Gospel Story Finder

I now understand better the dream given to Karl G. Maeser in the 1880s during a very difficult financial period for the university. Brother Maeser became so discouraged with the lack of resources for the university that he decided to take a job at the University of Utah. He told his wife and daughter to pack the household goods and prepare to move. This they did, and then they waited two days. On the third day the daughter finally asked when they would leave. Brother Maeser replied: “I have changed my mind. I have had a dream—I have seen Temple Hill [upper campus] filled with buildings—great temples of learning, and I have decided to remain and do my part in contributing to the fulfillment of that dream” (from Brigham Young University: The First One Hundred Years, eds. Ernest L. Wilkinson and Leonard J. Arrington, vol. 3 [Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1976], 3).

“Given the situation, we conduct ministering via Facebook Messenger, by call, or by virtual meeting,” shares Sister Maria Criselda “Love” de Jesus of Sumag Ward, Bacolod South Stake. “But we also try to minister personally by going out and keeping proper distance,” she also says. For several Sundays, Love’s husband Neil visited his assigned brethren and was able to commit several Young Men to attend virtual sacrament meeting. The couple also encouraged ward members to seek out senior-age members who might need spiritual support.
When religious gatherings at 30% capacity was allowed, the De Jesus family, as much as they wanted to resume full fellowship, decided to sacrifice and give up their “seats” so that families without priesthood holders at home could go to church instead. “We conducted sacrament meeting at home,” Sister de Jesus says, “but amazingly, it helped our 11-year-old daughter Samantha participate more as she offered prayers, conducted the hymns and bore her testimony.”

Grandmother was visiting us, and we were just ready to go out on a fun family outing when a minor disaster struck—we couldn’t find the keys to the car. Children, parents, and Grandmother searched everywhere, but the keys were not to be found, and we thought in dismay that we would probably have to stay home. Then Grandmother excused herself and went into her bedroom. In just a few minutes one of the children suddenly found the keys—just barely hidden under a corner of a rug.
As we drove happily to our outing, someone asked Grandmother, “Why did you go into your bedroom instead of looking for the keys?” Grandmother’s answer was absorbed carefully by five young children; “I knew how disappointed everyone would be if we didn’t go on the outing, so I went in and prayed that we could find the keys. I just knew we would find them after that.”

Each morning, these volunteers gathered to receive marching orders.
“The crew captain would give us the number for somebody who had asked for help,” says Nels S., 14, from Georgia, USA. “Then we would call and schedule a time to show up.”
Groups soon drove off to find their work sites. But the sight that greeted them was shocking.
“We started driving and after about 30 minutes we started seeing huge piles on the sides of the road,” says Hannah H., 14, from Alabama, USA.
“It was all of their personal stuff,” says Alana C., 15, from Alabama. “That was really sad. They were throwing it all out because it had gotten destroyed.”
“I was scared at first,” says Andrew H., 13, of Alabama, “because I saw all of this and thought it was going to take forever to clean up. But then I was happy because I realized this stuff wouldn’t stay sitting inside the house collecting mold. It would be easier for them to start new and get their lives back.”
And that was just what the Helping Hands hoped to do—help people start to get their lives back. So they set to work.
Teams tore out drywall, ripped out floors and ceilings, broke down walls, pulled out soggy insulation, removed furniture, and helped homeowners sort through their belongings. Then they gathered what was ruined and piled it by the road for sanitation services to haul away.
“Everyone did a small job,” says Meghan K., 12, from Georgia, “but it all ended up equaling a big work effort.”
Hallie R., 17, from Georgia, agrees. “It may not seem like you’re making a huge difference, but every little bit counts. When so many people come together and help, you can make a big difference.”
The Helping Hands weren’t alone in their work. Neighbors, other church groups, and larger organizations also joined the flood of service.
“There were rescue teams from other areas in Louisiana,” explains Anna J., 13, from Alabama. “I don’t think we would have been able to even get close to where we got with one house without those rescue teams and a few of the neighbors.”
“It was cool to see different churches working together under God’s name and to see God’s children working together even if they are from different churches and places,” Landon R., 14, from Georgia says.
Homeowners pitched in when they could too. Many of them worked side by side with the Helping Hands and others.
“You would think that they would all be absorbed in their own pain, and you wouldn’t blame them for that,” says Nels. “But most of them were positive and looking for ways to help their neighbors. They weren’t caught up in their emotions; they were just working to rebuild their lives.”
Working with one homeowner was especially memorable for Hallie. “He had been in an accident years ago, so he wore a back brace, and yet he was still helping with us,” she says. “It was an amazing experience.”
And “amazing” was just one way to describe it. Many youth also explained why the opportunity was memorable for them.
“The people we helped had gone through some rough times,” says Derek T., 13, from Alabama. “I felt warm inside doing service for other people.”
“Talking with the people, you couldn’t even tell that their houses were just destroyed. They were so thankful and smiling and positive,” says Gavin R., 14, from Alabama. “When you’re serving these people, the love you feel for them is definitely memorable.”
“You can see these things on the news, but you never really know what people are going through until you go out and help,” says Luke G., 13, of Georgia.
Many volunteers also felt that the hard work and service helped them gain new understanding.
“I realized that everyone has problems, and sometimes people need help because they can’t help themselves,” says Lindsay K., 14, from Georgia. “It was hard. It was really hard. But I am grateful that I am in a good situation so I can help others.” Madison C., 13, from Alabama says, “Service helps you understand that bad things happen to people and that they can get over it, so you know you can get over hard things too.”
“It was a great way to prepare for a mission,” says Jared R., 15, from Alabama. “You were tired, you woke up early, and it was hot. But you went in there and got it done. Once you got into the swing of things, everybody was talking and having a good time.”
Gloria G., 16, from Georgia, says, “I realized that there might be big problems in the world, but God will always be there. He’ll always find a way to help you even though you might think that you lost everything and there’s no hope. He’s not going to abandon you.
“I’ve been having issues with my testimony, but what He did for these people showed me that He really does care, He really is there, and He’s going to make sure we’re OK.”
“I learned that I should give my all and not give up when I’m tired or bored,” says Landon. “I think in some ways the man we helped blessed my life more than I blessed his. I know God gave me this opportunity to serve because He loves me and He knew I needed it.”
“I was able to serve as the hands of Christ,” says Julia C., 15, from Georgia. “It was humbling, and I was grateful that I was blessed to go. I loved the experience.”

