where President George Albert Smith was invited to speak. After the banquet, my dad and I stood in a long line to shake President Smith’s hand. When my turn came, President Smith looked down at me, took my hand, and spoke to me. I don’t remember what he said, but I will never forget how I felt. The Holy Ghost testified to me that he was a prophet of God.

I have also had the opportunity to directly ask for forgiveness from one whom I had wronged. Not until I asked this person directly for forgiveness did my feelings of anguish, of letting my Heavenly Father down, of not holding fast to my covenants and being a worthy representative of Christ, finally resolved into gratefulness for a Savior who continually calls to us to live a higher, holier way. Indeed, I felt as Alma described in Alma 36:20-21: And oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold; yea, my soul was filled with joy as exceeding as was my pain!
Yea, I say unto you, my son, that there could be nothing so exquisite and so bitter as were my pains. Yea, and again I say unto you, my son, that on the other hand, there can be nothing so exquisite and sweet as was my joy. [55]

I know that my life has been filled with more gladness because I have chosen to forgive and to ask for forgiveness.