Gospel Story Finder

In March 1958, while serving as one of the first missionaries in the West Spanish-American Mission, Elder H. Aldridge Gillespie had an experience that profoundly affected his life. Elder Spencer W. Kimball of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles (1895–1985) had been assigned to formally organize the mission, and the young Elder Gillespie, a newly called second counselor in the mission presidency, was given the opportunity to be his “chauffeur, roommate, and companion” for approximately two weeks.
“Elder Kimball had special spiritual capacities that touched my heart and influenced my opinion of what life should be and how I should live it,” Elder Gillespie recalls. “My concept of what man should be, what families should be, and how people should conduct themselves was greatly amplified in that brief time.”

In a branch with many recent converts, the girls have had several opportunities to fellowship new members and to do missionary work. After Elizabeth had been a stake missionary for about a year and a half, one of her Cambodian friends from elementary school began investigating the Church. Missionaries asked Elizabeth to attend the discussions to support her friend, Phally Chhim. Elizabeth happily agreed, and a few months later Phally was baptized.

I was the "Fourth Period Seminary Class President" one year, which more or less meant that I coordinated the opening exercises each day, asking students to play the piano, lead the singing, offer the prayer, and read a scripture. As it happened, there were two girls in the class who talked loudly throughout the entire period, and they especially liked to mock students who were participating in the devotional. One day, in front of the entire class, I rudely asked the teacher to make them be quiet. Immediately, I knew that what I had done was mean and that I ought to apologize. But I felt they deserved it, so I refused to listen to my conscience.
Days went by, then weeks, and I was constantly troubled by the vague sense that something was wrong. I felt sick. My stomach hurt. I was miserable. I'm not just talking about not feeling the Spirit--like when the Spirit is absent. Jonah's description of the belly of the whale--which he also called the belly of hell--isn't just about being alone. Jonah talks about the water encompassing his soul and the weeds wrapped around his head. He felt awful.
It took Jonah three days and three nights before he was humbled sufficiently to utter the words recorded in Jonah 2:9, "I will sacrifice unto thee with the voice of thanksgiving." Then, in verse 10, the whale "vomited out Jonah upon the dry land." I was a bit more stubborn. I'm sure that a month or more passed before I finally relented and called the girls to apologize. And, after being "vomited" on the beach by that whale, I immediately felt better. A weight was lifted.

Jean and I were once your age. We started college and had the same questions you do: What classes to take, What to major in, Who to date and eventually marry, What about a mission, a job, etc. While your path will be unique to you, the truths we have learned along the way can help you see the most important things.

When I was a student in college the Korean War was still going on and young men were being drafted into the military, so there was a real question of whether I could go on a mission or not. Fortunately the war wound down and I was able to go. As a freshman, I met Jean Sabin from California, on a blind date set up by our sisters. We dated some but when I left on my mission the only agreement we had was that we would write to each other and see how we felt when I returned.

My mission to Tonga was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I loved every thing about it. It was right for me, just as everyone’s mission is, or will be right for him or her. What a joy to know that you are called by a prophet of God to serve where you can best help build His Kingdom.

How I loved helping people come unto Christ and be baptized — and still do. How I loved feeling that I was helping to build God’s Kingdom — and still do.

I loved receiving letters from Jean, but I was so engrossed in my mission that I didn’t think much about “the next step.”

Towards the end of my mission we got caught in a bad storm at sea, our boat was capsized and we were thrown into the ocean. I struggled to get to shore, but was having difficulty. In the midst of this turmoil I was blessed with the assurance that God knew who I was and where I was and what I needed to do next.

At one desperate point I felt Jean’s hand, heard her voice and felt her presence. Thus I was given strength to make it to shore and also to know what I should do when I got home. Sometimes it is in the midst of incredible turmoil that we are able to see so clearly that other concerns just fade away.

I testify that as we sincerely strive to build and strengthen the Kingdom of God, He will always help us see “the next step.”