When Mother told me her Aunt Grace was coming for a visit, I groaned. “Not again!” I complained, remembering her visit last year.
“Be nice, William,” Mother said. “Once a year isn’t very often.”
“It’s too often for me!” I declared.
Aunt Grace has orange hair and headaches. All she ever says to me is, “William, must you make so much noise?”
“William,” Mother warned, “I want you to behave yourself when she comes.”
I promised to behave myself.
When Aunt Grace came, I went to the door to meet her. My dog, Stubby, went with me. He growled at Aunt Grace because I hadn’t had him very long, and he didn’t know who she was.
Aunt Grace took a step backward. She looked as if she might turn around and go home.
“Oh, dear!” she cried. “Does that beast bite?”
I nodded my head. Stubby isn’t very big, but he sounds mean. For just a moment I thought I’d let her think that he bites people. Then I decided I’d better tell the truth. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “He only bites cats. Stubby hates cats.”
Aunt Grace looked huffy. “Well, he shouldn’t bite cats!”
I remembered then that Aunt Grace had a cat, and I wondered what I should say next. This visit wasn’t getting off to a very good start. But I didn’t have to say anything because just then Mother came hurrying to the door. “Come in, Aunt Grace, come in,” she said. “We’re so glad to see you.” She leaned close to me and whispered, “Take Stubby into the kitchen right now!”
She acted as if I had let him growl at Aunt Grace on purpose. I wondered if I had.
I took Stubby into the kitchen and shut the door so he would stay there. When I went into the living room, Aunt Grace had calmed down. She looked at Mother and said, “My, my, Lucille, it looks as though we’re getting a few gray hairs, doesn’t it?”
What she meant was that Mother was getting a few gray hairs. Aunt Grace patted her own thick orange hair so we would notice that she didn’t have any gray hairs.
For a moment Mother looked as if she would like to growl like Stubby. But she smiled instead. “Let’s put your suitcase in the bedroom. Then we’ll sit down and talk.”
I followed them into the bedroom, then back to the living room where we all sat down. I behaved myself.
“How are you, Aunt Grace?” Mother asked.
“Well, my head still aches a lot.”
“That’s too bad,” Mother said. “What does the doctor say about it?”
Stubby began yelping in the kitchen. He didn’t like to be shut up there alone.
“Oh, my!” Aunt Grace exclaimed. “Does that dog have to make so much noise?”
“Excuse me,” I said, standing up. “I’ll go see what’s the matter with him.” I didn’t want to hear what the doctor said about Aunt Grace’s headaches anyway.
When I got to the kitchen, Stubby was at the back door, barking furiously. Outside, the neighbor’s big orange cat was sniffing around our garbage can. Sometimes he tips it over. I wanted to get that cat away from it, so I opened the door. “Get him, Stubby!” I commanded.
Stubby shot out after the cat. The only trouble was, the cat ran right through the open door and into our house, with Stubby right behind him. The cat streaked into the living room and dived under the sofa where Aunt Grace was sitting.
“What was that?” Aunt Grace shouted. She leaned over to see what had run past her feet. Poor Stubby was confused because her hair was about the same color as the cat’s fur. He snapped his jaws shut, and Aunt Grace’s hair came right off her head!
Stubby thought he had the cat in his teeth, and he didn’t know what to do with it. When the “cat” in his mouth didn’t move, he dropped it, backed off a few steps, and started barking at it.
Mother leaped to her feet, looking as though she might faint.
“Did Stubby scalp Aunt Grace?” I whispered.
Aunt Grace really did look scalped—but not completely. Her head was covered with very short gray hair. She tried to shrink her head down into the neck of her dress, like a turtle.
That beautiful orange hair she was so proud of was a wig!
Suddenly I was ashamed of myself. I think I’d hoped the cat would run into the house when I opened the door. I guess I’d wanted to scare Aunt Grace. Instead I’d embarrassed her. Without her wig on, she looked kind of shrunken and wrinkled and old.
I ran over to where Stubby was barking at the wig. “I’m sorry, Aunt Grace. I’ll get it for you.” I picked up the wig, but when I did, Stubby grabbed it again. He sank his teeth into it and pulled. He growled when I tried to yank it away from him. Then he shook his head from side to side.
“Oh, my!” Mother agonized.
Now she really did look as though she might faint. I didn’t dare look at Aunt Grace again. Then all of a sudden, I heard her laughing. It really caught me off guard. Somehow, I didn’t think Aunt Grace laughed at anything. But she was laughing now as though she’d never stop. She laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes with a lace handkerchief she had pinned to her dress.
“Oh, dear,” she gasped finally. “I’ve never seen anything so funny in all my born days!”
“But your nice wig, Aunt Grace,” I said, dumbfounded. “Stubby’s ruined it!”
Aunt Grace slapped at the air with one hand. “Let him have it, William. I’m sure that thing is what makes my head ache. Maybe it’s time I gave it up anyway.”
“I’m really sorry, Aunt Grace,” I said again. “I hope you’ll still stay and visit with us for a while.”
“I want to, William,” she replied, smoothing her stubby hair as best she could. “You know what? Right now I feel like having an ice-cream cone. Why don’t you and I walk down to the store and get one? Maybe we can talk about how to teach that dog of yours some manners.”
It’s funny, I thought, how wrong you can be about people sometimes.
“Let’s go!” I said, offering her my arm and really behaving myself.

