Gospel Story Finder

Katy was looking at the calendar when she saw that her mom had a birthday soon. Katy wanted to buy her mom a card, but she did not have any money. Katy looked under the couch cushions, in her drawers, and in her closet, but she could not find any money. She sat on her bed and a few tears ran down her face. Mom saw Katy crying. “Why are you crying, Katy?” Mom asked. “Because I do not have any money to buy you a birthday card,” Katy said. “Oh, Katy, it’s the thought that counts,” Mom said. Katy decided to write all her thoughts about her Mom on paper. Then Katy used her crayons to color the paper yellow and blue. Katy smiled when she saw the pretty birthday card she had made. “Mom was right. It is the thought that counts!” declared Katy.

One day a stranger came to our door. She introduced herself as Barbara and told us that she was looking for household work so that she could pay her power bill. My mother invited her in and listened to her. Mother told her that we didn’t have much money but that we would share what we had. Mother asked if she would clean a window to earn some money. While she was cleaning, we talked to her and found out that she had three young children and no job and had just recently moved from another city.
As she cleaned the window, we felt impressed that she needed some clothes, toys, and food for her children. My little sister, my mother, and I began preparing a box for her to take home. I put some of my toys in the box for the children. I wanted to give something more, so I decided to give her the money that I had been saving for a toy that I really wanted, money I had earned by working at my Grandpa Brown’s house.
I also wanted to share the gospel with her. I knew it would help her. It is so important to my life, and I knew it could help her family, too. I gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon and explained that we belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I bore my testimony. I taught her the plan of salvation, using a chart that I had. She listened and took the Book of Mormon.
After some lunch, Barbara left. My mother read Matthew 25:34–40 to my little sister and me and told us that when we helped Barbara, it was as if we had done those things to the Savior. I felt the Spirit, and I knew that I had done something that Jesus would have done for another.

It was on Monday, 10 August 2020—around 8 p.m.—I was in a hurry to leave the office and rush home before the 9 p.m. curfew, which was set by the government as a safety measure to reduce the spread of the coronavirus.
I changed into my riding gear: beginning at my feet, then my knee guards, my jacket, and then reflector straps. I grabbed my helmet and headed out of the office. My motorbike was all alone in the dimly lit parking lot. Everyone else had already gone home, I thought, “maybe they are having dinner with their families right now”. I put on my helmet and the gloves, sat astride my motorbike, and turn on the ignition—Oh, I loved the sound of that Suzuki engine. Off I went as I waved goodbye to the security guard.
Over the years I have been riding the same road to work—I have ridden it so long that I have memorized the entire route, the bumps, a corner, even where the potholes are. That night, time was not on my side so I figured I should rush to the supermarket next to my house before it closed so that I could grab something to eat. Down the hill I descended—I think I was doing 70 kph—when suddenly I saw a monkey in the middle of my lane. I wanted to swerve but there was an oncoming vehicle in the other lane, also in a hurry to get home before curfew. I stepped on the rear brakes and gently tried to slow the bike, but I lost control, went airborne, and landed on the tarmac—flat on my stomach. The bike made several rolls and slid off the road.
For a moment I couldn’t hear anything but a buzzing sound. I could not feel my body. I tried to raise my head, but it was too heavy. I thought to myself, “I am either dead or paralyzed.” A few moments later, I heard someone ask if I was okay, and another surprised voice declared, “It’s a lady rider!” I tried again to raise my head and managed to look up. But all I could see were pieces of my beautiful motorbike scattered over the tarmac.
These good Samaritans helped me up and took me on the side of the road. They asked me to sit, relax, and to confirm if I was feeling pain anywhere in my body. They picked up my motorbike and moved it off the road, and I could hear one of them saying, “From the look of the bike, the lady must be badly injured.”
I stood up and noticed I was not in pain. I could walk, I could talk, I could also move my hands without feeling any pain. I was perfectly fine.
It dawned on me that I miraculously had escaped any injuries—even worse, death. I sat back and asked myself “If I were to die today, am I prepared to meet my maker?” Well, the honest answer was, “No. I wasn’t.” That part scared me the most, not the idea of dying but the fact that I was not prepared.
As a Latter-day Saint, I remembered how many times I have been counseled by leaders of the Church to be ready at all times just like the five virgins described in Matthew 25:1–13. I realized I had put more focus on worldly things than on things eternal. “It was time to change all this,” I reckoned. “So, what do I need to do, Lord?” I asked.
Elder Kim B. Clark of the Seventy once said, “‘Look unto Jesus Christ in every thought. Doubt not. Fear not’. This is a call to trust the Lord completely, to surrender our will and to yield our hearts to Him and through His redeeming power to become like Him.”1
I determined that what I need to do is to offer a sincere prayer to the Lord, to repent of my sins every day, to feast on His word, to keep His commandments, to partake of the sacrament, to keep His Sabbath holy, and to worship in His holy temple as often as I can.
Since that day of the crash, I strive to do these simple acts of faith—following Elder Clark’s advice: “Look unto Jesus Christ in every thought. Doubt not. Fear not.” I testify I have felt the love of my Heavenly Father drawing me closer and closer to Him and I have felt the sanctifying influence of the Holy Ghost as the days go by.

