Gospel Story Finder

I know that the gospel is real and that prayers are answered. I graduated from high school and enlisted in the navy in the middle of World War II. I was on board a ship that was part of a large group of ships. Kamikaze pilots were trying to destroy my ship and others by crashing their airplanes into the ships. My grandson Adam once asked me what I did at such times of extreme danger. There was no place to run or hide. “All I could do was pray,” I told him. “That was a good thing to do,” he answered.

One such experience occurred late one evening during a busy holiday season. I was hurriedly searching for a scripture to strengthen my sacrament meeting talk the following Sunday. My mind was crowded with concerns about arriving relatives, unfinished holiday preparations, and the chaotic state of my house. I wondered why I had ever said yes to the bishop at such a hectic time. After a long, fruitless search, at last I came upon the eleventh chapter of 1 Nephi, which details Nephi’s remarkable vision of the Savior’s birth and earthly mission. Somehow the full impact of this vision had escaped me in earlier readings, but tonight the meaning of those words struck me forcefully. Nephi wrote joyfully:
“And the angel said unto me: Behold the Lamb of God, yea, even the Son of the Eternal Father! Knowest thou the meaning of the tree which thy father saw?
“And I answered him, saying: Yea, it is the love of God, which sheddeth itself abroad in the hearts of the children of men; wherefore, it is the most desirable above all things.
“And he spake unto me, saying: Yea, and the most joyous to the soul.” (1 Ne. 11:21–23; italics added.)
The words seemed like a newly discovered treasure. For the first time, the meaning of Lehi’s white-fruited tree was entirely clear. The fruit which tasted so exquisitely sweet represented the irresistibly sweet love of God. I had found the theme for my talk—and the strength to get through the next demanding days, as well. Pressures could mount and cash registers jingle; no matter. My heart had once again been warmed and strengthened by God’s love.
Yet the most lasting impact of that frantic late-evening search was the awakening of a precious memory: my own personal discovery of God’s love.

Emily had just returned from a choir tour with BYU–Idaho’s Vocal Union and was planning on spending some time at home in Colorado. “During the trip I just didn’t feel myself,” Emily says. “I was so thirsty. I was drinking at least 20 glasses of water every day, and I was wondering what was wrong. After I was hospitalized, they gave me insulin, and I thought, ‘I’m myself again!’”
Emily’s optimism, along with her family and new husband, has helped to keep her going. “I really try to focus on what I can eat rather than what I can’t, and then I’m fine,” she says.
“After I got home from the hospital I was so grateful not to be thirsty anymore,” Emily says. “Then I thought about Christ and how He is the Living Water. I realized that there are so many people who are so thirsty that they drink and drink, but it goes right through them. And I was so grateful to know that I have the living waters.”

Dale McCullers was an off-season social worker at a Florida boys’ ranch and a professional gridder for the Baltimore Colts the rest of the year. An All-American college linebacker, Dale had helped pull the Colts to victory in the Super Bowl.
Needing a used truck for his summer work, he was sent by a friend to a nearby auto lot where he spotted a truck he liked. He went to ask a salesman about it. Morris Poole glanced toward the truck Dale was pointing at and then looked squarely into the eyes of the linebacker who was planted in front of him.
“Now forget about the truck for a moment. I want to tell you about an angel named Moroni.”
Dale had intercepted many a pass but never one like that.
“I’m no biblical scholar, but I’ve never heard of such an angel.”
Dale drove away in a rebuilt 1949 truck, wondering if there was anything at all to the salesman’s story of Joseph Smith.
A believer in “customer service,” Brother Poole soon introduced Dale to the missionaries. Finishing the discussions took some persistence by Brother Poole and the elders. By his own admission Dale had some trouble accepting the fact that a used car salesman, a 19-year-old from an unknown city in Utah, and a Yankee from New York really had something important to say.
Dale and his wife Nell listened to the discussions during the following eight weeks. Shortly after, Dale was baptized by Brother Poole. Bearing his testimony after his baptism, Dale said, “All the excitement and glamour of playing ball seem insignificant next to finding the truth of the gospel.”
Morris went back to his car lot, grateful he’d had the courage to sell more than a 1949 used truck. Today Brother McCullers is president of the Live Oak Branch in the Tallahassee Florida Stake.