Well, I know from personal experience that one of the most difficult adjustments you have to make in life is to return from a position in the mission field, where you live so close to the Lord, to a position back in the world. My own experience was extreme. I had a month between my release as a missionary and my enlistment as a member of the U.S. Marine Corps. The contrast was overwhelming. But I joined the Marine Corps at a most interesting time. Just a few months before they had recruited a Mormon Battalion of Marines. I followed them into boot camp. The reputation they had made during their period of basic training was most unique. To be a Mormon following that great group was a mark of distinction.

As the years of service progressed, I noticed how apparent those who lived their religion were among their buddies in the service. Those who stooped to the level of the world could not stop the spiral down, and I think they returned home with a heavy heart and a very concerned conscience. But those who were able to overcome, to live as they should, were unique in the service, and were noticed and used. They returned home with greater joy, satisfaction, and peace of mind.

When Heber J. Grant was nearly 24, he was called as a stake president. He had never spoken to a large group before, so when he gave his first talk, it was only seven minutes long.
The next two Sundays, Heber traveled to different wards. Again he ran out of ideas after speaking for six or seven minutes. So the Sunday after that, he brought two speakers with him.
Heber: Bishop Sharp, it looks like no one is coming to the meeting. Where is everyone? It’s almost time to start.
Bishop Sharp: I’ve encouraged the members to be in their seats on time, President Grant. We’re the last ones to arrive—you’ll see.
Inside the log meetinghouse, every seat was full! Heber thought he would speak for a few minutes, as usual. Instead, he spoke easily for nearly an hour. He felt the Spirit guiding him.
That night Heber prayed with gratitude.
Heber: I thank Thee, Heavenly Father, for blessing me with the Spirit as I spoke today.
The following Sunday he expected to speak just as well, and he did little to prepare. How embarrassed he was when no words came to his mouth! He spoke for only five minutes.
He tearfully left the meeting and went into a field to pray. After that he always remembered to rely on the Spirit whenever he taught.
Heber: Forgive me for not praying or preparing. I know that I can preach only if I first seek Thy Spirit.

I was studying speech pathology at Mississippi University for Women five years ago. During the year I had looked for a church I could believe in. I had not found one.
One day some friends and I discussed the destination of the spirit after death. Theories were suggested. I had heard one thing about Mormons: they believed in three heavens, and they all went to one of them. As I laughingly related this knowledge a girl spoke up, “That isn’t exactly true.” Attention was directed to her, and I asked, “How do you know?” (I was surprised someone had spoken with conviction.) She answered, “I’m a Mormon.”
For a month I visited my new friend’s home and listened to the flannelboard discussions. The first vision of the Prophet Joseph was a little difficult to accept; also, I had a question about the day of the Sabbath. But the absolutely logical account of the apostasy and the restoration could not be disputed as far as I was concerned.
Still, I held back until one Sunday night after sacrament meeting when the missionaries suggested I be baptized at 9:00 A.M. the next day! The suggestion was made in front of several members. They were smiling encouragingly and I said, after a moment’s thought, “All right.” (How could I refuse with so many people caring?)
Having made the decision, I informed the Lord that Sunday night of my plans. I asked him to give me some indication that I was making the right move. Nevertheless, I told him if I received nothing, I would still be baptized.
Very quietly, instantly, definitely, two scriptures came to my mind: “Ye shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you” (Acts 1:8), and “By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another” (John 13:35). I was satisfied and slept peacefully.
That Monday morning as I was brought from the water, I felt as if I had been on a long, wearisome journey and had at last come home. My own conviction of the authenticity of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has grown since that time. Now I add my testimony to those of faithful Saints throughout the world.

After two years, I was prompted to prepare to serve a mission together with Clint and two other friends. We were glad the announcement lowering the mission age to 18 was given two years ago, and we felt worthy and ready to serve.
I was motivated by one of my goals: to bring my family to the Church and someday be sealed in the temple with them. That is why I went ahead and served a mission despite the many educational opportunities I was getting. There were scholarship offers and family friends offering to sponsor my education, but I decided to put the Lord first and serve Him. Thank goodness my father was supportive of my decision although he has not been baptized yet.
I served in the Philippines Tacloban Mission and fell in love with the people of Tacloban and Samar. My friends and I all learned so much, and though we served in different missions, we supported each other and we all felt the Lord’s watchful gaze upon us.

