Gospel Story Finder

The girls staying at one house had a three-day running water fight with the boys staying at a house a few blocks away. As they were packing to leave, the girls made a sign and presented it to the opposition. It said, “To be continued at next year’s youth conference.”
But more than a water fight would be continued. They had all learned about bridging gaps, and that knowledge helps in that carnival we call life.

“If I’d been in the Church for the length of time I have now (one year), and they’d asked me to leave England and follow the Prophet, I would have said yes,” says 17-year-old Paul Lindsey, from Nottinghamshire, England.
But he admits it would have been the hardest of tests, and he’s not sure about swapping the 1800s for the 1990s. “I’m too comfortable with modern wonders—and I don’t like wearing these trousers,” he laughs.
So why is Paul in Victorian costume, parading around the streets of Preston, England? He’s one of 210 seminary students who’ve ridden into town in three coaches.
Students came from Nottinghamshire, Leicestershire, Warwickshire, and Northamptonshire. Some made outfits from curtains; some wear rented costumes or modified old clothing from their parents.
Arthur Hardy, their seminary coordinator, is about to bring Church history to life as their trip into the past begins.
“We may look a bit stupid,” grins a friend of Paul’s, Daniel Liddicott from Leicester Stake, “but it does lead to questions. One person said there’s absolutely nothing in Preston, so why are we here? It’s a good opportunity to tell them Preston was a place of great history for our church when the missionaries first came over.”
The obelisk in the market square was the scene of those mighty beginnings—a place for many outdoor sermons. The fruits of those beginnings are hard to take in. At one time, in 1850, there were 30,700 Saints in Great Britain, and only 26,000 in the United States.
But that’s jumping ahead. The adversary didn’t let the gospel into this land without a fight.
The youth are at the scene of the first battle—a tiny lodging house on the corner of Wilfred Street. There’s only room for eight students at a time. They climb a narrow, rickety staircase up two flights.
In this lodging house, the elders in England were tormented by evil spirits and feared for their lives. (See Orson F. Whitney, The Life of Heber C. Kimball, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, pp. 129–31.)
“It’s a bit creepy thinking about what went on in this house,” says Paul, “when they were attacked by legions of Satan’s followers. I can imagine it all happening.”
“It really adds to my testimony,” admits Paul, “to know that these men made the difficult decision to leave their families, come across the seas to England, and go through so much to teach people who’d never heard of the Church.”
“The sheer number converted shows how hard the Spirit must have been working to get a good base for what would follow, right up to us today,” says Paul.
Sara-Jayne Soverall, another of Paul’s friends, adds, “I wish we could be back in those times for a moment. I’d love to have seen them all.”
Apparently so would Preston’s Evening Post reporter, according to 16-year-old Michelle Armstrong. “It’s the best thing, walking around in Victorian costume,” she says. “Especially when that newspaper bloke took photos. He was trying to get us to reenact those first river baptisms, but it wouldn’t have been proper, so he got pictures of us pretending to teach people instead.”
Paul thinks it must have been harder then for a young person to be the only family member seeking baptism.
“My own family was cautious at first,” he remembers, “but now Mum sticks up for me, and my sister lends me her car to come to church. The Church today has been established long enough to be known, but then it was so new. I think people may have been more suspicious.”
The next stop on the pilgrimage is the Cockpit, a building rented for church meetings by early Saints from the local temperance movement, where people were taught the evils of alcohol.
Then, on by coach to the beautiful villages of Downham and Chatburn. To Paul Lindsey, in the 20th century, it seems a strange thing for the whole community to get up and go to Utah. He concludes, “The Spirit must have been very strong for that to happen.”
That same Spirit is still here in 1994. And amazing things still happen in England—not the least of which is the final site, the highlight of this seminary outing, a place which unites past and present in an excellent way.
Currently, it’s an empty field. Soon it will be the site of Britain’s second temple. The youth are impressed with the architect’s plans, marvel at miracles leading to the permission to build the temple, and can’t wait to enter its doors.
Wouldn’t those early Saints have loved to be here today? Maybe the strength of their faith and ours brings them closer than we realize.