The last of the rain that had let up an hour ago ran down the gutters, carrying leaves, papers, and other debris along with it. The air smelled clean and fresh, but Ian Rollins didn’t notice it as he drove slowly along the empty streets. Neither did he notice the distorted reflection of neon lights in the puddles on the ground as dusk came on, or the rising moon peeking through storm clouds. He just drove, not paying any more attention to where he was going than to the post-rainstorm outdoors. His thoughts and concentration were wrapped up deeply in more pressing matters.
Driving was what he did when he needed time to think, and this October night, there was plenty for him to think about. His birthday was coming up in a couple of months, his 19th birthday, to be exact. And something he had not thought about in a long time, had put off thinking about, had suddenly appeared—going on a mission.
His parents certainly wanted him to go. Their comments and questions about what he thought of a mission had become more and more frequent until, that evening at dinner, he informed them that they might as well stop bugging him about it because he didn’t know if he even wanted to go. “Why?” they had asked, as he knew they would. And the worst part about it was that he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know himself. The best way he could put it to himself was that he didn’t want to think about a mission, and that meant it wasn’t for him.
On another level, though, another thought would surface briefly. Maybe it was really skepticism that kept him from wanting a mission. It was hard for him to believe the returned missionaries who said a mission was the best two years of their life. Maybe there were better things to do with his time. No matter how he tried to explain it to himself, though, he always got a feeling of emptiness and misdirection when he put thoughts of a mission away.
Tonight Ian was determined to convince himself one way or another by thinking out the pros and cons while he drove. He continued to wrestle with his thoughts as he absently turned right onto a dark side street. Then something caught his attention and he looked around.
Most of the lights on the street were out, but one neon sign glowed blue light into the darkness. “Hats,” it said, and the sign underneath it in the window said “Open.” Ian had never seen this small shop before, and with a bit of curiosity that surprised him, he parked his car and crossed the street to go in.
Inside, he was confronted with what seemed like a mountain of hats, all shapes and sizes. Hats were piled on tables, stacked three or four deep on plaster mannequin heads, hanging from hooks on the walls the whole length of the shop. For such a small business they were well stocked, but that made it look more like a rummage sale than a hat boutique. Even the counter where the cash register sat had hats scattered on it. On the wall behind the counter was a sign that simply said, “We’ve got what you need.”
I doubt that, Ian thought sarcastically to himself. You don’t even know what I need. He was still curious about the place, though, so he began to browse.
The first thing he found was a score of baseball caps advertising various musical groups. He picked out one from a group he liked and took it to a nearby mirror to try it on. He stuck it on his head, and suddenly a strange thing happened. He was no longer in a quiet little hat shop. He began to hear a great roar, and the temperature in the room got hotter, and abruptly he saw a crowd of people bathed in glaring lights. Then he realized he was in an arena, and he was there to sing to all those people. He was the lead singer of the group, ready to step up to a microphone and belt out the lyrics to a top-ten hit. All the same, he knew he was still Ian Rollins, with the same indecisiveness plaguing him. That didn’t change, no matter how vivid this illusion was. He pulled the hat off, and slowly the image faded and he was back in the shop.
No hat had ever had that effect on him. He stared at it, trying to see what had made it do that, but in his hands it looked and felt as normal as any other hat. He was still contemplating this when a voice from behind startled him.
“Need any help?”
Ian turned, and behind the counter was an old man with curly white hair and a gray mustache. He was dressed in a white shirt and gray vest that struck Ian as old-fashioned for some reason. He peered at Ian through round, wire-rimmed spectacles.
“No, thanks,” Ian said, “I’m just looking.” The old man nodded. “How late are you open?” Ian asked.
“As late as we need to be,” the old man answered. “It varies from time to time.”
Ian turned back to the hats, shrugging off the strange answer the man had given. The next hat he tried on was a dusty old top hat. As soon as it was on, the cluttered shop became a spacious ballroom, and he was dressed in a tuxedo and shiny, black shoes as well as the hat. His arm was linked in the arm of a beautiful young woman. Her hair and clothing were styled in a way he had seen in old movies and in the pictures of his grandparents when they were young. The orchestra struck up a waltz, and the woman smiled at him as he led her onto the dance floor. But Ian still felt hollow and confused, and he removed the hat. Immediately he came back to the real world.
It had done it again! When the illusion was happening, it all seemed perfectly normal, but when he took the hat off and reality came rushing back, he realized that he had been dreaming or something. He looked at the old man, who was still behind the counter. He didn’t act like anything strange had occurred. He was sitting there, reading a book. Ian almost asked, “Did you see that?” then thought better of it. He didn’t want anyone thinking there was something wrong with him.
This is all very nice, Ian thought. But I still haven’t figured anything out, and it’s getting late. Even so, he decided to try on one more hat, just to see what it would do. After looking around a bit, he found an old, brown derby. Ian didn’t think very much could be interesting about such a nondescript hat, but he put it on anyway.
Before he even saw anything, he was suddenly very hungry, and his feet hurt like they did when he went on Boy Scout hikes. Then he saw where he was, on a dirt road lined with trees that were laden with leaves colored by autumn. A cool breeze made an occasional leaf float to the ground. He was walking down this road, and alongside him was another man slightly taller than he, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a briefcase. Ian himself was carrying a Bible and a Book of Mormon bound by a leather strap. Suddenly, he heard himself say, “Do you think they’ll put us up tonight?”
The other man answered, “I don’t know, Elder. They don’t have much. You know that the father was killed last year at Belleau Wood, and they’ve been struggling ever since. We may have to go on to the next house after we talk to them, and ask for board there.”
Ian sighed. The next house was two more miles away, and he’d been walking all day on the oatmeal he’d had for breakfast. His feet hurt, but at the same time he was happy, because they were finally going to see the Kilminsters, with whom they’d been trying to make an appointment for weeks. Now that they’d consented to see the missionaries …
Ian stopped walking. He knew where he was this time. He was on a mission in a rural area around the end of World War I, a time when missionaries had no cars, no bikes, no apartments, no money. They walked to their contacts and took food and bed where they could get it. In spite of all that, Ian felt no sense of hardship or deprivation. He only felt calm and peaceful, as he knew he was in the right place. It was a good feeling, and it did not diminish with the visual imagery as he took the derby off. It replaced the confusion that had filled him. Tears came to his eyes as he stared at the hat without really seeing it. It was selfish of him to think that he couldn’t go on a mission today and reap rewards as great as those who went years and years before, fighting personal hardship to bring the gospel to God’s children. Ian knew now what he wanted. He took the hat over to the counter.
“How much is this?” he asked the man.
“Five dollars,” he answered. “Bit dated, ain’t it? Nobody wears ’em anymore.”
“I don’t know that I’ll wear it, but I kind of like it.” Ian paid for the hat, and the old man put it in a box. Ian hurried out to his car, eager to get home and talk to his parents.
The old man watched him through the window as his car pulled away. Then, with a smile, he turned the sign to “Closed” and flipped off the lights.