Last week I received a faith-filled letter from Laurence M. Hilton. May I share with you the account of surviving personal tragedy with faith, nothing wavering.
In 1892, Thomas and Sarah Hilton, Laurence’s grandparents, went to Samoa, where Thomas was set apart as mission president after their arrival. They brought with them a baby daughter; two sons were born to them while they served there. Tragically, all three died in Samoa, and in 1895 the Hiltons returned from their mission childless.
David O. McKay was a friend of the family and was deeply touched by their loss. In 1921, as part of a world tour of visits to the members of the Church in many nations, Elder McKay stopped in Samoa, accompanied by Elder Hugh J. Cannon. Before leaving on his tour, he had promised the now-widowed Sister Hilton that he would personally visit the graves of her three children. I share with you the letter David O. McKay wrote to her from Samoa:
“Dear Sister Hilton:
“Just as the descending rays of the late afternoon sun touched the tops of the tall coconut trees, Wednesday, May 18th, 1921, a party of five stood with bowed heads in front of the little Fagali’i Cemetery. … We were there, as you will remember, in response to a promise I made you before I left home.
“The graves and headstones are in a good state of preservation. … I reproduce here a copy I made as I stood … outside the stone wall surrounding the spot.
Janette Hilton
Bn: Sept. 10, 1891
Died: June 4, 1892
“Rest, darling Jennie”
George Emmett Hilton
Bn: Oct. 12, 1894
Died: Oct. 19, 1894
“Peaceful be thy slumber”
Thomas Harold Hilton
Bn: Sept. 21, 1892
Died: March 17, 1894
“Rest on the hillside, rest”
“As I looked at those three little graves, I tried to imagine the scenes through which you passed during your young motherhood here in old Samoa. As I did so, the little headstones became monuments not only to the little babes sleeping beneath them, but also to a mother’s faith and devotion to the eternal principles of truth and life. Your three little ones, Sister Hilton, in silence most eloquent and effective, have continued to carry on your noble missionary work begun nearly 30 years ago, and they will continue as long as there are gentle hands to care for their last earthly resting place.
By loving hands their dying eyes were closed;
By loving hands their little limbs composed;
By foreign hands their humble graves adorned;
By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned.
“Tofa Soifua,
“David O. McKay”
This touching account conveys to the grieving heart “the peace … which passeth all understanding.” Our Heavenly Father lives. Jesus Christ the Lord is our Savior and Redeemer. He guided the Prophet Joseph. He guides His prophet today, even President Gordon B. Hinckley. Of a truth I bear this personal witness.

Some days, Ray relied on the power of prayer to keep going. “On Saturday morning, [he] was feeling sick again,” Sister Gamble reports. “We said a prayer with Ray in the car and again he perked up almost immediately and was able to move forward with sealings.”
Referencing President Russell M. Nelson’s invitation to think celestial, the sealer said, “doing sealings is just about as close to thinking celestial as one can get in this life.”
Ray was sealed first to his parents, and then his mother was sealed to the grandparents who raised him. In total, 96 family ordinances were performed throughout the week. The group had many tender mercies and felt very close to the Spirit.
“I can’t even begin to tell you how idyllic it was for me to be introduced to the temple for the first time,” Ray said. “It was a joy unimaginable. I’m so looking forward to many more such visits… If only the same joy could be felt in absolutely every other location throughout the world and every single person could focus on the exquisite experience and peace of our Heavenly Father’s presence, there could not be any room for the hurt and devastating destruction that we learn about so constantly in our world.”

Leaders must learn how to issue calls. When I was a young man, I heard Elder Spencer W. Kimball speak in a stake conference. He said that as a new stake president in Arizona, he left his office in the bank to call a man to be stake leader of the young men.

He said, “Jack, how would you like to be leader of the young men in the stake?”

Jack responded, “Aw, Spencer, you don’t mean me. I couldn’t do anything like that.”

He tried to persuade him, but Jack refused the call.

Brother Kimball went back to his office to brood over his failure. He knew the stake presidency had been inspired to make the call. Finally it came to him: he had made a terrible mistake! Of course, Jack would not respond.

Perhaps he recalled what the prophet Jacob had said when he “taught them in the temple, having first obtained mine errand from the Lord.”

President Kimball now did as Jacob had done in ancient times. He “obtained [his] errand from the Lord.”

He returned to ask Jack to forgive him for not doing it right and started over: “Last Sunday the stake presidency prayerfully considered who should lead the young men in the stake. There were several names; yours was among them. We all felt that you were the man. We knelt in prayer. The Lord confirmed to the three of us, by revelation, that you were to be called to that position.”

Then he said, “As a servant of the Lord, I am here to deliver that call.”

Then Jack said, “Well, Spencer, if you are going to put it that way …”

President Kimball replied, “I am putting it that way!”

Of course, Jack would not respond to a casual invitation from Spencer, but he could not refuse a call from the Lord through Stake President Kimball. He served faithfully and with inspiration.