I have been inspired by Moroni’s courage because of the many trials the world has seen this year, including the COVID-19 pandemic. Many of us around the world were forced into social isolation this year, some of us needing to separate ourselves from the people we love most. I too had to make that difficult decision.
I am a pediatric doctor, and I work on the front lines to give children urgent and emergency care in Maranhão, Brazil. During this pandemic, I made the difficult decision to avoid close physical contact with my beloved husband, two-year-old daughter, mother-in-law, and nephews (who all live in my home), along with all my other family and friends elsewhere. I isolated myself to avoid possibly transmitting the disease.
Social isolation was difficult because my family is so close. Every Sunday we get together for lunch. We also have regular family nights. I soon discovered that without them, I felt sad and lonely. However, I decided to spend a lot of time reading the Book of Mormon to invite the Spirit into my life. I learned that having the Holy Ghost as my constant companion helps me focus on gratitude and goodness, shows me how to serve others, and surrounds me with the Savior’s love during difficult times.
Sometimes I wonder how comforting it must have been for Moroni to read the words of his father, Mormon, after he was gone. I tried to apply his words to me: “Be faithful in Christ [my daughter]; ... may Christ lift thee up” (Moroni 9:25). I’ve learned that He always will! The Savior can give us power that is greater than all the problems we may face in this troubled world and help us hold on to hope.
As hard as this year has been, I am so grateful this experience has strengthened my testimony of Jesus Christ and taught me to place my total trust in Him as Moroni did. As I read the account of Jesus Christ in the Americas, I realized that before His arrival, the land of the Nephites was undergoing great and wonderful transformations (see 3 Nephi 11:1). Certainly, before the Savior returns, we will be able to go through our own transformation, preparing ourselves to meet Him again. I know that all the challenges we are experiencing all give us the opportunity to help us prepare to meet Him.
I know that Jesus Christ is my Savior. He is the light that I need to guide me when the way is uncertain. And I know that the Book of Mormon is a testament of Him. The truths found in that book can truly help us turn to Him and to have strength and courage and faith in times of crisis. I know it has for me.

At this same time, one by one my children all decided to stop attending church. Two eventually had their names removed from Church records. This has certainly been the trial of both my wife’s and my life. And even though he wasn’t a Latter-day Saint, my father was pained and confused by our children’s choices as well. He was a privately religious man, and he joined us through those years in praying for them.

In 2005 my father passed away after being diagnosed with cancer, and my mother passed away three years later. My wife and I rejoiced in acting as their proxies in providing temple ordinances after their deaths.

I’ve long prayed to understand how best to relate to our children now that they’re adults, some with their own spouses and children, none of whom are LDS. We are emotionally close to all four of our children, and we are grateful that they often reach out in love to us.

I eventually received a very clear answer of how I must conduct myself, possibly for the rest of my life, regarding these adult children. I needed to do what my father had done with me. In spite of the different lives we lived and the different religious perspectives we had, my father was determined to draw closer to me as a father and a friend while I experienced the pain of seeing my children choose different lifestyles and beliefs from mine. I realized I must follow the example of my father, who taught me how to treat children of a different faith: love them completely, just as the Savior would.

Let’s go back 60 years. The minutes of the Wandamere Ward of the Grant Stake for June 4, 1944, indicate the sacrament was administered by my friends Ward Jackson, Arthur Hicks, and me to a congregation of 141. Then it was off to war. In May of 1945, I was blessing the sacrament again—but in a foxhole on Okinawa for a congregation of only one—myself!

The training of my youth took over without fanfare—something only partially appreciated by me then—including abstaining from coffee in those same circumstances when water was scarce and highly chlorinated.
I do not know what lies ahead of you young men, but my advice would be to fasten your seat belts and hold on firmly to your principles!

I have always been taught to be nice to my schoolmates, friends, and family. My mother always says, “Aarón, never use violence. Jesus doesn’t like it!”
When I was going to a preschool near my house, there was a boy in a higher grade who sometimes tried to hit me at recess. He seemed big and strong. One day he had a rock. And when he saw me, he hit me in the head with the rock. I knew I could try to hit him back, but I remembered my mother’s words: “Jesus doesn’t like violence.” I left and I ran to get my teacher.
A year has gone by since this happened, and now I’m in another school. I’m grateful to Heavenly Father and Jesus because I don’t feel afraid. I know that I always need to try to do what is right and not use violence, even though sometimes it’s hard for me.