When I returned from my mission and reconnected with Jean, we both knew it was right and were married in the Los Angeles Temple. Of course we still had many other decisions to make: schooling, a job, a place to live, starting a family — I’m sure you can relate.

I went on with my schooling, our first daughter was born and eventually we returned to my hometown of Idaho Falls just before our second daughter was born and I began my “career” in Real Estate. A year later I was called to serve as bishop of our ward. What a blessing to have a supportive wife! After serving as bishop for 4 ½ years I was called to be the mission president in Tonga. Our fifth daughter was born a few weeks before we left for Tonga.

The Lord took us step by step and eventually we ended up serving as a General Authority and were assigned to live here in Hawaii for the first two years of my call (during which time our eleventh and last child was born).

In all we tried to do, we had as our primary goal: To do what God wanted us to do to help build His Kingdom in the way He wanted us to. We made mistakes, as we all do, but we continued to try.

As we now enter the last part of our mortal sojourn, we know with deeper conviction than ever, that building the Kingdom of God, largely through our family, is not only our greatest duty, but also our greatest source of joy.

Fast forward a little to 2009. I was blessed to study at BYU-Idaho to earn my bachelor’s degree as a part-time student and single mother of two. I was caring for my family while working full-time and taking classes. A few months before graduation, I had a surprise proposal while working in the Financial Aid Office here on campus. It is a beautiful memory for our family, and Rob and I have now been married for almost 10 years!

Let me tell you one little story of a man in Haiti named Alexander Moura. He recorded it for us, so I don’t think he would mind my sharing it with you. This man found a little pamphlet of the Joseph Smith story. He picked it up and read it, and he said that he was electrified. He knew it was true. He can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t know by reading it that it was true. He had tried everything he knew to find meaning in his life, including voodooism, and nothing had helped. But he knew the truth of that little story.

He wrote to the address on the pamphlet and asked for more information. It was a long time coming, but eventually he received some additional literature and a Book of Mormon. He declares that he never closed his eyes from the time he began to read to the time that he finished it. Now try that for a challenge. He had no need to put the test of Moroni 10:4 to work. He knew from the very first words of 1 Nephi that this was the word of God.

At that point he climbed on an airplane and went to Florida to ask for baptism, with his cigarettes still in his pocket. You see, he hadn’t heard about that yet. No one had told him about the Word of Wisdom. As the mission president explained the Word of Wisdom, tithing, and a lot of other things that become stumbling blocks for some other people, he gently moved the wastebasket over and Brother Moura dropped the cigarettes in and never smoked again.

We asked him if this was difficult—a silly question, because this was a man who had smoked four to six packs a day for years and years and years. He averaged about twenty-six cups of coffee in a day, six or seven before he could get to his store and function. He was a frequent drinker of liquor. He answered that he had tried to quit before, many times, but he would get so ill he couldn’t get to the store. There wasn’t any way he could stop. He would try and try, then give it up and go back. But he testifies that with the help of the Lord he never had another craving.

He knows that a miracle happened in his behalf. Just last fall Elder Thomas S. Monson dedicated the land of Haiti, and with Alexander Moura were 155 members of the Church. All from that small beginning. That land has many branches now and people are hearing this great voice of gladness, the good news of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Max rocked back and forth in his chair. His favorite part of Primary was about to start.
“Welcome to singing time,” Sister Rose said. The piano started to play. Max sang along.
Max loved singing time. But his family wasn’t really like the happy families he sang about in Primary. Things were hard at home.
That’s why Max liked Primary so much. He always felt loved and safe when he was there. He felt peace in Primary.
“For our next song, I have a special challenge for you,” said Sister Rose. “As we sing, I want you to think about what it will be like when you are grown up and have a family of your own.”
The piano music started again. The notes were soft and peaceful. Max looked around the room. He could see pictures of Jesus and the temple hanging on the wall.
The other children began to sing. Max started singing too. Mine is a home where every hour is blessed by the strength of priesthood power.
Max closed his eyes and imagined being a dad. He thought of praying with his future family. He imagined singing songs with them, playing games together, and having home evening.
As he sang the last words, Max had a big smile on his face. I can often feel the Savior near when love is spoken here.
Someday Max could have a family like that. Someday he could have a home where he felt peaceful like he did in Primary. Thinking about it made Max feel warm all over.
He raised his hand. “Sister Rose,” Max said, “I think that song is kind of like a recipe. A recipe for a happy family.”
“You’re right,” Sister Rose said. “No family is perfect. But when we try to be like Jesus, we can help our families. We can help make our homes peaceful places.”
Max looked at the picture of the temple on the wall. He knew he could help his family now by being like Jesus. And even though it was far away, he was excited to have his own family. And it made him happy to know that he could be with them forever.
After his mission, Max got married in the temple. Now he always does his best to make his home a place where people can feel loved.