Crawford’s visits to our home became more and more frequent. “I think you’re becoming the big brother he never had,” Sally observed one night. “And maybe a bit of the father he misses.”
“All that he needs now is an older sister, right?” I said.
“Are you getting at something?”
“Now that you mention it, a week from Saturday our ward is sponsoring the stake dance. It’s time Crawford went to one. He’s almost 16, and the social polish will do him good.”
“And?”
“And my guess is that part of the reason he doesn’t go to dances is that he doesn’t know how to dance. Typical male teenager.”
“You want me to teach him how to dance? But his feet are so big! And there’s not much time before the dance. And …”
“And?”
“And when would you like me to start?”
That’s why, two days later, our family room became a dance studio. I was in charge of music, Sally in charge of instruction, and Crawford in charge—well sort of in charge—of his two huge feet.
“I can’t do this!” he lamented.
“Yes you can. Two steps forward, one step back. If you can count, you can dance,” I cheered him on. Sally kept an eye on his feet.
“To the beat, Crawford,” Sally said, looking at me. “You’re doing quite well. You’re already much better than my husband.”
“Two ahead, one back … Two ahead, one back. …” Crawford muttered dutifully. “Are you sure I can do this?”
Two hours later, Crawford had the two-step down cold and a little bit of the swing memorized. Miraculously, Sally’s feet were neither bruised nor broken.
“We’ll be chaperoning at the dance Saturday,” Sally said as he left. “You’re ready, and you’ll have a great time. See you there.”
“I’ll be there,” he pledged.
And so he was.
He walked in the door about 20 minutes late, wearing a new sports coat and slacks. The tape on his glasses was gone. In fact, his glasses were gone.
“Oh Crawford, you look so handsome,” Sally said.
“My mother talked me into spending some of my money on a new coat,” he said. “I objected, but she insisted. And I’ve had contact lenses for a couple of years, but I’ve seldom worn them. Mom says when I take my glasses off I look like my father.”
Music was playing. A spotlight shone on a revolving mirrored ball, flashing patterns of light across the floor. A few dancers were making their way to the center of the cultural hall. Crawford gazed at them.
Sally whispered in my ear. “Look at him. Can you believe it?”
Crawford ambled over to the refreshment table and picked up a cup of punch. He sipped it and chatted with some of the boys from our ward.
“When will he dance?”
“Soon enough. My guess is that he’ll wait for a slow one. You know, two steps forward, one step back.”
Ten minutes passed, then 20, then half an hour. A slow song came on. Crawford put down the cup of punch and walked across the floor. Slowly he moved toward a small group of girls. One had her back to Crawford.
“That’s the one, Sally. He’s going to ask the girl in the blue-and-white dress for a dance.”
“Oh, she’s cute,” Sally whispered. “His very first dance. I’m so excited.”
“Go, Crawford.” I almost wanted to shout it. “Confidence. Remember confidence. Ask her before the song ends. Sally, this is going to work. I know it.”
Wrong.
Crawford, though he could now dance, did not know how to ask a young lady to dance, a key omission from our family-room lesson. He simply reached out one of his huge hands and sort of thumped it on the poor girl’s shoulder.
As she turned around, she must have had visions of meeting King Kong. Crawford sensed something wasn’t going right, promptly froze, and sat there with a silly smile plastered on his face. The girl’s jaw dropped, and she began to back cautiously away. Awkward is too mild of an adjective to describe the situation.
“Oh, Crawford,” Sally moaned.
Finally, he began to show signs of life. Without changing facial expression, he backed up, one foot, then the other. The music stopped. Some of the returning dancers noticed the odd scene and stared at him. As though in a trance, he kept backing, backing away. It was the basketball fiasco all over again.
Crawford backpedaled until he nudged the refreshment table. The punch bowl sat at the far end. Crawford reached back with his hands, and without thinking, hoisted himself onto the table. It was only then that his grin disappeared. Replacing it was a look of sheer horror.
His weight on one end of the table sent the other end shooting upward. The punch bowl came sliding toward him. Too late he realized what was happening. He spun around after the punch bowl had plowed through a tray of cookies and just as it fell off the edge of the table. Instinctively, he grabbed the bowl and saved it from crashing to the floor. But he couldn’t prevent a tidal wave of raspberry punch from sloshing all over his face and his clothes.
Everyone’s gaze was on Crawford, who stood forlornly at the end of the table, holding the almost-empty bowl, dripping sticky red liquid from head to foot.
The music started, a fast number with a strong beat. Flashes of light from the mirror darted around the room, but nobody was dancing. Some of the kids were applauding, some laughing and pointing. Others were trying to help clean up the mess. One of the boys in the teachers quorum ran to get towels. Someone else went looking for a mop, but all he could find was a broom.
About a dozen people or so just stood there, wondering what to do.
Finally, Crawford straightened.
“Are you all right?” someone said. It was the girl in the blue-and-white dress. “Did you still want to dance?”
“I’m okay,” Crawford said. “In fact, I’m more than okay. I’ll just run home and change clothes, then I’ll be right back. Don’t worry. It’s my first dance. I’m supposed to make a big splash.”
Later that evening, Sally pointed to the middle of the dance floor. There was Crawford in his old suit, dancing with the girl in the blue-and-white dress. It was a slow number. I could see him mouthing the words, “two steps forward, one step back,” in perfect rhythm to the music.