Our next stop was at the home of the American consul in the city of Porto. My companion and I had been teaching him and his family. They were rich and lived in a large home in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in the city. When we arrived at the gate of the estate, the servants recognized us and let us enter. Soon we were at the front door and started to sing the same songs we had just sting to the poor people in the monastery.
Our group consisted of more than twenty missionaries from several parts of the world—Brazil, Portugal, Angola, the United States, Canada, Paraguay, and Colombia. We had barely started the second verse of our first song when the door opened. Dozens of people came outside and started to sing with us. They were all diplomatic representatives of several countries who had gathered there to commemorate Christmas. We soon saw in their faces the same tears and smiles we had seen in the faces of the poor people living in that abandoned monastery.
When we finished singing, the wife of the consul said, “We were gathered here with everything to make us happy; nevertheless, we felt that something was missing. It was then that you came, bringing the Christmas spirit of Jesus Christ; now our Christmas is complete.”
We were invited in, and each missionary, in his own language, bore testimony to the diplomats from his country. As in the monastery, we left pamphlets and invited them to hear the discussions and attend church.
That Christmas night, we learned that sharing sacred songs and personal testimony was the best present that anyone, rich or poor, of any nation or faith, could receive. That night, those gifts without price brought the Spirit of the Lord into our hearts—the most priceless gift of all.

Opportunities often arise for religious discussions at work. Brother Robertson recently had occasion to interview a new employee. Halfway through she asked suddenly, “Are you a Mormon, sir?”

When he answered yes, she said, “Two American lads came to teach me the other day. When I said I was coming here soon, they asked me to look out for a man named Bruce Robertson. I told them you were my new boss.” This young lady now has the unique opportunity to work and learn the gospel at the same time.

I wanted to stand up in testimony meeting and tell everyone I knew the Church was true too, but when I tried to stand up, Mama and Daddy held me down.
“The children will laugh at you, Cindy,” they said. I would cry until Mama had to take me out.
Every testimony day I tried to stand up, and Mama kept taking me out. One Sunday night after fast meeting, after I had cried all afternoon, Mama said she didn’t know what to do about me; maybe they shouldn’t take me to fast meeting anymore. No one seemed to understand. The turmoil inside me was more than I could stand, and I didn’t know what to do about it, but I knew I had to stand up and bear my testimony. Then all of a sudden there was a light in my room, but I knew Mama had turned out the lights. I got up to see if the moon was shining. I felt so strange; the light around me was warm and I got on my knees and prayed. Then I felt a hand touch mine, soft and warm like the light in my room.
“Cindy, Cindy, what is it?” I heard Mama’s voice. She helped me up, and Daddy put his arms around me because I was crying. For a long time Daddy and Mama sat on the bed talking about how they could help me; I wanted to tell them about the light and the hand that touched mine.
“If Cindy feels that deeply about bearing her testimony,” Daddy said, “then next month she must stand up. We surely can’t deny her the right or privilege to share her testimony with others.”
I felt calm inside and went to sleep.
It seemed like a long long time before testimony meeting came around again, and I sat there calm and listened. Then Mama handed me the microphone and smiled. I stood up.
“I love my Daddy. I love my Mother and I love my brothers and sisters. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”
I said it just like I’d heard the other children say it. No one laughed. It was quiet for a long time. Mama was crying. Daddy too. Then a man stood up in front.
“These spirits are special in God’s eyes,” he said. “They are sent to earth for their mortal bodies in such a way they can’t be tempted by this world. Cindy will return to God as pure as she came. We don’t know how deep their emotions run, but we do know these special children hold hands with God.”
I felt a warm soft hand close over mine. This time is was my daddy’s hand.