Are these training sessions effective?
Yes, say the young men and their priesthood leaders. Randy Beddes, a priest from Lovell, Wyoming, remembers that when he was deacons quorum president, he tried to do everything himself—planning all the special activities, making all the arrangements, running the whole program. “But I’ve learned that there’s a better way to do things,” he says. Now, as the bishop’s first assistant in the priest quorum, he makes a lot of assignments to others, giving clear instructions on what is expected, and providing an opportunity for following up. “We get a lot more done” says Randy, “and a lot more priests get involved.”

Among the first to accept the gospel in Tanzania was Robert Israel Muhile. Robert attended his first LDS meeting in Egypt, where he was working and studying. At church, he met a missionary couple who taught him the discussions and baptized him. In May 1991 he was ordained an elder and decided to take the gospel to his family in Tanzania. But when he returned to his village—one thousand miles and three days by bus from Tanzania’s capital, Dar es Salaam—his efforts went without success.

After six months, Robert traveled to Nairobi, Kenya, and secured permission from the mission president to administer the sacrament to himself. “I know how important those emblems are,” Robert says. “I didn’t feel well spiritually.” Back home, Robert continued to invite his family to join him for worship service, and they continued to turn him down. So he held his own service alone. He describes his service simply:

“I prepared water and bread and more water to clean my hands, and a small towel. I sang a song to myself out loud. I had my hymn book. After that, I offered an opening prayer. Because I was alone I didn’t have any business to do, so I sang the sacrament hymn and prepared the sacrament. Then I knelt and blessed and took it. After the sacrament, I covered it, as we respect it always. I offered myself a talk—my testimony. Then I sang as in Sunday School and then read from Gospel Principles. I finished with a prayer. I then attended priesthood. After singing a hymn, I’d have a prayer, then read from the priesthood manual the lesson I had chosen for that day. After that, I finished by singing and then offered the closing prayer.”

After being home two months, Robert received a letter from Lervae and Joyce Cahoon, the first missionaries sent into Tanzania. They requested his services as a translator. He accepted and traveled to Dar es Salaam to join them. While there, he met and married Joy Nassiuma, a convert from Nairobi. In July 1993, Robert and Joy had their marriage sealed in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple.

Elder Kikuchi’s mother struggled to raise her four children after her husband’s death. After graduating from junior high school, Elder Kikuchi went to work in a tofu (bean-curd) shop during the day and attended school at night. He became seriously ill from the exhausting schedule and was hospitalized.
“Though I was not LDS or even a Christian,” Elder Kikuchi said, “I really prayed to God to help me. My recovery was miraculous, and I know that I was cured through the blessings of God and the help of medications.”

My parents often attended meetings after church, and I would watch my three younger brothers and help them make lunch—though they were often short-tempered and hungry. Usually if they started fighting, I could solve the small problem quickly. But sometimes it was hard to make peace once a fight had started because I’d get agitated.
One afternoon, my brothers were having an especially hard time getting along. I found that my efforts to make peace only made things worse because I was upset. So I just made my own lunch and stopped talking. Finally, I announced, “I’m going to pray. Can we please be quiet for a minute?” Once they settled down, I asked for a blessing on the food. Before I closed the prayer, I added, “And please help us to be peacemakers.”
At first, they seemed not to hear and began fighting again. I was annoyed but knew I needed to be as loving and calm as I could be because I’d just prayed for peace. After a minute, I felt very calm. I ate without saying anything, and the boys eventually stopped fighting. I realized the peace I felt was an answer to a simple prayer. I had prayed to be a peacemaker, and my Heavenly Father had helped me stay calm when it was so tempting to yell. I know that He can truly give us peace.

Husbands and wives, learn to listen, and listen to learn from one another. I was amused to read of an experience recorded by Elder F. Burton Howard in his biography of President Marion G. Romney: “His good-humored love for Ida was manifested in many ways. He delighted in telling of her hearing loss. ‘I once went to see a doctor about her hearing,’ he would say. ‘He asked me how bad it was, and I said I didn’t know. He told me to go home and find out. The doctor instructed me to go into a far room and speak to her. Then I should move nearer and nearer until she does hear. Following the doctor’s instructions, I spoke to her from the bedroom while she was in the kitchen—no answer. I moved nearer and spoke again—no answer. So I went right up to the door of the kitchen and said, “Ida, can you hear me?” She responded, “What is it, Marion—I’ve answered you three times.”’”