The last week with Stevo in our house passed quickly. The Saturday morning it was time for him to leave you’d have thought someone died. Tim said he was losing his best friend, and Mom dabbed her eyes and said it felt just like when Rodney went away to college, even though he was going only a few miles to his next host family.

As I drove Stevo to his new home, I realized there was something I wanted to say to him. I had been a jerk. Selfish. My own little room, my kingdom, where I could shut the world out and indulge in self-pity, had been so important. So important I almost shut out something that on some level seemed more important than I knew how to explain. I glanced over at Stevo. His large nose pointed straight ahead, serene, knowing exactly where he was going as he continued his journey through life.

I made my decision. I pulled over to the curb and parked under the bough of a large chestnut tree.

“Something is wrong, Matt?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I have a confession to make.” I took a deep breath. “I didn’t like you at all when you came to live with us. And the first time I saw you I didn’t know what I was going to do with you for the next month. You seemed like trouble and a bother. I didn’t even try to hide it. I’m sorry. I was wrong, and I’m going to miss you and our talks.”

“I will miss our talks too, Matt.”

“Stevo, you have something. People always seem to want to be around you. Why? What is your secret?”

“I don’t know any secret, Matt. All I know is from the time I was tiny my mother told me often that if I treated other people as important as I wanted to be treated, then things would always work out. When we found the Church and discovered Christ, it was easy to see that all children of God deserve to be loved.”

“Even people who are trying to kill you?” I asked.

“Them especially. Easy to love those who treat us nice, my father says. Best part is to love those who hate us. That doesn’t mean we try to put ourselves in a place where they can hurt us. We try to understand so we don’t hate them back.”