A few months ago, my elders quorum president entrusted me with the responsibility of training a newly ordained 14-year-old teacher in my ward on how to minister. I was proud to be able to teach him everything I had learned in all my many years of service, but it was in fact he who taught me that day!
During this period, I was a little overwhelmed by my responsibilities and it took me a few weeks before I began serving alongside him. Eventually, I made an appointment with the family we wanted to minister to. As we made our way to the family’s home, I seized the opportunity to tell him everything I knew about our responsibilities as priesthood holders. While we were chatting with this family, the mother turned to my young ministering companion and said, “thank you so much for taking care of us these last few weeks, you called us three times to find out how we were doing and today you made us a cake.” I was stunned! My companion had not waited for me to tell him or show him what to do, he simply began to serve. He had acted on his own, out of love for this family, and followed the promptings of the Holy Spirit. He showed me that age is not a barrier to service.
That day he taught me as the Saviour taught, to do with his heart and out of love, without boasting of anything; to do rather than to say.

When I was 18 I was the first in my family to find the restored gospel. After my baptism I began to really understand how the gospel could help my family.
As a result of these feelings, I started to do family history and my love for my ancestors grew as I worked and exercised my faith to find them. My desire to find them was so strong that on several occasions I traveled to my ancestors’ places of origin. Each trip brought new experiences, and my heart was turned to my ancestors (see Mal. 4:5–6).
Some time later I was called to serve as a family history consultant in my ward. My heart began to expand, and I began to love the ancestors of each person in my ward. As I searched parishes, archives, and libraries, I came to better understand the purpose of redeeming the dead.
Once I had my family history computer disk in my hands, I realized that the most important part of the work was still missing. I needed to go to the temple and provide my family beyond the veil with the ordinances that would enable them to be saved and join my family’s generations for eternity.
I was able to go to the temple when I went on my mission to Cochabamba, Bolivia. I began preaching the gospel in October 2000. A few months later my companion and I visited the temple with the youth from the ward where we were serving. I took my disk and was able to provide 599 names for ordinance work.
While I served as witness, my companion baptized the young people on behalf of my ancestors. What great joy I felt. The Spirit was with me, testifying of the truthfulness of what we were doing. I could feel my ancestors’ happiness and gratitude.
But there were other ordinances that still needed to be done. Because there were so many names, I turned them over to the temple. But I kept the names of my great-grandparents and their children, and later that month my companion and I, with the help of other missionaries, performed the work for them.
I am grateful to my Heavenly Father because, although I was far from my country and perhaps thought that I would baptize only the living, I was also able to participate in the work of redeeming the dead.
I am still trying to bring more souls to Christ and encouraging others to seek out their ancestors. I love this work, and I know that it is true and that Jesus Christ lives and loves us.