Wow! My first band concert! I buttoned the jacket of my blue uniform, then checked myself out in the mirror. Cool! Except that my red tie was still crooked. I yanked it off and tried again. Not good!
Dad’s a whiz at ties. He teases that you can’t be a good missionary until you can tie a proper tie. But he wasn’t home yet, so I zipped downstairs and found Mom in the living room. She did a super job.
I was tucking the tie into my jacket when my sister, Peg, bounced into the room, all decked out in her band uniform. Her tie was perfect, of course!
We’re in the same band. She’s a year older than I am, but we’ve always gotten along just fine—until the new girl, Dina, moved next door, anyway. Dina says she can’t stand her own little brother. I guess it’s catching—I’ve become a little brother for Peg to nag and scold.
She stood there now, looking down her nose at me. “My, my, how grand our little drummer boy looks in his new uniform! Are you all set to pound on your drum?”
“Now, Peg!” Mom chided. “You shouldn’t talk to your brother like that. Besides, a drummer is an important part of the band.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost time for the concert. Dad should be here any minute.”
Peg sniffed. “If you call banging on an oversize tin can important.”
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Without the drum, the band couldn’t … well, it wouldn’t even be a band.”
“Ha! Bam, boom, bang! Who wants to hear that racket? Now, me—the first clarinetist—I carry the tune.”
Just then Dad poked his head in the door. “Everybody ready?”
We piled into the car and headed for the school.
In the auditorium, Mom and Dad settled into a couple of seats down front. Peg and I bustled to our places on the stage. I sat down at my drum and wrapped my fingers around my drumsticks.
They felt good in my hands.
Peg leaned across to Dina who plays second clarinet. Loudly enough for me to hear, she said, “My brother thinks we couldn’t be a band without him whacking away on that stupid drum.” They started to giggle, and I felt my face getting hot.
The band director, Mr. Larson, marched onto the stage and bowed. The audience applauded, then he turned to us and lifted his baton.
The whole auditorium got so quiet that you could have heard a spider walk across the floor. Mr. Larson leaned toward me. “Keep an even rhythm,” he mouthed. “The drumbeat keeps the band together.”
Then he signaled for me to begin my drum roll. My hands shook so that I was afraid the beat would come out ragged, but a crisp rat-a-tat-tat rattled off the drum, and Mr. Larson motioned to the others to join in with their instruments.
Beating time, time, time, I soared on the music, taking the whole band with me.
When it was time for Peg’s clarinet solo, all the other instruments quieted. I barely stroked the drum, keeping time for her. She hit the highest note in her piece and held on to it. Suddenly disaster struck—her clarinet was squeaking! The harder she tried, the more it sounded like a mad goose with laryngitis.
I changed quickly from a soft stroke to a hard beat. Mr. Larson brought in the rest of the band, Peg got control, and we finished the piece. The music died away, leaving me barely tapping the drum … softer … and … softer. When I stopped, the audience clapped like crazy.
The rest of the concert went off without a hitch. As we were all putting away our instruments, I noticed Peg drooped over her clarinet case, just sitting there. She didn’t even look up when Mr. Larson said that she had done a good job.
He patted me on the back, too, but I didn’t have time to soak up the praise. I was worried about Peg. I could tell that she was an inch away from tears.
When Mom and Dad stopped to talk to some friends, Peg and I went on to the car. Peg scrunched down in the seat like she wished that it would swallow her.
“You did great, Peg,” I said, giving her hand a quick pat. “Anybody can have a squeaky reed.”
“My reed was OK. It did fine for the rest of the concert.” She gulped. “I just lost it on that high note. It was a nightmare! I was so glad to hear that drum beat. …”
Peg’s breathing was funny—as if the air was lumpy or something.
Dad and Mom got into the car. “You guys were wonderful!” Mom said.
“Super terrific!” Dad agreed, starting the engine.
“The drummer did fine.” Peg’s voice was shaky. “The clarinetist should have stayed home.”
“Not so!” exclaimed Mom. “Every instrument is important to the band.”
Dad eased the car out of the parking lot and into the street. “That’s right. It takes them all working together to make beautiful music.”
“Sounds like people!” I piped up.
Peg reached over and squeezed my hand. “I have a thing or two to tell Dina about drums and brothers.”
She didn’t say little brother! This called for a celebration. “Anybody for ice cream?”
“Well, sure,” Peg said. “But you know how you always drip ice cream down your tie. And chocolate doesn’t go too well with red.”
“Since you have two ties, maybe you can let me have one if I do.”
“Kindness to brothers only goes so far,” she said.
I whipped my tie off and crammed it into my pocket. “Problem solved,” I said with a grin.
At the ice-cream palace, Peg dug into her strawberry sundae. Halfway to her mouth, a glob slid off her spoon, splotching her red tie.
“How about that?” I teased. “Strawberry doesn’t go much better with red than chocolate does.”
“Anybody can make a mistake,” she said. “Or maybe two.”
We all laughed. It was beautiful music.