Then I said, “I wish I had something to remember you by, Stevo. When I am with you, you make me want to be better. I want to change.”

“Matt, can I give you a gift?”

“I guess so.”

Stevo reached into his flight bag and pulled out the Book of Mormon he read nearly every night. He opened it and wrote in it.

I took the book and read what it said. To my best American friend, Matt: To want to change is the first step to be better. This book makes me want change to every day. Perhaps it can do the same for you. Your friend, Stevo.

I set the book down on the seat, put the car in gear, and headed down the street. We drove in silence. When we arrived at our destination, Stevo’s new host family was out front waiting. I helped him with his bags and then did something I had never done before in my life. I gave a guy a hug. Stevo was out of my room, but I knew he would never be out of my life.

I keep Stevo’s book by my bed and read from it often. Mom and Dad wonder why I treat everyone around here better. I even invited Tim to move in with me.

What shocked everyone most, though, was one Sunday several weeks ago I told them I wanted to go to church with Stevo before he returned to his home. That was, however, only part of the truth. The place Stevo goes every Sunday has a spirit of change, and that’s what I want to do. When I grow up, I want to be like Stevo.

When I moved to Utah, I was instantly greeted by Jenny. She welcomed me to the ward and introduced me to others in the room. Jenny radiated love for others.
Each week, she searched for those who were a bit lost at church. They would be quiet, often sitting in the back or in a corner in meetings. She hugged each one and engaged them in conversation. It didn’t matter who they were—no one escaped Jenny’s embrace. She glowed with Christlike love and acceptance.
Elder Patrick Kearon of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described what can happen when we minister out of love: “We will serve not because our service is being counted and measured but because we love our Father in Heaven and are motivated by a higher and nobler pursuit—helping our friends find and stay on the path home to Him. We are loving and serving our neighbors as Jesus would if He were in our place, truly trying to improve people’s lives and lighten their burdens.”
President Jeffrey R. Holland, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, spoke of the “poor in spirit” who struggle and shared his deep testimony of the power of Christ’s love: “There can and will be plenty of difficulties in life. Nevertheless, the soul that comes unto Christ, who knows His voice and strives to do as He did, finds a strength, as the hymn says, ‘beyond [his] own’ [“Lord, I Would Follow Thee,” Hymns, no. 220]. The Savior reminds us that He has ‘graven [us] upon the palms of [His] hands’ [1 Nephi 21:16]. … When He says to the poor in spirit, ‘Come unto me,’ He means He knows the way out and He knows the way up. … He knows the way because He is the way.”
Each of us can share Christ’s love with those around us who are feeling “poor in spirit.” From testifying to encouraging to simply wrapping our arms around them and saying, “Jesus loves you!,” we can find many ways to share His love with those who desperately need reminding.
Each of us can invite others, say hello to them, pray for them, search for them, and share Christ’s love with those who struggle. This work of ministering can unite us all with bonds of charity as we do Christ’s work among our brothers and sisters.
The author lives in Utah.

When I joined the Church, I attended a small branch in the Philippines where the members were very close and worked in unity.
Gradually, the branch grew and prospered. New chairs came, then a new sacrament table. Then we moved to a spacious apartment and even had a new organ. Three years later, some land was purchased for our future meetinghouse.
During this period of growth, the unity of our branch was occasionally tested. After some particularly hurtful gossip reached me, I decided to leave the Church. For the next six Sundays I did not attend any meetings, although I wished I were there. I especially wanted to partake of the sacrament and renew my covenants.
One day I knelt in prayer and asked for strength, courage, and enlightenment. Still on my knees, I caught sight of a book on the floor. I picked up a dusty and neglected volume of scripture and began paging through it, hoping to find some lines that would ease my pain. I stopped at D&C 136:29–30: “If thou art sorrowful, call on the Lord thy God with supplication, that your souls may be joyful. Fear not thine enemies.”
After reading the verses, I felt lighter in spirit, and my courage returned. I would go back to church.
But the next Sunday, as I neared the meetinghouse, I felt apprehensive. Would they welcome me again? Would I hear whispering behind my back? Or would they ignore me altogether? My feet dragged the closer I got to the door.
Then I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder, and before I could turn around, an arm encircled me in a tender embrace. Then another hand reached out to clasp mine. Other friends burst from the door with warm smiles, each one expressing joy for my return.
As we sang the opening hymn, “Though Deepening Trials” (Hymns, number 122), a feeling of peace filled me, and the feelings of hurt and resentment melted away. Warm tears blurred my vision, and I could no longer see the words in the hymnbook. I closed my eyes tightly and gratefully whispered, “Father, thanks for leading me back to the fold.”