My senior year in high school was filled with student body responsibilities, classes, activities, and planning for next year at BYU. I felt my senior year was a time for me to evaluate and take stock, to plan for big changes in my life. And all my friends were getting contact lenses.
“It’s a whole new world!” Cheryl confided as we huddled in our band uniforms at the opening football game. “I can see things I never saw before!” I had to admit she looked much prettier, too. Her small Japanese features no longer hid behind the thick glasses she had worn for years.
I pushed my own glasses back up on my nose and considered the possibilities. If Cheryl and Carolyn and Ron and Celia could make the change, why couldn’t I? It couldn’t be all that big a deal.
Or could it? I pondered some more as my regular checkup with the ophthalmologist approached.
“Of course!” he reassured me. He could fit me with contacts. I would have them within two weeks, for a mere $200, including eye exam and fittings during the breaking-in period.
That, of course, was another problem. Two hundred dollars was a lot of money for my family in 1970. I didn’t want to waste it. What if I couldn’t get used to the contacts?
I thought some more as I bicycled home. Daddy’s business hadn’t been going well. On the other hand, I had a good part-time job. Maybe I could offer to pay part of the bill. Maybe I would have to pay for the whole thing. Would it be worth it? I decided it would.
“Absolutely not,” said Daddy. “No daughter of mine is going to wear contact lenses.” I argued that everyone was getting them. I argued that I would pay part of the cost. I argued that I would pay all of it. I argued that I had $200, and more, sitting in the bank at that very minute. I argued that the doctor thought he could correct my vision more accurately with contacts. I argued that my glasses pinched behind my ears. I argued that contacts would give me better grades in school. Daddy was adamant, totally unreasonable. He finally put his foot down and refused to listen any more. “I don’t want you to go through all that,” he said flatly. “No. Don’t ask again.”
I stormed to my room in tears. The fight had bolstered my resolve. Anger had replaced any squeamish fears I had entertained. I would show him! I was 17 years old. I had my own life to live! Nobody was going to have control over me, not while I had $200 of my own money in the bank. I fantasized that I would be beautiful, independent. I would even lose weight, maybe streak my hair. Boys would take me out. I would show that mean, old-fashioned man a thing or two!
The next day I made an appointment for another eye examination.
I felt very shy and embarrassed the day I returned home wearing my new contacts. My eyes seemed different and foreign. The feeling was not unlike the strange tingle I had in my fingertips on the rare occasions when I used nail polish. I felt naked without my glasses, but I was astounded at the clarity of my vision. And in my heart a lurking fear was beginning to grow.
My father was more surprised and curious than shocked and angry. “Please let me see them,” he said. I held out the tiny green disk on the tip of a finger. He stared at it almost reverently. “Is this all there is to it? It’s so tiny. Are you sure you can see with it?”
I felt smug, superior, vindicated.
His next question surprised me. “Didn’t it hurt your eyes when they poured the latex in?” What on earth was he talking about? Nothing of that sort had gone on at all.
“I want to show you something,” he said, beckoning. I followed him upstairs to his room. From the back of his sock drawer, he pulled out a hinged leather case and opened it. On the white velvet lining were two glass balls. No, not balls. I picked one up. Doll teacups, of clear glass, an inch in diameter and an eighth inch thick.
“These are my contact lenses,” Daddy said sadly.
I was horrified. “How could anyone wear those? Why they must cover the whole eyeball!”
“That’s right,” he replied. “I wore them three times.”
My mother peered over my shoulder. “One of the times was on his second date with me,” she said. “His poor eyes watered so much and he was so miserable I made him take them off.”
“They made them by propping my eyelids open with a metal brace and pouring liquid latex over my eyes,” he explained. “The molds were then used for the glass lenses, which fit tightly over the entire eye. It took all my courage to put them in. I didn’t want that to happen to my little girl,” he finished lamely.
Remorse filled my heart. Daddy had only been trying to protect me from the pain he had suffered himself, while I had thought he was being mean and unreasonable. I shuddered as I remembered my misery when the orthodontist had made latex molds of my teeth. Then I thought of the young man, 20 years earlier, who had endured incredible agony for the hope of being freed from the burden of thick, heavy glasses.
Daddy hadn’t realized that times had changed. His actions toward me had been motivated by memories of his earlier experiences. I understood better now the reasons for other restrictions he imposed upon his children. He had once been a young man. Events during those years had shaped his relationship with his family; and the family rules, fair or unfair, were influenced by those experiences.
I knew the remaining months I would spend in Daddy’s household were limited. I would soon begin a new life that would lead me away from home. Very shortly, my parents would not be responsible for my welfare, and I was sorry my new understanding of them had come so late. I wished I had been more considerate and teachable.