“Here are all the sego lily bulbs I could find today,” Shaquana said, carefully untying a pouch to reveal seventeen of the small roots. “They’re getting mighty scarce.”
“You did fine, dear,” her mother replied. “I’ll take them inside and get supper started. You go on out and help your pa with the watering.”
As Shaquana turned to go, her mother stopped her. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Quana.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Shaquana said, walking toward the field. When she saw that her mother had gone inside, her steps slowed and her shoulders drooped in weariness. She was hungry. Her bare feet were cracked and bleeding. Her dress was so threadbare that it wouldn’t take another washing.
Haven’t we suffered enough, Heavenly Father? she prayed silently. We’ve been mobbed. We crossed the country in a wagon. Ma lost two babies. We’ve done all that was asked of us, and yet now we’re facing a drought and everyone is so hungry. Please help us!
Seeing her father, Shaquana straightened her shoulder and tried to look strong.
“There you are,” her father said. “What kept you?”
“I had to go much farther for segos today, Pa.” She took a dipperful of water from the barrel and gently poured it on one of the plants. Each one had to be watered by hand so that not a single drop of precious water would be wasted. No one knew how bad the drought would be this spring of 1848.
“If this keeps up, are we going to make it?” she asked.
“God will provide, Shaquana,” Pa said. “We must have faith.”
“You, Ma, and the Elders all keep saying that, but things just get worse.”
Shaquana’s father patted her shoulder. “Yes, it is hard right now. Everyone is hungry, and clothes are wearing thin. We all need to muster as much faith as we can. Heavenly Father loves each of us. We’ve obeyed His commandments, and He will take care of us.”
Shaquana had always loved these talks with her father. He had such solid faith, no matter what trials came their way. Lately Shaquana’s faith had clashed head-on with her hunger and exhaustion.
As she was watering the last plant, she looked toward the foothills. The darkest cloud she’d ever seen was coming their way. “Look, Pa, rain’s on its way!”
Her father’s face paled as he looked at the dark mass moving quickly toward them. “That’s not rain! Go get your mother and some gunnysacks. Hurry!”
As Shaquana began to run, crickets descended from the sky in droves. She felt them squish under her feet.
“Ma, come quick!” she yelled when she was near enough to be heard over the deafening sound of the crickets. Grabbing some gunnysacks and sticks, she followed her mother back to the field, where they tried to beat the crickets off the crops.
Hour after hour they flailed at the insects, praying all the while for deliverance from them.
“How can we win?” Shaquana cried. “We kill some, and more take their place! It’s hopeless.”
“You go get something to eat and some rest, Quana,” Pa said. “You’ve worked long into the night. We can fight them again in the morning.”
Shaquana nodded and obeyed. “Oh, Heavenly Father,” she prayed before falling into exhausted slumber, “why aren’t we getting any help?”
Each day was the same. They beat back the crickets and prayed. Shaquana was so tired that at night she’d sob herself to sleep. I wish we’d never left our nice home back east and come here, she thought constantly.
They heard from the Elders that the crickets were infesting the entire Salt Lake Valley.
Sunday morning Shaquana slowly got out of bed. She dressed and picked up her gunnysack.
“Not today,” said Pa, “It’s the Sabbath. We’re going to church and hear Brother Charles C. Rich speak.”
“Church? Oh, Pa, I just can’t go sit in church as if all is well. I’m sorry—I just can’t.” Shaquana ran to her bed, flung herself across it, and sobbed.
Pa sat on the edge of her bed and patted her back. “That’s it, Quana, let it out. Maybe you should stay home today and sleep. I like the family in church together, but this once you stay and rest.”
After her parents left, she lay on her bed and prayed aloud, “Heavenly Father, why hast Thou forsaken us? I don’t understand anymore. I’m so hungry and tired, I just don’t …” Before she could finish, she was sound asleep.
She awoke with a start. A strange new cry had joined the whir of the crickets. She ran to the door. Everywhere she looked, there were seagulls!
“Now what?” she cried. Grabbing a gunnysack, she went out to meet this new menace, then stopped in mid-stride and stared. The seagulls were eating the crickets! They weren’t hurting the crops at all.
She quickly dropped to her knees. “Thank you, Heavenly Father!” she said over and over.
When her parents came home, she yelled, “Pa, Ma, look what happened! Heavenly Father sent the seagulls to eat the crickets. They gorge themselves, fly away, then come back for more!”
With tears of gratitude, she confessed, “Oh, Pa, I was so close to losing my faith! I was angry. I thought God had forsaken us. Now I feel ashamed.”
“A lot of folks felt the same as you,” Pa said. “The same things were being said by some at church. And now this miracle! You should write down what you’ve been through. It will help you in other times of trial. Everyone gets discouraged now and again. Sometimes our faith isn’t as strong as we’d like. Remembering the crickets and seagulls may help you get through other rough times that will surely come.”
Shaquana threw herself into her father’s arms. “I’m so glad you understand, Pa!”
He hugged her tight. “And I’m glad you found your faith again. If you water and nurture it as carefully as you have these crops, it will grow strong.”
“I will, Pa. I will.”