Aaron burst through the front door after school and ran straight upstairs to his bedroom. He began searching for something while his little brother Jared curiously watched.
“Where are you? Where are you?” Aaron mumbled to himself.
“What are you looking for?” Jared asked.
“I’m looking for …” Then Aaron spied the very thing he needed up on the corner shelf in his closet, next to his scriptures. “Here it is!” Aaron exclaimed as he reached up and plucked his journal from its hiding place.
Aaron’s mind was buzzing with thoughts from his day. He wanted to begin writing as soon as possible so he wouldn’t forget about all the things he had heard and seen. He sat at the desk and carefully opened his journal to a blank page. He began to write.
Jared watched his big brother, wondering why he was so determined to write in that book. “What are you doing?” he asked. Aaron continued to concentrate on his journal. He wrote down the date, time, where he was, and how he was feeling. Jared became impatient and asked again, “What are you writing in that book?”
Aaron stopped writing and turned to Jared. “I’m almost finished,” he said. “Then I promise I’ll tell you what I’m doing, OK?” Jared nodded and sat patiently on his bed.
After writing some more, Aaron finally closed the book. Then he grabbed his scriptures and carried them with his journal to where Jared was sitting.
Aaron held up the Book of Mormon. “This book is kind of like a journal,” Aaron explained to his little brother. “It’s written by prophets and tells what they did and taught.”
Aaron told Jared about some of the stories he remembered reading and learning about in Primary: the Lord teaching Nephi to build a ship, the brave Lamanite Samuel standing on the wall to preach, Jesus Christ coming to the Americas and teaching the little children.
“Mormon and his son Moroni finally finished writing their people’s history on gold plates. Then Moroni hid the plates as God had commanded,” Aaron said. “The Book of Mormon was left for us to read today. Someday, someone in our family will read my journal too.” He smiled. “My journal is not scripture, but it will tell about all the important things that happened in my life and about the people I love, like you, Jared. It will be my testimony of the love Heavenly Father has for me.”
Jared thought about what Aaron had told him, then sprang off the bed and ran out of the room. He soon returned with a piece of paper and some crayons. He began coloring. Now Aaron was curious. “What are you doing?”
“I’m almost done,” Jared said. This time Aaron waited patiently. Jared put down his crayons and lifted up the paper for Aaron to see. He had drawn a picture of himself and his big brother. And he had drawn a journal and a Book of Mormon in Aaron’s hands. “I’m writing my journal now!” Jared said. “This is where I put down the time, the date, and where I was.” Then Jared pointed to the cartoonlike picture he had drawn of his big brother. “And this is where I put the person I love.”
At that moment Jared remembered he had forgotten something. He reached for a bright yellow crayon and drew a big smiley face on the top of his paper. “And this is how I am feeling inside!”

After six years of work in Salt Lake City, Joseph was called to the Swiss-German mission and departed in October 1911. Upon arriving in Zurich, Switzerland, he was overwhelmed at the task that faced him. “I was really quite concerned when I saw those big German sentences across the tops of the shops and so forth,” he recalls. “I wondered how I would ever learn that language.” But he absorbed German rapidly, thanks to “the gift of tongues”—along with much prayer, hard work, tracting, and studying. His companion taught him to speak a new sentence every day: first he learned to say, “Bitte lesen Sie dieses” (Please read this) as he handed tracts to German families. “I had more investigators come out to meetings before I could learn the language than afterwards, I think,” he reflected.

Janet: We often don’t realize the positive influence we can have on others, or how even simple acts of kindness can cheer another’s day. Let me tell you of an incident that happened in our home several years ago. To set the stage, it had been a long, hard day. The keys were locked in the car, the washer overflowed, the baby had colic, the dog had thrown up on the carpet, our two-year-old had flushed her shoe down the toilet, and Rex called to say he would be late for dinner. Finding the only safe sanctuary a frazzled mother has, I closed the bathroom door behind me to cry for a minute. I thought it was a silent cry, but in no time at all a piece of red construction paper came sliding under the door. I picked it up and there, in bright blue marker, was a smiley face drawn by a perceptive eight-year-old. I couldn’t help but smile, dry my tears, and reenter my wonderful, yet sometimes hectic world. How often a small gesture of hope, encouragement, and humor can cheer a day of discouragement.