Scott sat slumped over in the backseat of the car.
“Are you feeling OK?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he moaned.
But Scott wasn’t feeling well. In fact, he felt like he’d just been hit in the stomach. And it was all because of what Sister Thomas, the Primary president, had said during Primary that morning:
“Children, next week is the beginning of a new year in Primary. That means you will all advance to the next class and have a new teacher. Isn’t that exciting?”
Scott didn’t think so. He didn’t want a new teacher. He liked his old one just fine. She told the best stories, and she always smelled good. “Mom,” he said now, “I’m not going to Primary next week.”
His parents looked at each other in surprise.
“I thought you loved Primary, Son,” Dad said, keeping his eyes on the road.
“I do! I—I mean, I did,” Scott said sadly.
For family home evening, Dad gave a lesson about how changes are a part of life and how we should welcome them as opportunities for growth. Scott knew that his parents were trying to help, but he didn’t feel much like growing at the moment.
It was easy not to think about Primary during school. And on Tuesday, Scott had violin lessons that kept him so busy practicing that he almost forgot about Primary completely—until Wednesday. That’s when he found a note taped to his front door. It was a small piece of white paper folded in half and with his name written carefully on the front. Scott unfolded it and read:
Dear Scott,
Welcome to our Primary class! I have been watching you each Sunday, and I know that you are a boy who is trying to live the gospel.
I will send you a few clues about myself. Can you figure out who I am before Sunday?
Your Mystery Primary Teacher
P.S. I have black hair.
Puzzled, Scott folded the note and stuffed it into his backpack.
On Thursday, this note was on his door:
Hi Scott!
I saw you playing outside with your friends yesterday. I like the way you get along so well with them. That’s a good quality to have. Do you know who I am yet?
Your Mystery Teacher
P.S. I like to ride bikes, too!
Who could it be? Scott wondered. He thought about the sisters in his ward. He couldn’t think of any black-haired, bike-riding ladies.
Scott raced home from the bus stop on Friday. He was disappointed to not see a note taped to the front door. He dumped his backpack in the hallway and went into the kitchen for a snack.
“It must have blown off the door,” Mom said as she handed him a familiar-looking piece of white paper. She smiled as Scott read it aloud:
Dear Scott,
I’ve heard that you are an excellent reader. That’s great because we will be reading the scriptures all year in class. Would you come prepared to read 2 Timothy 3:14–15 on Sunday?
Thanks!
Y. M. T.
P.S. Sometimes I wear glasses when I read.
When Scott took out the trash on Saturday, he found another note:
Dear Scott,
Tomorrow is the big day! I’m looking forward to having you in my class. Do you know me? I know you!
Love,
Your (Favorite) Mystery Teacher
P.S. I will be wearing something with flowers on it.
On Sunday, Scott was up and dressed before everyone else. “I thought you weren’t going to Primary anymore,” his mom teased.
“Well, I’m only going today.”
The chapel was nearly full when Scott and his family found their seats. Quickly he scanned each row. He couldn’t believe that so many women in the ward had black hair. He noticed Sister Veatch with little glasses perched on her nose, but she wasn’t wearing anything flowered. And Scott tried not to giggle as he imagined Sister Cousins riding a bicycle.
The Primary room buzzed with excitement as the children located their new seats. Scott and his friends settled into the two rows marked for their class. They were surprised to find the teacher’s chair still empty.
Emily leaned over and whispered, “It has to be Sister Hernandez. She has black hair, and when she comes to visit teach my mom, she always wears those funny little glasses.”
“But what about bike riding?” asked Stasha.
“I’ve seen her riding bikes with her kids!” Tyler offered. It was then they heard the sound of chair legs scraping the floor behind them. The children stiffened and held their breaths as “the mystery teacher” slipped quietly into her seat. Together they turned and peeked over their shoulders.
“Dad!” shouted Scott.
“Hey, Brother Weatherford! Nice tie!”
The mystery teacher put a finger to his lips and winked at the class. “Welcome to Primary,” he whispered.
Scott grinned and turned back in his chair. I think I’ll keep coming to Primary, he decided as Sister Thomas stood to welcome the children to the first day in their new Primary classes.

“Malachi came home from the hospital today,” Mom said. “Would you like to go see him?”
“Is he feeling better?” Cole asked.
“He’s doing well, but he’s not ready to play yet,” Mom replied. “Remember when you got your tonsils out?”
Cole nodded. He remembered how sore his throat felt and how difficult it was to swallow and talk. “Could we bring him something to help him feel better?”
“Great idea, Cole. Why don’t we get him a milk shake?”
They drove into town and bought a strawberry shake. Cole couldn’t wait to give it to his friend.
On the way to Malachi’s house, the cold treat made Cole’s fingers ache. He was glad when they pulled into Malachi’s sloped driveway.
Cole swung the car door open and jumped out. He didn’t realize how steep the driveway was, and his feet flew out from underneath him. His hands shot out to catch his fall. Splat! The shake sailed through the air and exploded all over the concrete.
Mom found him lying in a tangled heap, his shirt dripping with strawberry ice cream.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened,” Cole stammered. He picked up the empty cup and tried to scoop up some of the melting ice cream.
“It’s OK. It was an accident.” She helped him stand. “We’ll try again.”
They drove back to the ice-cream shop and ordered another shake. The drink was still cold in his hands, but Cole felt good bringing Malachi the treat.
When they got to Malachi’s, Cole carefully stepped out of the car. He slowly walked towards the house, skirting around the puddle of spilled milk shake. He was almost to the door when—Thud. The toe of his shoe caught on a crack in the sidewalk. Cole lurched forward, and the shake slipped from his hands and tumbled to the ground.
Cole squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t even want to see the second spilled shake.
“What happened?” Mom asked. “Are you all right?”
“I fell again,” Cole said. He felt his face get hot, and his hands curled into tight fists. “I’m so clumsy!” Tears stung his eyes, and his voice wavered. “I just want to go home.”
Mom knelt beside him. “Cole, never be discouraged from doing a good thing. What about Malachi?” Cole thought about his friend and how sore his throat must be. A milk shake would really cheer him up. “Want to try again?” Mom asked.
Cole nodded. They drove to the ice-cream shop, bought another shake, and returned to Malachi’s house.
Cole walked carefully up the driveway. He passed both milk shake puddles and breathed a sigh of relief when he reached Malachi’s door. Mom smiled as she knocked.
Malachi’s mom opened the door. “Cole! I’m glad you came. Malachi was just asking when he could see you.”
Cole followed Malachi’s mom to the couch where Malachi was resting. Malachi smiled but didn’t talk.
“How’re you feeling?” Cole asked.
Malachi just shrugged.
Cole held out the milk shake. “I brought this for you,” he said.
Malachi sipped the shake and swallowed slowly. “It’s really good,” he whispered. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Cole said. His hands were cold, but his heart felt warm knowing he hadn’t given up.