Why me? Why now? I had just gotten back from competing in a major horse show held in California and was at the height of my hunter-jumper equestrian riding abilities. I was busy with school, piano lessons, and Beehives. I was doing everything I had been taught to do, and I thought that my life was about as perfect as life can ever get. Then it changed.
I was now in a hospital bed, too sick to even open my eyes. I had been diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. My illness came just four years after my mom died from a similar cancer. I was on heavy chemotherapy to get rid of the cancer, and the doctors were saying that I would have to undergo chemotherapy for two and a half years to make sure that all the cancer was gone. I couldn’t understand why me and why now.
I soon learned that being diagnosed with cancer was not the only challenge I would face. One of the drugs used to treat leukemia is a steroid given at extremely high doses. It is very effective at killing the leukemia cells, but there is a small risk that it can result in avascular necrosis (a condition in which bones die near the joints), particularly in teenage girls. My doctors thought that, at 12 years old, I was too young for that to happen. However, within one month of starting chemotherapy, the steroids ended up destroying most of my major joints and parts of my spine. I was living in constant pain. Four months after I was diagnosed with leukemia, I had my first hip surgery to begin trying to repair the damage done by the steroids and to lessen the pain. The surgery did not go as well as I had hoped, and my orthopedic surgeon told me that I would probably never ride a horse again. All of a sudden, the future I had planned was gone.
I was a good student, and I really enjoyed school. Now I couldn’t go to school or even out in public because the chemotherapy had destroyed my immune system. Instead, I stayed home with my stepmother. At this point I thought things were pretty bad, but they got worse.
Six months after my hip surgery, I had to have another hip surgery because the first one hadn’t worked. I was in a wheelchair because it hurt too much to walk. I was absolutely sure that I wasn’t going to ride horses again, and now I was worried if I would even be able to walk again. Living life sick, in constant pain, and confined to a wheelchair didn’t sound like a lot of fun to me.
I was praying to my Heavenly Father, and I know many other people were praying for me also. Through all of my trials, I prayed that I would be healed, that my joints would recover, and that I wouldn’t have to go through the rest of chemotherapy. I felt that my prayers weren’t being answered because I still had to go to Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City every week for more chemotherapy. I still hurt. And I was still stuck in a wheelchair. At one point, I started to think that my parents were crazy for believing in a God who wouldn’t even listen to a poor little sick girl.
Years before, I had gone through a similar trial of my faith when I prayed for my mom to get better. She was on oxygen all the time and was too weak to even walk around the house. I prayed and hoped and prayed some more that she would miraculously be healed. However, she wasn’t. After she died, I learned that we can pray for what we want all that we want to, but we need to pray for the right things—praying that the Lord’s will be done—to have our prayers answered.
Remembering this lesson, I changed my prayers from “Please heal me” to “Heavenly Father, I would really like to be done with these trials, but I will accept Thy will.” As soon as I changed my prayers, I found that I was able to handle the chemotherapy more easily, and I had a better attitude. That was just the beginning of the blessings and the answers to my prayers and questions.
My dad and grandfather gave me many priesthood blessings. Whenever I had to go in for surgery, I would ask for a blessing. The blessings helped me and my family feel calm about the procedure. One time I had a high fever, and we had to go to the hospital. I received a blessing from my dad and a neighbor before we left. By the time we pulled up at the emergency room door, my fever was gone, and I didn’t have to stay the night in the hospital. I know that priesthood power is a gift from a loving Heavenly Father.
One moment that will always stand out in my mind was the day I came home from the hospital after I was diagnosed with leukemia. The young women and Relief Society sisters had moved my stuff from the basement into a room on the main floor so I would be closer to my parents and wouldn’t have to use the stairs. They had cleaned and decorated the room to make a great place for me to live while I was sick. My family was the recipient of many other service projects. In the beginning, it was hard for me to accept service. When people would do service for me, it would make me feel like I couldn’t do anything for myself. However, I soon learned that it was OK to ask for help. When I started feeling better, I began looking for opportunities to serve other people more. Now I try to serve as much as I can. I get a good feeling when I serve other people. I have come to realize that by letting other people serve me, I allow them the same good feelings.
I have learned to think more about the future and my choices because I was so close to death. At school, I heard girls complaining about how they were having a “bad hair day.” As I was sitting there in my hot pink wheelchair with a wig on my head, I would think, “Well at least you have hair!” Girls would also complain about their feet hurting from walking around in high heels. I would think to myself, “At least you can walk.” Now I try to focus more on the big picture instead of the small things I used to worry about.
Over the past few years I have learned many other things through the blessings of having leukemia and the complications from chemotherapy. I have become closer to my Heavenly Father. My testimony has grown. And I have learned what is truly important. I have learned to appreciate all of the small things that people do for me. I am now in remission, in less pain, and gradually getting back some of the use of my joints. As I continue to heal, the blessings and learning experiences keep coming.
So why me? Why now? I don’t ask those questions anymore because I grew spiritually during my trials. I have discovered who I really am because the Lord loved me enough to let me experience adversity and the blessings that can come with it.
Note: Elizabeth is in remission and recently passed her third anniversary of being off chemotherapy. Her joints are healing, and she is no longer in a wheelchair. While there is still a risk for a relapse, Elizabeth doesn’t think about it. Instead, as a freshman in college, she is focused on studying for tests and practicing the oboe and English horn.

Lisa’s family had moved to town two years ago. She was so outgoing and friendly that she soon had become accepted as one of the group, both in high school and in the Church.

But she hadn’t always been the way she was now. In ninth grade, in another town, there had been some problems. She doubted if her parents were even aware of what they were. One night at a party some things had happened that never should have.

For the longest time, she had kept it covered up. Months drifted by. On the surface Lisa was the same as always, but on the inside, she worried that God had not forgiven her. She prayed every day for forgiveness.

But then one day the bishop gave her a birthday interview. She’d been in interviews before and had always managed to avoid talking about the thing which still troubled her. But in this interview, for some reason, her bishop made her aware of a scripture. Maybe she’d heard it before, but for some reason, this time it seemed to be just for her.

“Lisa, would you read this out loud?” the bishop had asked.

She read from the 58th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, verses 42–43 [D&C 58:42–43]: “Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more. By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them.”