When I got back from my mission, I met a beautiful lady named Sandra Joelene Lyon at stake conference. We both attended Idaho State University in Pocatello but lived in Blackfoot. The best part about commuting was that Sandra and I carpooled in the same group. I could tell she was one of God’s precious daughters, and I knew she was the right one for me to marry. One day I sat next to her in the car and said, “You know, you really ought to write your missionary a ‘Dear John’ letter because you know you’re going to marry me anyway.” It wasn’t quite that simple, but after a couple of years we were married.
We got engaged in December, which makes Christmas especially meaningful. Being married for eternity is the greatest gift we could have given each other. My wife is a wonderful blessing as she provides gifts of love to me, our children, their spouses, and our grandchildren. Her love does much to keep our family united.

Amherst Ward, Springfield Massachusetts Stake
My name is Nichole Jewkes, and I am eleven years old. I live in Belchertown, Massachusetts. I am one of only three Latter-day Saints in my middle school. This has been a big change for me because I just recently moved here from Utah. Since not many people in my school know about the Church, I have a great opportunity to do missionary work.
I wear my CTR ring to school every day. People look at my ring and ask what CTR stands for. I always reply, “Choose the right.” And they say, “Cool!” and move on.
One day, my friend Christine noticed my CTR ring and asked what it stands for. I answered, “Choose the right.” Christine said, “Wow! This is so cool!” Then she asked me where I had gotten it. I said that I got it from my church. She asked me how much one costs and if she could buy one. I said that I’d get one for her for free. She acted surprised and said, “Thank you so much.”
I got a CTR ring from my Primary president on Sunday and took it to school on Monday. Christine was very excited and said thank you so many times! She continued to wear it every day and was always telling me how neat it was and how much she loved it.
A few days later, another friend named Julie also noticed my CTR ring. She noticed that Christine had one, too. Julie thought they were neat and asked where we had gotten them. I asked her if she would like one, and she said, “Oh yes, please!”
Now when Julie sometimes says the Lord’s name in vain, she’ll remember and say, “Sorry.” And when older kids swear around me, she’ll say, “Don’t swear around Nichole; she doesn’t like it.” It is nice to know that even though my friends do not belong to our church, they are still trying to choose the right and stand up for me.
I have learned from living here and having many friends who are not LDS that most people are still really good people, trying to do good things with their lives. I hope the CTR rings continue to strengthen Julie and Christine and that I can continue to invite them to church and Church activities. I hope we can all continue to be good missionaries, no matter how old we are.