There are many ways we can serve others, even if we have little ourselves. Brother Natalio Virazapia lives alone in Córdoba, Argentina. He has little of this world’s goods, but his battered bicycle outside the home of a member who needs attention or next to a garden he has planted is an unmistakable indication of Brother Virazapia’s service. Even though he doesn’t have any land of his own, he always seems to find space to plant seeds, and the Lord blesses him with abundant harvests. His small gardens feed more than one family. “I can give service with this small body that takes me from one place to another,” he says.

When I was little, I lived with my family on a farm. Everything seemed perfect. My family had a 2,000-acre farm in Michigan, but farming was going through a difficult period at that time and we were right in the middle of it. It seemed like almost overnight the bank came, foreclosed on our farm and, poof, it was gone.
I didn’t realize how poor we really were until I was about nine. That’s when I began noticing the differences between me, not dressed very well, and the kids who had nicer clothes. They were the ones who were making fun of me. That was really the first time I had adversity in my life.
Five years after losing the farm in Michigan, we were able to buy another farm on the Oregon-Idaho border. It was desolate and out in the middle of nowhere. It was a 40-acre farm, but there was no house on the property so we didn’t have a place to live. We did have a hay truck that we used to custom-haul hay as a family. We’d buck hay for 10 or 12 hours every day and then sleep under our hay truck out on our farm. Actually my sisters would sleep under the truck and Dad, Sid (my older brother), and I would sleep out in the field.
We finally got a place to live when we tore down an old train depot in Caldwell, Idaho. For our labor, we were able to keep the lumber from the depot. We used that wood to build a two-story A-frame with tin siding and open ends. We had shelter from the rain, but not from the wind. I remember waking up in the morning with frost on my nose and standing naked at a five-gallon watering trough while my mom gave me a little towel bath. I was ten years old and it was really humiliating.
Then I’d go to school and be the center of ridicule. Everybody would make fun of me because my clothes weren’t very clean and we lived out in a field. I didn’t realize how cruel the world was until that time in my life when I lived in that community. Our family was the butt of everybody’s jokes.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t discouraging, but from the time I was seven years old I had this dream of playing pro football. I knew that one day I was going to be on TV, be able to make money and bring back our family’s self-esteem, our pride, and the respect we deserved. So, actually, the worse I was treated, the more it drove me to succeed.
The gospel was also a great help during those times. When I was eight and was baptized, I was given a big, blue, hard-cover copy of the Book of Mormon. It took me a year to read it, and I loved all the great paintings in it. The pictures of Nephi, Abinadi, Mormon, and Moroni and their stories were what I grasped onto. They were my heroes.
I didn’t idolize athletes. The heroes in my life to this day are my father, my older brother, Sid, and those people in the Book of Mormon. It was tough because I really didn’t have any friends when my brother and dad were gone working. Finally, during my junior year in high school, a Mormon boy moved in from Utah and we became friends. Without many friends growing up, it was mainly the gospel that gave me strength.

Several years ago I received a letter from a longtime friend. He bore his testimony in that letter. I would like to share part of it with you tonight, since it illustrates the strength of the priesthood in one who learned what he should learn, who did what he should do, and who always tried to be what he should be. I shall read excerpts of that letter from my friend Theron W. Borup, who passed away three years ago at the age of 90:
“At the age of eight, when I was baptized and received the Holy Ghost, I was much impressed about being good and able to have the Holy Ghost to be a help throughout my life. I was told that the Holy Ghost associated only in good company and that when evil entered our lives, he would leave. Not knowing when I would need his promptings and guidance, I tried to so live that I would not lose this gift. On one occasion it saved my life.
“During World War II, I was an engineer-gunner in a B-24 bomber fighting in the South Pacific. … One day there was an announcement that the longest bombing flight ever made would be attempted to knock out an oil refinery. The promptings of the Spirit told me I would be assigned on this flight but that I would not lose my life. At the time I was the president of the LDS group.
“The combat was ferocious as we flew over Borneo. Our plane was hit by attacking planes and soon burst into flames, and the pilot told us to prepare to jump. I went out last. We were shot at by enemy pilots as we floated down. I had trouble inflating my life raft. Bobbing up and down in the water, I began to drown and passed out. I came to momentarily and cried, ‘God save me!’ … Again I tried inflating the life raft and this time was successful. With just enough air in it to keep me afloat, I rolled over on top of it, too exhausted to move.
“For three days we floated about in enemy territory with ships all about us and planes overhead. Why they couldn’t see a yellow group of rafts on blue water is a mystery,” he wrote. “A storm came up, and waves thirty feet high almost tore our rafts apart. Three days went by with no food or water. The others asked me if I prayed. I answered that I did pray and we would indeed be rescued. That evening we saw our submarine that was there to rescue us, but it passed by. The next morning it did [the same. We knew] this was the last day [it would] be in the area. Then came the promptings of the Holy Ghost. ‘You have the priesthood. Command the sub to pick you up.’ Silently I prayed, ‘In the name of Jesus Christ, and by the power of the priesthood, turn about and pick us up.’ In a few minutes, they were alongside of us. When on deck, the captain … said, ‘I don’t know how we ever found you, for we were not even looking for you.’ I knew.”