The scripture gave her the courage she needed to tell the bishop about what had happened, and with his counsel, she was eventually able to complete the steps of repentance.

And now she knew for certain that the Lord had forgiven her, and she wasn’t weighed down with guilt any longer. She would never forget how wonderful it was to feel all the guilt and shame being lifted off her shoulders, to feel that Father in Heaven had accepted her repentance, and that the atonement of the Savior made it possible for her to be forgiven of the mistake she had made.

After that experience, lessons about the Savior became very important to her, for she knew that she herself owed so much to him for what he had done for her.

Lisa stood up. Nobody in the ward knew about her past. And she would never tell them either because it would serve no purpose. But there was one thing she wanted them to know about.

“I’m grateful that Jesus loved us enough to take upon him our sins and make it possible for us to repent …”

As we sat in sacrament meeting one Sunday morning, our bishop asked the members of our ward to give a more generous fast offering. My husband and I were newlyweds struggling to make ends meet while he completed his education. Shouldn’t wealthy ward members be the ones to increase their fast offerings?
The bishop promised ward members they would experience miracles in their lives if they doubled their fast offerings. Despite my concerns, the Spirit confirmed to me that his promise was true.
Trembling as I wrote our fast offering check the following week, I doubled the amount. “We’re going to starve,” I said to myself as I sealed the envelope.
A few days later as I got into my car to drive to work, the red warning light came on for the oil. I added oil, but it leaked from the engine as quickly as I poured it in. When I called our mechanic, he told me to drive straight to his shop. Holding back tears, I drove a few miles to his repair shop and silently said a prayer.
The mechanic warned that the repair would probably be expensive but had to be done. He also pointed out that it was almost time to replace the car’s timing belt—another expense we couldn’t afford. I left the car at the shop and went to work devastated.
Later, when the mechanic called, he was upbeat and excited. “Of course he is,” I thought. “He’s about to make a ton of money off of us.”
Actually, he called to share an amazing story. As he was working on our car, a friend happened by his auto shop. This friend, who works at a dealership that services my make of car, asked our mechanic what he was working on. When our mechanic explained the problem, his friend said, “Well, you know there’s a recall for that problem. It’s covered by the automaker.”
I couldn’t believe it! Then our mechanic explained that oil had gotten all over the engine, so the automaker would also cover the replacement of the timing belt and other belts!
Tears of gratitude sprang from my eyes as I recognized the blessing we had received from the Lord. I felt overwhelmed by His love and embarrassed by my lack of faith.
I haven’t had perfect faith since this incident a few years ago, but I know that the Lord is acutely aware of our needs and struggles. I know He loves us and wants to help us. I also know that Heavenly Father will test us and not always answer our prayers as quickly as He did in this instance.
Most important, I have a testimony of the blessings we can receive by paying a generous fast offering and of the blessings others receive as a result of our generosity.