Eddie’s heart thumped with fear as the small group of Scouts huddled in the cold rain listening to instructions. They were told to fan out and search ravines, thickets, and the narrow creek for an elderly man who had wandered away from a nursing home early the day before.
Why do they call it a search party, Eddie wondered as he listened. A party is fun, but there’s nothing fun about this!
“The man is feeble and may have lost his coat and shoes by now,” the leader continued. “He could be lying somewhere too weak to call out for help. We’re working against time in such wet weather. That’s why we asked your troop to help. Let’s get started!”
The boys quickly fanned out as they had been told to do. At first they were careful to keep each other in sight, but as Eddie moved from side to side searching clumps of shrubs and waist-high weeds, he suddenly found himself alone.
Hiking a rugged trail with a group is fun, he thought as he struggled along, but this is hard work.
Sometimes there was a ditch on his right and a thicket on his left, and Eddie had to search both. With all the zigging and zagging, several holes had been snagged in his poncho, and his clothing felt wet and cold as it clung to his body. His pant legs were caked with mud, and each boot seemed to weigh five pounds.
Finally Eddie sat on a damp log to rest and clean his boots. At first he was just plain tired of the whole thing. Then he began to think about the old man who had been out in the storm for more than twenty-four hours. Suddenly Eddie was ashamed of thinking only about himself and hurrying to get the search over so he could go home where he would be warm and dry.
“I really didn’t look very carefully along the creek back there because of the thorns and mud,” he admitted to himself. Eddie shuddered at the thought that in his hurry he might not have seen the old man lying out in the storm.
Eddie shifted his pack, picked up a heavy stick to use as a staff, and started to backtrack along the slippery rocks that lined both sides of the narrow stream. His legs ached with fatigue as stones slipped and rolled under his muddy boots, but he was grateful for the support they gave his ankles. He wondered if the old man had good shoes or had left the home wearing only light slippers.
Now all the boy could think about was that someone was lost out in the storm. As he rounded a curve, there was a flash of red and his heart began to pound.
Racing on down the creek, he saw a man huddled under a rock ledge on the other side! Eddie’s first thought was to shout for help. But then he realized that, if startled, the man under the ledge might fall and be hurt or try to run away.
Suddenly Eddie remembered the owl hoot signals his troop had learned. Three hoots wouldn’t mean anything to the others, but they would bring one of the Scouts.
Climbing the slippery bank to the trail, Eddie backtracked a few hundred feet and signaled. There was no answer to the first two calls, but when his straining ears caught a faint answering “whoo” after the third call, he walked back to where he could watch the man and give low signals to guide the others to the spot.
The old man rolled over once. Then he sat up and listened to the owl calls.
Soon another mud-streaked Scout appeared in the ravine. Signaling him to remain silent, Eddie hurried down the slope as quietly as he could and explained that he had found the lost man.
“Hurry and bring help,” Eddie said, “but don’t start shouting for help until you’re far enough away so he won’t hear you. We’ll have to be careful not to scare him or he might try to run away.”
When he was alone again, Eddie crossed the creek and started toward the elderly man. Whistling and splashing along in the shallow water, he pretended to be surprised when he saw someone huddled on the overhanging ledge. “Hi!” he called. “Would you like to share my lunch?”
When Eddie took sandwiches and a thermos bottle out of his pack, he saw that hunger and eagerness replaced the fright in the faded blue eyes. But the old man remained silent as he reached out a trembling hand to accept the food and milk. Eddie took a blanket from his pack and draped it around the frail figure.
There was plenty of food, but Eddie had such a lump in his throat that he could hardly choke down even half of a sandwich. All he could think about was how he had almost gone on and left the poor old man.
“I went for a walk and got lost,” the man explained after he had finished eating. Then he pulled the blanket around himself like a tired child and fell asleep.
Almost before he knew it, Eddie was surrounded by other searchers who were eager to help. Soon the men in charge carried the old man away on a stretcher, and Eddie breathed a sigh of relief.
It was still storming and he was wet and cold and tired, but somehow Eddie felt so warm and good that it seemed almost as if the sun were shining!

I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.

Recently I was in Hawaii for a conference. While in our opening meeting, Dr. Debbie Hippolite-Wright, vice president of student development and services at BYU-Hawaii, told a story that she remembers from her youth. It is a story that had a profound impact on her and one that illustrates beautifully the subject that I have addressed today.

Dr. Hippolite-Wright's story takes place in New Zealand. Debbie, as I will now refer to her, is of Maori descent. One of the tribes she is a part of is Ngati Toa, which means "warrior tribe." The other is Ngati Koata. Koata is a woman's name which reflects the esteem and value of women leaders in Maori culture. She is, in her Maori tradition, a "woman warrior."

She tells the story of when she was a child going Christmas shopping. At Christmastime, every child of the family was given 10 cents for each year of their life. This money was to be used to buy Christmas presents for siblings. Because she was 11 years old, Debbie had the grand total of $1.10 to stretch and purchase gifts for her seven siblings. Debbie's parents--her mother a fair-skinned Maori woman with red hair and blue eyes, and her father a Maori with a far darker complexion--split the children into two groups, each taking one group shopping in order to provide an element of surprise for the other group's Christmas morning. Debbie's mother guided her little ones through the local Woolworths department store to shop.