I stood with my face pressed against the window, trying to see the shed next to our house. For three days, the whirling, howling wind had threatened to blow our house down. We were in the middle of a big blizzard. My family was living in Wisdom, Montana, where Dad was working on a large cattle ranch. He said I was his best cowhand, aside from Mom, of course.
“Danny, it’s time to go feed the cows,” Mom called as she walked into the room carrying my two-year-old sister Brenda. My other sister, June, trailed behind.
We bundled up in our coats, hats, and gloves, and climbed into the red pickup. “We should have a truck with four-wheel-drive in these conditions,” Dad said, shaking his head. Mom looked at Dad with concern. But she knew that the cattle must be fed, even in a fierce storm like this.
The raging wind yanked the truck from side to side as we drove to the haystack. A frozen snowdrift completely covered the fence. It was frozen so hard that the cows could walk right over it and eat the hay.
When Dad opened the truck door and jumped out, a cold blast of wind made us huddle in our coats. It took Dad a long time to dig the tractor out of the snow and load it with hay. It took even longer to move the hay to where the cows could eat it. The wind kept blowing it away.
Finally the cattle were fed, and we headed for home. The wind had picked up speed and was blowing snow from the open fields all around us, surrounding us with white. Snow had also blown across the road, creating huge snowdrifts. Dad had to speed up before each snowdrift. Without a running start, the truck couldn’t make it through them. It seemed like it took forever just to go a short distance.
About the time Mom said we were a mile from home, we hit a drift that stopped us in our tracks. Dad and Mom worked for some time to dig us out, but we stayed stuck. They climbed back into the truck and Dad thought for a moment.
“Danny,” he said, “you and I will walk to the house and come back for Mom and the girls on the snowmobiles.”
“Good idea, Dad!” I exclaimed. Excitement welled up inside me. I loved riding the snowmobiles! I slid out of the truck and walked in Dad’s footprints through the snowdrifts toward home. Even though the wind threatened to knock me down, and the snow blowing against my face felt like bundles of knives skinning me, I still felt like I was having a great adventure with Dad.
Anticipation kept my feet going until we arrived at the shed with the snowmobiles. I looked up at Dad. “Can I ride up over the hill?” I asked. “I’ll stay alongside the road and then go on down to the truck.”
“No, Son. Please stay on the road,” Dad said without hesitation. He turned and looked right at me. “Blizzards are very dangerous, Danny. You need to stay on the road and go straight to the truck. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dad.”
He started a snowmobile for me. “Can I go now?” I asked.
“OK, but remember to stay on the road. It will guide you back to the truck.”
I climbed on the snowmobile and headed out. “I’ll go over the hill. It will be faster. I can beat Dad back to the truck,” I thought once I was out of Dad’s sight. I quickly turned and drove up the hill. The wind swirled around me and I was having trouble seeing very far ahead. But I was having fun. Surely I could beat Dad to the truck.
I rode and rode in what I thought was the right direction. No truck. I rode further. Still no truck. Fear started to creep up inside me. “I should be to the truck by now.” I came to a large ravine, stopped, and looked around, trying to recognize my surroundings.
“Where am I?” This wasn’t fun anymore. My glorious adventure was gone, and I was freezing! The wind yanked at me. It was so loud I couldn’t think.
I was lost and plain scared. “What can I do?” I remembered Dad’s words and how I had disobeyed him. I closed my eyes tight, trying to hold back the tears. Suddenly I realized I could die in this blizzard!
“Oh please, someone help me.” My words were scattered by the wind just as the hay had been.
Then I felt a warm, tingling feeling spread over me like a blanket. I knew what I needed to do. I quickly climbed off the snowmobile and knelt beside it to offer a simple prayer. “Heavenly Father,” I said, “I’m lost. I’m sorry I disobeyed Dad. Please help me get home.”
As soon as I finished my prayer, a feeling inside me said, “Look up.” I looked up and saw the power lines. This was the way home and an answer to my prayer!
I hopped back on my snowmobile and carefully followed the power lines back to the house. Leaving my snowmobile running, I ran inside to see if Dad had made it back with Mom and the girls. No one was there. I turned and ran back outside, jumped on the snowmobile, and started for the truck, this time following the road. But I only made it a few yards when the snowmobile ran out of gas. I was so cold! I ran back inside and curled up in a sleeping bag to warm up.
Moments later, Dad, Mom, and my sisters arrived home on the other snowmobile.
“Danny!” Mom exclaimed as she rushed in, pulled me to her, and held me tight. “What happened? Why didn’t you make it to the truck?”
I looked up into her eyes and told the truth: I had disobeyed Dad and gotten lost. “Mom, I know Heavenly Father loves me because I made it home safe again. He answered my prayer today.”