Recently I visited the Missionary Training Center at Provo, Utah, where missionaries who have been called to serve throughout the world are devotedly learning the fundamentals of the languages spoken by the people to whom they shall teach and testify.
Vaguely familiar to me were the conversations in Spanish, French, German, and Swedish. Totally foreign to me and perhaps to most of the missionaries were the sounds of Japanese, Chinese, and Finnish. One marvels at the devotion and total concentration of these young men and women as they grapple with the unfamiliar and learn the difficult.
I am told that on occasion when a missionary in training feels that the Spanish he is called upon to master appears overwhelming or just too hard to learn, he is placed during the luncheon break next to missionaries studying the complex languages of the Orient. He listens. Suddenly Spanish becomes not too overpowering, and he eagerly returns to his study.
There is one language, however, that is understood by each missionary: the language of the Spirit. It is not learned from textbooks written by men of letters, nor is it acquired through reading and memorization. The language of the Spirit comes to him who seeks with all his heart to know God and to keep His divine commandments. Proficiency in this language permits one to breach barriers, overcome obstacles, and touch the human heart.
The Apostle Paul, in his second epistle to the Corinthians, urges that we turn from the narrow confinement of the letter of the law and seek the open vista of opportunity which the Spirit provides. I love and cherish Paul’s statement: “The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.” (2 Cor. 3:6.)
In a day of danger or a time of trial, such knowledge, such hope, such understanding bring comfort to the troubled mind and grieving heart. The entire message of the New Testament breathes a spirit of awakening to the human soul. Shadows of despair are dispelled by rays of hope, sorrow yields to joy, and the feeling of being lost in the crowd of life vanishes with the certain knowledge that our Heavenly Father is mindful of each of us.
The Savior provided assurance of this truth when He taught that even a sparrow shall not fall to the ground unnoticed by our Father. He then concluded the beautiful thought by saying, “Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.” (Matt. 10:29–31.)
We live in a complex world with daily challenges. There is a tendency to feel detached—even isolated—from the Giver of every good gift. We worry that we walk alone.
From the bed of pain, from the pillow wet with the tears of loneliness, we are lifted heavenward by that divine assurance and precious promise, “I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.” (Josh. 1:5.)
Such comfort is priceless as we journey along the pathway of mortality, with its many forks and turnings. Rarely is the assurance communicated by a flashing sign or a loud voice. Rather, the language of the Spirit is gentle, quiet, uplifting to the heart and soothing to the soul.
At times, the answers to our questions and the responses to our daily prayers come to us through silent promptings of the Spirit. As William Cowper wrote:
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm. …
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
(Hymns, no. 48.)
We watch. We wait. We listen for that still, small voice. When it speaks, wise men and women obey. We do not postpone following promptings of the Spirit.
To address such a sacred subject, may I refer not to the writings of others, but to the actual experiences of my life. I testify to their truth, for I lived them. I share with you today three cherished examples of what President David O. McKay identified as “heart petals”—the language of the Spirit, the promptings from a heavenly source.
First, the inspiration which attends a call to serve.
Second, the gratitude of God for a life well lived.
Third, the knowledge that we do not walk alone.
Every bishop can testify to the promptings which attend calls to serve in the Church. Frequently the call seems to be not so much for the benefit of those to be taught or led as for the person who is to teach or lead.
As a bishop, I worried about any members who were inactive, not attending, not serving. Such was my thought as I drove down the street where Ben and Emily lived. They were older—even in the twilight period of life. Aches and pains of advancing years caused them to withdraw from activity to the shelter of their home—isolated, detached, shut out from the mainstream of daily life and association.
I felt the unmistakable prompting to park my car and visit Ben and Emily, even though I was on the way to a meeting. It was a sunny weekday afternoon. I approached the door to their home and knocked. Emily answered. When she recognized me, her bishop, she exclaimed, “All day long I have waited for my phone to ring. It has been silent. I hoped that the postman would deliver a letter. He brought only bills. Bishop, how did you know today was my birthday?”
I answered, “God knows, Emily, for He loves you.”
In the quiet of the living room, I said to Ben and Emily, “I don’t know why I was directed here today, but our Heavenly Father knows. Let’s kneel in prayer and ask Him why.” This we did, and the answer came. Emily was asked to sing in the choir—even to provide a solo for the forthcoming ward conference. Ben was asked to speak to the Aaronic Priesthood young men and recount a special experience in his life when his safety was assured by responding to the promptings of the Spirit. She sang. He spoke. Hearts were gladdened by the return to activity of Ben and Emily. They rarely missed a sacrament meeting from that day to the time each was called home. The language of the Spirit had been spoken. It had been heard. It had been understood. Hearts were touched and lives saved.
For my second example I turn to the release of a stake president in Star Valley, Wyoming—even the late E. Francis Winters. He had served faithfully for the lengthy term of twenty-three years. Though modest by nature and circumstance, he had been a perpetual pillar of strength to everyone in the valley. On the day of the stake conference, the building was filled to overflowing. Each heart seemed to be saying a silent thank-you to this noble leader who had given so unselfishly of his life for the benefit of others.
As I stood to speak following the reorganization of the stake presidency, I was prompted to do something I had not done before, nor have I done so since. I stated how long Francis Winters had presided in the stake; then I asked all whom he had blessed or confirmed as children to stand and remain standing. Then I asked all those persons whom President Winters had ordained, set apart, personally counseled, or blessed to please stand. The outcome was electrifying. Every person in the audience rose to his feet. Tears flowed freely—tears which communicated better than could words the gratitude of tender hearts. I turned to President and Sister Winters and said, “We are witnesses today of the prompting of the Spirit. This vast throng reflects not only individual feelings but also the gratitude of God for a life well lived.” No person who was in the congregation that day will forget how he felt when he witnessed the language of the Spirit of the Lord.
Finally, I testify that we do not walk alone.
Stan, a dear friend of mine, was taken seriously ill and rendered partially paralyzed. He had been robust in health, athletic in build, and active in many pursuits. Now he was unable to walk or to stand. His wheelchair was his home. The finest of physicians had cared for him, and the prayers of family and friends had been offered in a spirit of hope and trust. Yet Stan continued to lie in the confinement of his bed at the university hospital. He despaired.
Late one afternoon I was swimming at the Deseret Gym, gazing at the ceiling while backstroking width after width. Silently, but ever so clearly, there came to my mind the thought: “Here you swim almost effortlessly, while your friend Stan languishes in his hospital bed, unable to move.” I felt the prompting: “Get to the hospital and give him a blessing.”
I ceased my swimming, dressed, and hurried to Stan’s room at the hospital. His bed was empty. A nurse said he was in his wheelchair at the swimming pool, preparing for therapy. I hurried to the area, and there was Stan, all alone, at the edge of the deeper portion of the pool. We greeted one another and returned to his room, where a priesthood blessing was provided.
Slowly but surely, strength and movement returned to Stan’s legs. First he could stand on faltering feet. Then he learned once again to walk—step by step. Today one would not know that Stan had lain so close to death and with no hope of recovery.
Frequently Stan speaks in Church meetings and tells of the goodness of the Lord to him. To some he reveals the dark thoughts of depression which engulfed him that afternoon as he sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the pool, sentenced, it seemed, to a life of despair. He tells how he pondered the alternative. It would be so easy to propel the hated wheelchair into the silent water of the deep pool. Life would then be over. But at that precise moment he saw me, his friend. That day Stan learned literally that we do not walk alone. I, too, learned a lesson that day: Never, never, never postpone following a prompting.
As we pursue the journey of life, let us learn the language of the Spirit. May we remember and respond to the Master’s gentle invitation: “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him.” (Rev. 3:20.) This is the language of the Spirit. He spoke it. He taught it. He lived it. May each of us do likewise, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

It so happened a few weeks later that one of the bishops in southern California called me and said, “I understand you’re a student down at Chapman.”

“Yes, sir.”