Alana, 15, sat with her mother, Rachel, scanning a list of goals Alana could work on when Alana’s dad, Jeff, walked by. “Which of these should I do, Dad?” Alana asked.

Jeff looked at his watch, grimacing a little, and glanced at the list. “Um, this one looks easy. How about ‘Memorize a hymn’? You can get that one checked off fast. What else looks easy?”

Jeff paused. Something didn’t feel right, so he took the time to think about what it was.

I’m late, he thought. I just want to get this over with. I’m not very good at this parenting stuff. Hmmm. He looked at his daughter and then realized he felt other feelings too. Hope. Delight. This was not just about checking things off. This was about her growth. And this was a chance to connect with her. A smile spread across his face.

“Let’s stop and think about this,” he said. “What if we each write down what we have felt prompted to work on lately?”

“Um, OK,” said Alana. Rachel found pencils and paper, and they spent a few minutes thinking and writing.

“OK,” said Rachel. “Now what?”

Alana remembered, “I think we’re supposed to pray about it and then choose a goal and make a plan. But Dad, do you really think Heavenly Father cares about what goal I choose?”

Jeff reflected. “You have lots of good ideas, so maybe Heavenly Father just wants you to choose one to start with. But I am absolutely sure of one thing. Heavenly Father cares about you.”

“I know you want to use your gifts to make a difference,” added Rachel, “so if one of these is more important, I’m sure Heavenly Father will help you feel that.”

Alana smiled, then remembered, “President Nelson asked the youth to do a thorough assessment of our lives. Can I go get what I wrote?”

“Sure!” said Jeff, smiling. He looked at his watch again. “Oops, I’ve got to run. Find what you wrote and let’s talk at dinner, OK? I have some questions that might help.”

“Great!” said Alana, smiling. “And, Dad? Mom? Thanks.”

Veronica’s story, Madrid, Spain
When Veronica (pictured below) was 17, her twin sister died in her arms. Three years after her sister’s death, on her own and struggling through life, Veronica started going for walks to work out her feelings of sadness. She had always believed in God, so one day while she was walking, she prayed, “Lord, why are you doing all of this to me?”
At that moment, she looked up at an LDS Church building she had always passed by. Really seeing it for the first time, she became curious; she went inside and introduced herself to two sister missionaries, who taught her later that week.
Veronica says that after the first lesson, “I stood up and told them, ‘You’re all crazy,’ and I left.” She didn’t want any of it, but eventually she began to reconsider.
“I think it was the first time I prayed so much. I felt like God was telling me, ‘I am sending you this opportunity so that you can get to know me better. Don’t you want it?’”
She decided she did want it. Despite losing her home and her job because of the gospel, she was baptized. Even though her life continued to be difficult sometimes, she trusted in the Lord. “Before I knew about the Church, I would cry or get mad if I didn’t know how I was going to pay my rent. But now I know that the Lord will provide.”
Veronica’s patriarchal blessing told her that she was to serve a mission, but she didn’t have any skirts or any way to buy them. A member of the Seventy and his wife were passing through the area and heard about her need; the wife had felt inspired to pack extra skirts for the trip, and she gave many of them to Veronica. She also encouraged Veronica to attend institute. When Veronica’s bishop started an institute program for their area, she began attending regularly.
Institute has given her peace and happiness. “I think what I like the most about institute is that during the week, we have a lot of different tasks to do. We have Sundays to renew our covenants with Heavenly Father. But on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, what do we have? I am grateful that we have institute at least once during the week because it is a way to remember Jesus Christ. Institute is one way He’s helping me progress.”
And Veronica did serve a mission. In October 2016 she left to serve in the Chile Osorno Mission.
She says, “I know that I’m here today because of Him. I know that He has prepared a plan perfect for each one of us. He will give us opportunities throughout our lives. I can feel His love every day, even though sometimes I say, ‘Father, why is this happening to me?’ But before I go to sleep, He responds, ‘This is happening because of this. Now go to sleep.’ And I love Him, too. Maybe I had to go through everything I went through to come to feel so much love for Him.”

A number of years ago, because of a statement that appeared to represent the policy of the Church, a faithful member feared he was supporting the wrong candidate for public office. Humbly he took the matter up with the Lord. Through the Spirit of the Lord he gained the conviction of the course he should follow, and he dropped his support of this particular candidate.

This good brother, by fervent prayer, got the answer that in time proved to be the right course.