The first time I heard my big brother Allan play the piano in sacrament meeting, I wanted to do the same thing. It became one of my Children and Youth goals to play a hymn in sacrament meeting.
Since then, I’ve been studying piano with my uncle Ken. Each day I try to practice for at least 30 minutes. After 10 months, I was able to play the hymn “Joseph Smith’s First Prayer” (Hymns, no. 26).
Then came COVID-19. Church leaders canceled Sunday meetings. They said we should have church at home. Mom and Dad gave us each an assignment. They asked me to play the opening song, and I played “Joseph Smith’s First Prayer.” I was able to accomplish my goal of playing a hymn in sacrament meeting! I could feel the Spirit in our home.

From the moment of his conversion, John Taylor was committed to giving his all to the Lord’s work. Through his decades of service, he placed his trust in the Lord, knowing that if he served faithfully, the Lord would sustain him and enable him to accomplish His will. On one occasion when Elder Taylor was preaching the gospel on the Isle of Man near England, he had arranged for the printing of some tracts he had written in response to the false accusations against the Church and the Prophet Joseph Smith. However, the printer refused to deliver the tracts until he was paid in full. Anxious to distribute the tracts as soon as possible, Elder Taylor prayed to the Lord for help, which was soon given.

A few minutes after his prayer was offered, a young man came to the door, and upon being invited to enter handed Elder Taylor an envelope and walked out. The young man was unknown to him. The envelope contained some money and a little note which read: ‘The laborer is worthy of his hire,’ and no signature was placed thereon. A few minutes later a poor woman engaged as a fish vendor came to the house and offered a little money to assist him in his ministerial labors. He told her there was plenty of money in the world and he did not wish to take her money. She insisted that the Lord would bless her the more and she would be happier if he would accept, whereupon he received the offering, and to his surprise the poor woman’s mite, added to what the young man had given him, made exactly the amount sufficient to pay the printer the balance due him (Andrew Jenson, Latter-day Saint Biographical Encyclopedia, 4 vols. (1901-36), 1:16).

Recently I read of an experience that touched me deeply. It took place at the USA Masters Track and Field National Championship—a competition for seniors.
One of the participants in the 1,500-meter event was 100-year-old Orville Rogers. The author writes:
“When the starter pistol fired, the runners took off, with Orville settling immediately into last place, where he remained alone for the entire race, shuffling along very slowly. [When] the last runner besides Orville finished, Orville still had two and a half laps to go. Nearly 3,000 spectators sat quietly watching him slowly make his way around the track—completely, silently, and uncomfortably alone.
“[But] when he began his final lap, the crowd rose to their feet, cheering and applauding. By the time he hit the homestretch, the crowd was roaring. With the cheering encouragement of thousands of spectators, Orville called on his last reserves of energy. The crowd erupted with delight as he crossed the finish line and was embraced by his competitors. Orville humbly and gratefully waved to the crowd and walked off the track with his new friends.”
This was Orville’s fifth race of the competition, and in each of the other events, he had also taken last place. Some might have been tempted to judge Orville, thinking that he shouldn’t have even competed at his age—that he didn’t belong on the track because he greatly prolonged his events for everyone else.
But even though he always finished last, Orville broke five world records that day. No one watching him race would have believed that possible, but neither the spectators nor his competitors were the judges. Orville didn’t break any rules, and the officials didn’t lower any standards. He ran the same race and fulfilled the same requirements as all the other competitors. But his degree of difficulty—in this case, his age and limited physical capacity—was factored in by placing him in the 100-plus age division. And in that division, he broke five world records.
Just as it took Orville great courage to step out on that track each time, it also takes great courage for some of our sisters and brothers to step into the arena of life every day, knowing they may be judged unfairly even though they’re doing the best they can against daunting odds to follow the Savior and honor their covenants with Him.
On the last lap of the race, the crowd overwhelmingly cheered Orville on, giving him the strength to keep going. It didn’t matter that he finished last. For the participants and the crowd, this was about far more than a competition. In many ways, this was a beautiful example of the Savior’s love in action. When Orville finished, they all rejoiced together.