After Paulo came up out of the baptismal font, he and Dad got dressed in dry clothes. Then Dad and Grandpa and the bishop laid their hands on his head and confirmed him. Now he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“I feel so great,” Paulo said. He touched his heart. “In here.”
Mom hugged him tight. “That’s because you received the gift of the Holy Ghost when you were confirmed.”
Paulo nodded. He didn’t want to do anything to make that great feeling go away. He wanted to always follow Jesus.
But the very next day, his little brother Carlo broke Paulo’s toy plane. Paulo had saved up for months to buy it!
“Look what you did!” Paulo yelled. “Why can’t you leave my stuff alone?”
“I’m sorry,” Carlo said. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Maybe we can fix it.”
“It won’t be the same!”
Carlo ran out of the room crying.
Paulo sighed. He wished he hadn’t gotten so mad. Hadn’t he promised when he was baptized that he would always follow Jesus? He knew Jesus would have been kind.
“I promised I would try to be like Jesus,” he told Mom, his voice shaking. “But I’ve already messed up! How do I get back that good feeling from my baptism?”
Mom hugged him tight. “We all mess up. But Jesus gave us a way to have the Holy Ghost with us again after we do something wrong.”
Paulo could guess what she was going to say. “You mean repentance, right? I have to ask for forgiveness.”
Mom nodded. “And when you take the sacrament, you’ll renew the promise you made to follow Jesus. Then you’ll be just as clean as you were right after you were baptized and confirmed.”
Paulo went to find Carlo. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he said. “Let’s fix the plane together.”
Carlo smiled, and Paulo felt like he had done what Jesus would do. When he said his prayer that night, he asked Heavenly Father to forgive him and to help him be nicer to Carlo. A warm feeling filled his heart.
That Sunday at church, Paulo paid extra attention to the sacrament prayers. He listened carefully to the words and remembered how he’d repented that week. As he took the bread and water, he felt Heavenly Father’s love for him. And it was such a great feeling!

Before the performance, the idea of trying to fill the civic arts center’s 1,800 seats was a major worry. There had to be a small charge to cover the rental of the building and the technical crew that worked for the civic center. However, the ticket price was much less than the price of a movie ticket, and for many members of the community, particularly those on fixed incomes, it was the first chance they had to attend a great production at the new civic arts plaza. The low ticket price also made it possible for whole families to attend a show together. And that’s who came—by the hundreds.
The night of the first performance was a sellout. There were lots of backstage nerves, but lots of excitement too. “I’ll never forget waiting in line backstage,” said Jenny Orme, Thousand Oaks Fourth Ward, “getting ready to go on stage and having that feeling of delight. All during practices, the performance seemed so far away, but now it was here and everyone was ready to show the audience what we could do and what we had worked so hard for.”
The show was such a success that people clamored for another performance. However, the encore performance did not go so smoothly.
Just hours before the second performance was to go on, the power failed. Nothing is darker than the inside of a theater with no power. The cast gathered for prayer. Together they asked for a miracle.
Still no lights.
The cast, already in costume, gathered on the stage. The mood was glum. Then Tina Johnson walked over to her friend Danielle Smith and asked her if she wanted to sing “How Great Thou Art” with her. The two girls’ voices filled the dark and others joined in. As soon as they finished that hymn, another was started. A great feeling of warmth and comfort and peace came over the cast.
Still no lights. That night the show had to be canceled.
“It was a very spiritual experience,” said Kit Regas. “Even though we didn’t get to do the show, I think everyone gained from that.”
Brother Brimhall explained to the disappointed cast members that many times in the Church’s history people have prepared and worked on something good only to be forced to leave it behind and never enjoy the fruits of their labors. He explained that being engaged in a good cause is always beneficial. It was a hard lesson for some of the young people, but only when the disappointment had faded did they come to appreciate just how wonderful it felt to be praying and singing together on a dark stage.
The second and final performance of Showtime was rescheduled. This time the lights stayed on, stage fright was nearly gone, and the word had spread that this was a very good show. No one worried about empty seats anymore.
The cast had become more than friends; they were more like one big family. The natural barriers between the ages broke down. The teens became good friends with the adults. The adults had a new appreciation for the youth. Tina Johnson said, “I’ll be with my friends at the grocery store, and I’ll see someone from Showtime. We just start talking. My friends always ask, ‘How come you are friends with so many grownups?’”
“Showtime was a really great experience,” said Jessica Seemann, Moorpark First Ward. “I made a lot of new friends, and I became closer to my old friends. My family brought seven nonmembers to the show. They loved it. I am so glad I decided to be in Showtime.”
Why spend all the time and effort to put together such a big show? Emily Benton, 17, of the Moorpark First Ward, knows. “I loved it! I met so many new friends. I love doing things like that and spending time with good LDS people. It was a great missionary experience.”
Now back to Marshall. Did he ever learn to sing and dance? His choreographer, Kathi Orme, says, “His part was not easy. He worked very hard, and he got it.”
But Marshall is harder on himself. “I wish I could say that I’m a better singer and dancer now, but I am still terrible at both.” But there he was, up on stage, trying to smile and concentrate on his feet at the same time. He did great.