Defeated. Again. I slumped against my chair with my head hung low. I was just an observer, but still I had no energy to stand. Our team had tried so hard. Some were bruised. Some were limping off the field. After our high school soccer team’s consecutive losses, we weren’t just beaten—our hearts were broken.
Just as my disappointment seemed to overcome me, one of the youngest girls on the team strode past. I was drawn instantly to the sense of purpose I saw in her face.
I watched as every few steps she reached out a hand to each girl, but not in acknowledgment of defeat. Instead, she was giving individualized praise, comfort, and compassion. “I’ve never seen you run so hard to get there for every pass. That was your best game.” And to another, “Wow, amazing game. Seriously, you were on it today!”
With each high five, her one hand lingered in theirs, while her other hand held on to a shoulder or gently patted a leg bruised and grass-stained. I could feel that she carried something within her, a power that somehow transferred from her to the heart of each team member. Smiles started to break through the painful winces and disappointment. Slowly, one by one, each player stood with a new feeling vibrating through the air.
Who cared about the bruises and pain? Who cared about the anger and frustration? Not one. But how could a mere hand lift someone from a place of suffering to a place of purpose and strength?
How could a mere hand lift someone from a place of suffering to a place of purpose and strength?
I saw that in our light-giving soccer player. She was sharing the light of Christ on a soccer field and allowing Him to perform His healing. By holding up His light, she was helping to gather Israel.
Each of us will need saving by someone other than ourselves. However vulnerable that may seem to leave us, we can trust that Heavenly Father provided a Savior who can help raise us from despair. And we can participate with Him, just as my soccer hero did.

This story happened in Mexico.
Javi liked learning to do new things. He liked learning to play baseball. He liked learning the guitar. He liked learning to play new video games. So when Papá asked if he wanted to learn something new, Javi was ready.
Javi watched Papá open his laptop and bring up a site called “FamilySearch.”
“I’m going to teach you how to find the names of our ancestors,” Papá said. “Many of them lived a long time ago, and they didn’t have the gospel. When we find their names, we can go to the temple to be baptized for them. Then they will have a chance to accept the gospel.”
Javi remembered how good he had felt when he was baptized. If he could help his ancestors feel the same way, he wanted to learn how!
Javi watched Papá show him what to do. Then Papá passed the laptop to Javi. “Your turn!”
Javi grinned. He practiced clicking around and reading the names and dates. This was his family!
For the next few nights, Mamá and Papá helped Javi learn more about doing family history work. His older sister Lily started to learn too. It felt like playing a video game with a very important quest!
One Sunday, the bishop announced that the stake was holding a special challenge. The stake members would have 60 days to find as many names as they could to send to the temple. The goal was a total of 5,000 names. At the end of the 60 days, there would be a big party to celebrate. There would also be awards for the people who had found the most names.
“I want to help,” Javi said when they got home from church.
“Me too!” Lily said.
“How about you start right now?” Papá said. “See how many names you can find before dinner.”
Javi and Lily raced to the front room. Lily opened FamilySearch on her phone, and Javi worked on Papá’s laptop. Soon he found a record for his great-grandfather’s brother. It also listed three children who hadn’t been baptized. Javi whooped. He had found three names to send to the temple!
For 60 days Javi spent most of his free time doing family history. He searched for names almost every night after school. On Sundays, his whole family worked on it together.
At the end of the 60 days, Javi and his family went to the church building for the party. There were tacos, music, and lots of people. It was fun!
Finally, the stake president stood up.
“I am so proud of everyone,” he said. “Our stake found 10,000 names for the temple!”
Everyone cheered. Javi’s eyes got wide. That was twice as many as their goal!
Then the stake president announced the winners. The adult winner was a woman Javi didn’t know, but the youth winner was Lily!
“Now for the children. We had someone send in 216 names,” said the stake president. The crowd clapped so loudly that Javi couldn’t hear what the stake president said next.
Javi’s father nudged him. “Javi, he said your name.”
Javi could hardly believe it. Had he really sent in 216 names?
Javi walked to the front. He smiled big as the stake president shook his hand and handed him a certificate. It had his name on it!
“How does it feel to win?” the stake president asked.
“Really good,” Javi said.
It did feel good to win. And it felt really good to have learned a way to help so many people!
Illustration by Josh Talbot

Maybe you have felt similar as your efforts at sharing the gospel have seemed to come to naught. Ross Pooley of the Bridlington Ward felt so as he came to the end of his two-year mission to Scotland. Speaking to his Mission President he said, “I was very emotional and expressed my love for my mission, but also some feeling of regret in failing to baptise during my two years of service.”

Fast forward forty years and the picture looks very different. Thinking about a family he taught while on his mission, but who never committed to baptism, he decided to look them up. Deeply religious and long-time investigators of the Church, they started to attend Latter-day Saint meetings in 1999 while living in Independence, Missouri and twenty years later were baptised.
While serving in Dundee, Ross and his companion reactivated a young man and his mother. “I didn’t realise the impact until ten years after my mission when I met him at a reunion of all British missionaries. He had served a mission in America and baptised twenty-four people, was married with children and working at the Church offices in Frankfurt.”
Another great man that Ross worked with sadly stopped attending church many years later and was excommunicated. “On trying to keep up with people from those days, I found out from members that he had returned and through communication with him, I was able to be with him in the Preston Temple on the day his endowment was restored for him.”
Shortly after returning from his mission Ross went to work for a packaging and printing company in West London. During break times the men would meet in a smoke-filled room to play darts. Ross chose to stay at his workstation and read the Book of Mormon. One of the female packers asked him why he didn’t join the others and Ross took the opportunity to tell her about the word of wisdom and shared gospel principles with her. Not long after that conversation he changed jobs.
A couple of years later, while serving as a bishop, he received information about a new family moving into his ward. He felt he knew the name and to his delight found it to be that of the lady with whom he’d had the gospel discussion. Along with her husband and son she had joined the Church not long after her breaktime discussion with Ross.
Years later in York, whilst serving as a home teacher with his son, they were assigned to a less active family who would not let them into their home. On birthdays and at Christmas they would leave gifts and cards hoping for an opportunity to teach in their home. One day, as they went out to visit others, they felt prompted to try once more. As they knocked on the door, their son informed them that the family were all at the hospital where their daughter was giving birth. Quickly buying flowers and a card they headed to the hospital to offer any support or help they could give the family. Because of this they were able to minister to the family who gradually returned to activity.
Ross said, “As I reflect on the many experiences I have had in sharing the gospel, I wonder what effect it has had on those people. There may be in our lives hearts that have been changed without us even knowing. Each of us is placed with opportunities to further His plan. There is no accident as to where we live and who we meet. We are all involved in Heavenly Father’s plan and should take every opportunity to share the gospel at all times and in all places. He will make the changes in the lives of His children at the best time for their progress, whether it be in this life or in the spirit world.”
Samuel Smith felt he had been a failure, but the one Book of Mormon he managed to give away made its way into the hands of Brigham Young, who passed it to Heber C Kimball. We too can see amazing results if we but try.