He said, “Do you suppose you could get one of those other ministers to come and talk about other religions in our special interests group?” I had one in mind—to pay him back.

I invited my friend to come and speak in my ward. We appointed a time. He had to cancel some other very important appointments. In other churches, as you know, the clergy is paid. We don’t think of that, ofttimes. He canceled a presentation he was going to give that week for about one hundred dollars in order to come and speak for punch and cookies at a Mormon function.

We arranged for it, and I picked him up on the appointed night. We drove over to the building where the class was to be held. I got there about fifteen minutes beforehand. Lo and behold, the church was dark. Sound familiar? I wondered if I had the right building. I said, “Wait a minute,” and explained that one of the great Mormon principles of lay leadership is that we move by the Spirit. About twenty-five minutes after the hour, the spirits started to move. Out of the shrubs and the bushes came Latter-day Saints everywhere. The lights went on, and people were starting to flock. I went in with my guest, our guest, and stood in the foyer. Latter-day Saint after Latter-day Saint, not meaning to, passed us. Not one came over to see who we were. I tried to give Mr. Davis another little sermon on Latter-day Saint philosophy. Finally it was time to start, and we were about fifteen minutes late. We moved into the Relief Society room. Somebody picked up a songbook and said, “What song should we sing?” In a very informal way the meeting got underway. Then my friend gave one of the finest lectures on the New Testament I’ve ever heard. He was very sensitive to a Mormon audience and tried not to say anything that would offend. Then we opened it up for questions, and I don’t dare repeat the rest. I’m sure what happened kept my friend from being associated with this Church sooner than he could have. I don’t know. I haven’t analyzed it with him. But I often have wondered—if I were a Presbyterian or a Catholic or a Baptist or an atheist, having experienced those two things—which church would I join? You see, our conduct, our image, our example, brothers and sisters, are great, great missionary tools.

It had just started to rain when seven-year-old Angela stepped into the tent. Her two older brothers, Michael and Mark, were already inside. Mom and Dad had their own tent set up not far away.
“Let’s say our prayers before we get into our sleeping bags,” Michael said.
The three children knelt in prayer. Angela thanked Heavenly Father for her many blessings, and she asked Him to keep them safe from the storm and to help them sleep well.
After her prayer, she slid into her sleeping bag. For a long time all was quiet except for the plomp, plomp, plomp of the rain against the roof of their tent. Then she heard Michael’s voice. “Hey, Angela, wasn’t Mount Rushmore cool?”
“Yes,” she answered with a yawn.
“So were the animals in the park,” said Mark.
“I liked them too,” Angela agreed. She pictured the buffalo calves grazing so close to the road that she could see their eyes watching the slow-moving cars.
Flash! Boooooom!
Angela squeezed her eyes tight. “Go to sleep,” she told herself. “It’s just thunder.” It had rained almost every day that her family had been on vacation. Every time it rained, lightning shot across the sky like hot arrows, and thunder echoed on and on like beating drums.
Flash! Boooooom!
Angela pulled the sleeping bag over her head. “Go to sleep,” she told herself again.
“Mark, are you awake?” Michael whispered into the darkness.
“Hmmm?” Mark’s voice was heavy with sleep.
“Are you awake?”
Flash!
Mark opened his eyes. “I am now,” he said.
Boooom!
“Angela, are you awake?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Angela whimpered. “I’m scared. I want to go to Mom and Dad’s tent.”
“It’s raining too hard,” Michael said. “You’ll get soaking wet. Besides, it’s not safe to go out in the lightning.”
Angela frowned. “But I’m really scared.”
Flash! Flash!
“You don’t need to be scared,” Mark said. “The lightning is really cool! It’s just a bunch of static electricity in the clouds.”
Boooom!
“And the thunder sounds like a big whip!” he added.
Angela shuddered. “I don’t like it!”
Flash! Boooom!
“Well, then think of things that make you happy,” Mark suggested. “That might help.”
Angela closed her eyes and thought about a field of yellow flowers. She imagined herself running down a hill into the field, laughing.
Flash! Boom! Flash! Flash! Booooom!
“It’s not working,” Angela said, shaking. “I’m still scared.”
Suddenly, rain began pelting their tent. Angela scrunched deep within her sleeping bag. What could she do to stop feeling scared? Then a quiet thought entered her mind. “Why don’t we sing?” she shouted, hoping her brothers could hear her above the noise. “My Primary teacher said that singing Primary songs can help us feel better.”
“OK,” Mark said loudly. “What should we sing?”
“How about ‘I Am a Child of God’?” Michael suggested.
Slowly, quietly, Angela started to sing.
“I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here …”
Angela stopped. Her brothers weren’t singing with her. “They must not be able to hear me,” she thought. So she sang louder.
“Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear.”
Her brothers were singing now.
“Lead me, guide me, walk beside me,
Help me find the way.
Teach me all that I must do
To live with him someday.”
(Children’s Songbook, 2–3)
Flash! Boom!
“Now what should we sing?” Angela asked.
“Let’s sing that one again,” Michael said.
Over and over, Angela, Michael, and Mark sang “I Am a Child of God” until the storm passed and peace returned to their tent.
“It worked!” Angela told herself as she snuggled into the warmth of her sleeping bag. “Finally I can go to sleep.” As she closed her eyes, another thought gently filled her mind. “I am a child of God, and I know He will help me find the way.”