I had a very long, exhausting day, and I wanted to go home after school to spend some time with my family before I called it an early night. I packed my bag as the final bell rang. I got up and started to walk out of my ROTC class, heading to the other side of the school, where my car was parked. When I went through the door I had an impression to go find my friend Alex. I dismissed it, because I was tired and wanted to go home.
When I was about to walk out of the back door, it was as if someone screamed in my head to stop. A few seconds later, the impression to go talk with Alex came into my mind again. This time I heeded the prompting and headed back to my ROTC class on the other side of the school.
I walked back into my classroom, where my unit was practicing for an upcoming event. I found Alex off in a corner by herself and walked over to talk with her. As we talked, I found out that she was having a very down week. Everything had gone wrong for her. She then told me she had really been down and was having destructive thoughts. We talked for a while, and it started to get late. I made sure she felt better and then left.
The next morning when I came in, I ran into Alex. She wasn’t the sad, down girl she had been yesterday. She was full of love and peace, and she was happy and cheery again. She thanked me for being a friend in a time of need. She then went on to say that if I hadn’t taken that time to talk with her, she might have done something.
I thought back to when I first had ignored the prompting to talk with her. I didn’t listen to it. I could have lost a very dear friend to me that day.
Whenever I get a prompting from the Lord, I always remember this event, and I act immediately, for we are answers to people’s prayers, angels to others, and instruments in the hands of the Lord to work miracles in the lives of others. When the Lord prompts us, we need to act.

The organ music was solemn and low, and a reverent silence fell over the congregation as the pallbearers entered carrying the simple pine box. A few garden flowers had been lovingly placed on top, and nestled among them was an old mandolin, its worn but polished finish gleaming dully in the dim light. The flickering candles made the large room seem gloomier, although sunlight reflected in here and there between the rough-hewn logs.
The organ seemed out of place in this rugged wilderness. There were few luxuries in this early western settlement, and the small organ, brought all the way across the plains on a wagon, was highly treasured.
Amanda watched little puffs of dust rise from the floor as the pallbearers walked slowly down the aisle.
“The coffin is so small,” she whispered to her mother.
“Your great-grandfather may not have been very tall in stature, but he was a giant in spirit,” Mother whispered back.
Amanda nodded, and bitter tears stung her dark brown eyes. Grandpa’s death was hard for her to understand. He had been light-hearted, always spreading laughter wherever he went. And music. How he loved music!
Bishop Madsen stepped up to the tall box that served as a pulpit and announced the opening song and prayer. Then Amanda’s mind wandered again as the service began. She could see herself bumping around in the back of the covered wagon, gazing longingly behind them as the trail disappeared into dust. She’d missed her home and the friends she’d left behind. Grandpa hadn’t seemed to, though. He’d sat in front, constantly looking ahead.
The bishop had finished speaking, and he turned toward Amanda.
“Amanda, we all know how much you and your great-grandfather loved to sing together. Do you think you could come up here and sing one of his favorite songs for us?”
Amanda froze in her seat. I could never sing without Grandpa, she thought. She looked at the mandolin lying among the flowers. It had helped Grandpa while he tended sheep. Maybe it would help her now.
She rose slowly and walked over to the casket. Her hands trembled as she lifted the mandolin from its bed of flowers. Several people in the crowd nodded encouragement. Amanda cleared her throat, placed her fingers on the strings, and began: “Come, come, ye Saints, …”
The song went beautifully until she came to the last verse. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her voice started to quaver.
Bishop Madsen stepped quickly to Amanda’s side, beckoning the congregation to join in. Instantly the little log church was filled with music.
And should we die before our journey’s through,
Happy day! all is well!
We then are free from toil and sorrow, too;
With the just we shall dwell! …
Amanda sat down, still holding the mandolin. Mother put her arm around Amanda’s shoulder and said, “Grandpa’s mandolin can become as much a part of you as it was a part of him. Take good care of it.”
Amanda smiled. It was already a great comfort to her.