I used to listen to music at every possible moment. It got me up for seminary and then on to school. I couldn’t drive unless I had a CD to play. The thing was, the music I used to listen to was not happy. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but it didn’t make me feel good.
I listened to it because it was cool, and because I always listened to it, I never felt good. It changed my attitude about everything I did, the way I saw the world and the people in it. I didn’t know how to get out of this cycle of negative emotion. It was a part of my identity, and there seemed to be no way out.
When my brother left on his mission, I was impressed by his willingness to adhere to the strict lifestyle so readily. He wouldn’t be able to choose whatever he wanted to read or listen to for two years. I thought about my music, and how I could be doing so much better. I decided that if he could go two years only listening to hymns and Primary songs, then I could at least reconsider my own listening habits.
It was hard, but I immediately gave away some CDs and threw away others. The music that I was so attached to was part of my high school identity, but thinking about my brother’s example gave me courage and resolve to change.
For nine months straight I listened to nothing but classical, instrumental, and easy listening. I noticed very quickly that I was happier, I thought more clearly, and my days seemed to go smoother. I was more prepared to feel the Spirit and learn in seminary each morning. My entire outlook on life changed for the better.
After my brother returned, I gradually started listening to some popular music, but I gravitated to positive, upbeat, and clean songs. Going through that musical cleansing period made me more sensitive to how music affected the way I thought and felt. I chose music that made me feel good instead of what was considered popular or cool. I know that these choices brought the Spirit back into my life, and because I have the Spirit with me, I feel lighter, happier, and I am able to enjoy life more fully.

Larry loved to jump and run races and ride his bike and climb trees. So when it came time for Primary, he had a hard time sitting still. Every time he sat down in his chair, he felt like standing right back up. He tapped his toes on the floor. He squirmed in his seat. He tugged on his lip.
Sister Valencia showed their class a picture of Jesus and told them some of the special names for Him. “We call Him our Exemplar,” she said. “It’s a big word, but it means someone who’s a good example. What are some ways Jesus was a good example?”
“He was nice to people who were mean to Him!” Chloe said.
“He chose the right!” Philippe said.
“He was a good friend,” Chad said.
“You’re all right,” Sister Valencia said. “Jesus loved His enemies, He always stood up for what’s right, and He was a wonderful friend. So if we want to be like Jesus—“
“—we should be a good friend!” Larry said.
Sister Valencia nodded. “Exactly. Jesus was a good example to everyone because He was a friend to everyone. He wants us to be friends to everyone too.”
At the end of the lesson, the class lined up at the door to walk into sharing time. When they got into the Primary room, another boy was already in the seat where Larry usually sat. Larry knew the boy’s name was Brennan and that he had something called autism. Larry wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew Brennan had a hard time sitting still and shouted things out when they were supposed to be reverent and sometimes cried loudly. Brennan’s mom usually came in to sit with him. Larry didn’t know Brennan well yet.
Larry slumped down in the chair next to Brennan, feeling a little grumpy that he had to sit in a different seat. Then, when sharing time started, Larry felt his wiggles coming on. He kicked the chair in front of him. Clack! Then he heard another loud clack. Brennan had kicked the chair in front of him too!
Brennan’s mom softly asked Brennan to be quiet.
Larry bounced up and down on his chair. Brennan bounced too. Larry looked at Brennan and sighed loudly. Brennan sighed louder. Why was Brennan copying everything he was doing?
Larry made a mean face at Brennan and leaned away. Brennan copied him, twisting his mouth into an ugly frown. Larry looked at him in surprise. Is that what Larry’s face looked like? He didn’t like seeing such a mean face glaring at him like that. He didn’t like it at all!
Suddenly Larry remembered what Sister Valencia had said about Jesus being an example and a friend. Jesus wouldn’t make a mean face at Brennan, Larry thought. Jesus would help Brennan. Larry decided to give it a try.
He stopped kicking the chair—and Brennan stopped kicking too. He folded his arms—and Brennan folded his arms too. He turned his head and faced the teacher—and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brennan face the front too. Larry grinned.
During singing time Larry sang with his best voice and heard Brennan singing loud too. Brennan’s mom smiled at Larry with a smile that lit up her whole face. Larry felt warm inside. He could be like Jesus!—an example and a friend.