1) When I went on my mission to Switzerland in 1950, I had studied the German language in both high school and university for a total of three years. I thought I was well prepared to be a missionary, even though at that time I had not read all of the Book of Mormon. But when I heard the everyday language of the Swiss people and their dialect forms, I was overwhelmed. It became very difficult to apply what I had learned. My companion and I read aloud to each other for an hour each morning from the Max Zimmer German translation of the Book of Mormon, which was written in the old German script. It was difficult at first, but through that reading of the Book of Mormon in German, the rhythm and flow of the language came easier for me and I was soon able to better communicate with the people.
That early morning reading also helped me through the Isaiah chapters of Second Nephi, which can be difficult to understand. In the process, I was introduced to the intriguing and beautiful poetry of Isaiah, to the vision he had of the whole history of man, and to his strong concern for the poor and the widows. It began a life-long study of the whole book of Isaiah, which has been a blessing at many times of spiritual need or of spiritual high points. That reading also opened up to me the way the prophets have of placing things of our life into a perspective that gives them their true meaning in eternity. These openings and beginnings have continued to enrich my understanding of the gospel, of the plan of salvation, of my values and goals, of the meaning of my own life. This all began with that hour my companion and I spent together reading the Book of Mormon to each other in the early mornings in an attic room in Bern, Switzerland. It was not just the language, but also the beginnings of an understanding of the beauty and importance of all scripture that came to me through that experience.

One night our family went out for pizza and games. When I finished eating my pizza slices, I was still hungry. I wanted to take a slice from my sister Eden, but my parents said not to. A minute later she decided to give me her last slice. That made us all smile.
Two nights later, Eden finished eating her dinner first. It was one of her favorite meals, and she wanted another helping. When I heard my mom tell her it was all gone, I decided to share mine. Eden was happy, and I felt good sharing something with her that she really likes. I remembered the good example Eden was to me when she shared her pizza.

When President N. Eldon Tanner presided over the West European Mission some years ago, his slogan was “Have a good time.” One day he said to a group of missionaries in Germany, “I would like you all to have a good time.” After the meeting, one of the missionaries came up to him and said: “President Tanner, I don’t think that it is quite fair for you to tell the missionaries to have a good time. You know, the only way they can have a good time is to do their work.” President Tanner said, “Well, go have a good time.”

My family and I live in Annaberg-Buchholz, which, before 1990, was in the Communist-controlled German Democratic Republic (GDR).
In those days, government authorities would not allow LDS magazines into the country, so we could not obtain copies of the German-language Der Stern.
However, Church members living in West Germany were allowed to send books to GDR Latter-day Saints through a Church book club. It was a personal sacrifice for the West German Saints, who had to pay all the costs involved. Each month, my family received a wonderful Church-related book that helped bring us closer to the gospel.
Eventually, thanks to the cooperation developed between the First Presidency and officials of the GDR government, restrictions were lifted, and we could subscribe to Der Stern. That was a time of great joy! My family and I were so grateful to receive this wonderful treasure.
In every issue there is something of value for each family member. The addresses and articles by the Brethren provide us with much spiritual strength and help us in our daily tasks.
I am especially interested in reports of Saints living in other parts of the world. Knowing that Saints everywhere try to walk in the way of the gospel helps me hold to the iron rod.
Monika MiecznikowskiAnnaberg-Buchholz Ward, Dresden Germany Stake

Also, my father was very responsive. He found that President Layton, who was beginning to get rather old and feeble, didn’t have the help to do the things he needed to do, and he had a big orchard. So Father gathered all of us children up, with all the buckets and pans, and with the consent and approval of President Layton we all went down to his orchard and picked fruit on shares. There was a large family of the Laytons and there was a large family of us. We divided the pickings from the orchard and went forward with our program. My dear mother knew how to make ends meet. We had a pantry and that pantry was always filled with bottled fruits and everything else you could think of that was available at the time.