Finances became a major concern. I had enough money in the bank to cover 11 of the remaining 15 months of my mission and hoped Mom could get enough together for the remaining four. My plans for college were now pushed back into the realm of hopes and dreams. However, the Lord takes care of his missionaries.
I received a letter from my mother telling me that I needn’t worry about finances anymore. A man had contacted my bishop and asked if he could support me for the rest of my mission. This is not too unusual, since there are many good-hearted men in the Church, but the twist in this instance was in what the man told my bishop: “I’m not a member of your church, but out of the love and respect I have for Horace Rappleye, I’d like to support his son for the rest of his mission.” And he did. For 15 months the money was placed regularly in my bank account by the anonymous benefactor.
He remains anonymous to this day.

We believe in you because we know you can be honest. A local television channel ran the story of a 10-year-old boy named Josh Bowers from West Jordan, Utah. He found a wallet that had $530 in it. Josh didn’t hesitate. He picked it up and took it to his mother. The wallet belonged to a mother of four, and the $530 was rent money she couldn’t live without.
Josh had some compelling reasons to keep the money. His father had recently been disabled on the job, so his family was living on Social Security. Then there were all the things Josh could have bought with the money. What he really wanted, as he said, was a new bike. But he knew the money was not his and that someone needed that money. The relieved young mother gave Josh $40 for returning the wallet and the money. Josh planned to use some of the money to get his old bike tire fixed. But an anonymous viewer, on hearing the story, had Josh pick out a brand-new bike “to reward him for being an honest guy.” He said: “Josh set an example that everybody should follow, and he looks happy.”3

Trying the Prophet’s Teachings
I was touched by President Nelson’s message in conference that God wants to speak with me and tell me what He wants me to do. Today I thought I would try that out. I prayed that I could be of help to someone today. After lunch I needed to fill my car up with gas. I had the thought that I needed to buy someone gas. Somewhat skeptically, I thought, “We’ll see.” I began pumping my gas. A minivan pulled up next to me, and a lady got out with her son. She got her purse out and fumbled through it.
I was finishing pumping when I heard her say somewhat timidly, “Excuse me.” I turned to see a worried look on her face.
I told her I was supposed to buy someone gas today. “Is that someone you?” Surprised, she began to tear up. “Someone’s watching out for you today,” I said. I walked around the pump and inserted my credit card. Then I got in my car and drove away with the absolute assurance that someone is up there watching out for me too. Thank God for a prophet!”
—Jonathan Benson, story shared on the Liahona Facebook page

Dear brothers and sisters, when our son was in the Provo Missionary Training Center, Sister Gong mailed fresh-baked bread to him and his missionary companions. Here are some of the missionary thank-you notes Sister Gong received: “Sister Gong, that bread was a taste of home.” “Sister Gong, all I can say is wow. That bread is the best thing to enter my mouth since my mother’s enchiladas.” But this is my favorite: “Sister Gong, the bread was wonderful.” He then jokingly continued, “Keep me in mind if things don’t work out between you and Mr. Gong.”

Sometimes cities and nations bear special labels of identity. Such was a cold and very old city in eastern Canada. The missionaries called it “Stony Kingston.” There had been but one convert to the Church in six years, even though missionaries had been continuously assigned there during the entire interval. No one baptized in Kingston. Just ask any missionary who labored there. Time in Kingston was marked on the calendar like days in prison. A missionary transfer to another place—any place—would be uppermost in thoughts, even in dreams.
While I was praying about and pondering this sad dilemma, for my responsibility then as a mission president required that I pray and ponder about such things, my wife called to my attention an excerpt from the book A Child’s Story of the Prophet Brigham Young. She read aloud that Brigham Young (1801–77) entered Kingston, Ontario, on a cold and snow-filled day. He labored there about 30 days and baptized 45 souls.9 Here was the answer. If the missionary Brigham Young could accomplish this harvest, so could the missionaries of today.
Without providing an explanation, I withdrew the missionaries from Kingston, that the cycle of defeat might be broken. Then the carefully circulated word: “Soon a new city will be opened for missionary work, even the city where Brigham Young proselyted and baptized 45 persons in 30 days.” The missionaries speculated as to the location. Their weekly letters pleaded for the assignment to this Shangri-la. More time passed. Then four carefully selected missionaries—two of them new, two of them experienced—were chosen for this high adventure. The members of the small branch pledged their support. The missionaries pledged their lives. The Lord honored both.
In the space of three months, Kingston became the most productive city of the Canadian Mission. The grey limestone buildings still stood; the city had not altered its appearance; the population remained constant. The change was one of attitude. The label of doubt yielded to the label of faith.