Upon completing their shopping, as Debbie's mother, towing four young children, left the Woolworths, they were confronted by two white men who were obviously drunk. When the two men saw this light-skinned woman leading the obviously darker-looking Maori children out of the store, their prejudice surfaced. After spewing vile profanities at this family, one of the men came up to Debbie's mother and spit right in her face. When 11-year-old Debbie saw this, the "woman warrior" in her took over. She ran toward the drunkard with all of her might, her arm raised, poised to hit him or do what damage she could to the man. Just as she was about to strike, she felt a strong, firm grasp on her arm that stopped her. It was her mother, who quickly led Debbie and her siblings away to safety.

Once Debbie's courageous mother had ensured that her precious little ones were safe, she stopped, wiped the spit from her face, got close to her daughter, and, in a clear, resolute voice, said, "You can always tell when someone has class. Class has nothing to do with how much money one has or about someone's social status; it is how you treat people. Besides that, we are members of the Church of Jesus Christ." In the midst of this frightening experience, she was teaching Debbie and her siblings how to react to difficult situations.

I express thanks to Dr. Hippolite-Wright for allowing me to share this story. It illustrates the wisdom and experience of a woman who has learned to, as the Savior said, "Turn the other cheek."

One evening as night was falling, I was driving with my children when I noticed a boy walking along a lonely road. After passing him, I had a distinct impression I should go back and help him. But worried it could frighten him to have a stranger pull up beside him at night, I continued driving. The strong impression came again with the words in my mind: “Go help that boy!”
I drove back to him and asked, “Do you need some help? I had a feeling I should help you.”
He turned toward us and with tears streaming down his cheeks said, “Would you? I’ve been praying someone would help me.”
His prayer for help was answered with the inspiration that came to me. This experience of receiving such clear direction from the Spirit left an unforgettable imprint that is still in my heart.
And now after 25 years and through a tender mercy, I connected again with this boy for the first time just a few months ago. I discovered that the experience isn’t just my story—it is his story too. Deric Nance is now a father with a family of his own. He too has never forgotten this experience. It helped us lay a foundation of faith that God hears and answers our prayers. Both of us have used it to teach our children that God is watching over us. We are not alone.
On that night, Deric had stayed after school for an activity and had missed the last bus. As a young teenager, he felt confident he could make it home, so he started walking.
An hour and a half had passed as he walked the lonely road. Still miles from home and with no houses in sight, he was scared. In despair, he walked behind a pile of gravel, got on his knees, and asked Heavenly Father for help. Just minutes after Deric returned to the road, I stopped to provide the help he prayed for.
And now these many years later, Deric reflects: “The Lord was mindful of me, a skinny, shortsighted boy. And despite everything else going on in the world, He was aware of my situation and loved me enough to send help. The Lord has answered my prayers many times since that abandoned roadside. His answers aren’t always as immediate and clear, but His awareness of me is just as evident today as it was that lonely night. Whenever the dark shadows of life blanket my world, I know He always has a plan to see me safely home again.”

Photograph of tablet by iStockphoto/Thinkstock
One day my companion and I were leaving an apartment building when we ran into a 19-year-old young woman named Grace.
We said hello, introduced ourselves, and asked if we could discuss our message further. Because she’d just met us, Grace wasn’t willing to give us her phone number. But thinking on our feet, we decided to give her a Mormon.org pass-along card and quickly wrote our Facebook profile names on it.
To our surprise, Grace added us on Facebook and began eagerly asking us questions through Facebook Chat about who we were and what we believed. My companion and I turned these first conversations into discussions of the Restoration. We actually ended up teaching almost all of the Preach My Gospel lessons to her through Facebook, which was unusual even for us. Later we also taught her the lessons in person.
After a few weeks, we invited Grace to participate in a Church meetinghouse tour. We felt the Spirit strongly that day as we used the pictures hanging on the stake center’s walls to teach her the gospel. After the tour, Grace gave us her phone number. We continued to maintain daily contact with her through Facebook, texts, and in-person lessons.
Many members of the ward, including the ward mission leader, fellowshipped Grace, helping her feel like she belonged. One member who accompanied us to the meetinghouse tour helped Grace feel comfortable, came to other lessons, and invited her to watch general conference with us in his home.
Shortly after Grace attended Sunday meetings for the first time, my companion and I felt prompted to invite her to be baptized. She said yes! Because of our daily contacts and invitations, she’d gained a testimony of the Book of Mormon and of living prophets for herself, and she chose to be baptized.
I’m grateful for social media and the support of members—both of which made all the difference in Grace’s conversion.

The little log cabin in Winter Quarters was not quite finished, but Orson Spencer and his six children moved into it anyway. They were anxious to get settled before Father left for England where he had been called by President Brigham Young to publish a newspaper for the Church.
Father had told Ellen, who had just turned 14, and Aurelia, who was 12, that they were to be “little mothers” to the four younger children. The baby, Lucy, was only three years old. Their mother had died soon after the family left Nauvoo, so their father ferried them across the Missouri River and then hurried to build the cabin before he left.
He bought eight cows so there would be plenty of milk to drink and enough to sell. They also owned a horse that was to be sold to buy food.
Two of the girls were just recovering from an illness when late in the fall their father said good-bye to them. Friends in neighboring cabins had agreed to help the children if they were needed.
The winter was long, cold, and lonely. Many people in the little community died. Among them were several friends of the Spencer children.
Aurelia wrote in her diary, “We got through the first part of the winter pretty well but it was uncommon in its severity. Our horse and all our cows but one died. Therefore, we had no milk or butter. Our provisions had also nearly given out so that in the spring and summer following we really suffered for something to eat. Part of the time we had nothing but cornmeal, which was stirred up with water and baked on a griddle. Many a night I went to bed without supper, having to wait until I was hungry enough to eat our poor fare.”
Then one day late in the fall of 1847, President Brigham Young went to visit the Spencer’s one-room log cabin. He found it neat and the children clean. Their father had been gone about a year when the Saints began making preparations to start their move to the mountains in the west the following spring.
The children told President Young that their father wrote often to them, making suggestions as to what they should wear, how to comb their hair, what to do if they became ill, and how to take care of each other. They brought out the last letter they had received. After President Young read it, he told them he had a very important matter for them to think about. He asked, “What would you say if your father stayed in England at least another year? We need him there.”
The children looked at each other and then waited for Ellen to speak since she was the oldest. “If it is thought best,” Ellen said quietly, “we would like it so, for we want to do for the best.”
All the other children agreed. They remembered that Father had once written, “Though He slay us, we should trust in Him, and all will be right.”
They had faith in their father, in his counsel, and in their Father in heaven. And so in the spring of 1848, the Spencer children, with determination and grateful hearts, began their preparations to move west with the Saints.

Some years ago we stopped at a small restaurant. The young woman who served our meal was courteous but very sober. When she handed me the check, I said, “Can you tell us which road we take to get out of town?” Suddenly she burst into tears and said, “Mister, I don’t even know how I got into this town.”
I have wished more than once that we could have gone to a table in the corner and talked. Perhaps we could have helped her.

“Sunrise, sunset—swiftly fly the years. …” (From Fiddler on the Roof, 1964.)
Those lines from the poignant song bring a memory of two friends who, like the father and mother portrayed in Fiddler on the Roof, did not “remember getting older.” The man was about sixty-three and the woman fifty-five. Both were healthy, happy, and employed in work they enjoyed.
One day the man was told he must take an immediate retirement. On the Monday morning the retirement took effect, the husband watched his wife prepare to leave for work. He realized that he would be home alone with nothing to do. He had no occupation, no hobbies, no special interests, and no plans for the future.
As he followed his wife to the door that morning, he exclaimed in anguish, “What’s going to happen to me? What can I do?”
What, indeed, was there for this man to do, who one day was at the peak of his career and the next day was classified among the elderly unemployed? He was left to try to find a new life for himself or to vegetate and die. Sadly I add that within a brief time he did die.