Gospel Story Finder

I am acquainted with a family that came to America from Germany. The English language was difficult for them. They had but little by way of means, but each was blessed with the will to work and with a love of God.

Their third child was born, lived but two months, and then died. The father was a cabinetmaker and fashioned a beautiful casket for the body of his precious child. The day of the funeral was gloomy, thus reflecting the sadness they felt in their loss. As the family walked to the chapel, with Father carrying the tiny casket, a small number of friends had gathered. However, the chapel door was locked. The busy bishop had forgotten the funeral. Attempts to reach him were futile. Not knowing what to do, the father placed the casket under his arm and, with his family beside him, carried it home, walking in a drenching rain.

If the family were of a lesser character, they could have blamed the bishop and harbored ill feelings. When the bishop discovered the tragedy, he visited the family and apologized. With the hurt still evident in his expression, but with tears in his eyes, the father accepted the apology, and the two embraced in a spirit of understanding. No hidden wedge was left to cause further feelings of anger. Love and acceptance prevailed.

Another awakening came when Heath was ten. He was already a great swimmer and he knew it. At one meet in particular, Heath had won several races and then proceeded to tell—even brag—to everybody about his accomplishments. “I had five or six blue ribbons and I was going around to everybody else saying, ‘I got these. What do you have?’ A friend of mine who was probably about 15 had been watching me and she just stopped me dead and said, ‘Why are you so arrogant? You’re the cockiest little boy. You need to grow up,’” Heath says, remembering the incident very well. “After she talked to me, I promised myself I would never do that anymore and I don’t think I have.”
Heath, much more humble now, still remembers the girl’s words: “You need to grow up.” Seven years later, anybody who knows Heath could pass along this message to that same girl: He has.

Bus drivers came and went on the school bus. Then, when Mr. Turner took over the job as the newest driver, people said, “He won’t last till Christmas! Those kids are the noisiest bunch in the world. They’re enough to drive any driver crazy!”
But this bus driver came and he stayed. The first day, when the noise got to the explosion point, he stopped the bus and stood facing the children, wearing a big smile. This really scared all the kids. No bus driver had ever smiled at them before.
“Watch it,” whispered one boy. “He’s going to take us hostage.”
“You’ve been watching too many news broadcasts,” commented another.
Suddenly there was a flash of lightning and then a roll of thunder. Huge raindrops were pelting the top of the bus. “Do any of you know ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’? I always sing that song when it rains,” said Mr. Turner. “The back three rows will lead off, the middle three rows will go second, and the rest of us up front will finish off the round. All right now, one time through. Row it!”
The kids were so startled by this strange turn of events that they were already sitting with their mouths open. It was just natural for them to let the words come out, and they began to sing.
Mr. Turner took his seat—still singing in a booming voice—and continued driving toward school in the midst of a happy, glorious sound.
Well, soon these kids found out that there were a lot of things that Mr. Turner always did. Besides singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” when it rained, he always waited a bit longer at each stop if some girl had to make a mad, wet dash for the bus. He always sang “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight” on very cold days. He would sneak a hand warmer to children who had to walk the farthest to the bus stop or had holes in their mittens.
Mr. Turner was no doubt the biggest tease in all the world. When someone got on the bus, he’d say, “What are we having for lunch today? I appreciated that apple yesterday, for I was getting downright burned out from a steady diet of caviar sandwiches. Don’t you kids eat anything but caviar? Boy! I’d settle for a mustard-soaked sardine once in a while.”
No one had really given him an apple. And no one ever gave him their lunch, but it never stopped him from teasing. It kept them guessing and it kept them quiet, just wondering what he was going to say to the next one who got on. He begged for everything, from peeled turnips to frog legs. He accused them of being blackhearted scoundrels for not bringing him toasted croutons and bib lettuce. “Yuck!” he snarled. “One more of your egg salad sandwiches and I’ll turn in my driver’s license.”
When it came Christmastime, the children sang carols loud and long. And Mr. Turner would say, “Hold back a little. You’re getting too good. Let’s hear a rusty note or two. You have the whole countryside jealous already, and if you come out with just one more perfect pitch, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir will be on our backs. OK, let’s hear some Gravel Gerties now!” So everyone tried even harder to sing beautifully.
Right before Christmas, he demanded that they walk through “security” like at airports, so he could X-ray their lunch boxes for any hidden Christmas goodies. He placed a tall, round wastebasket just inside the front door and demanded that they empty all their goodies into it. No one did. They laughed and threw in gum wrappers instead.
Mr. Turner mocked, “Now you kids cut that out. I can only take so much laughter and then I break out in hives.”
The children stopped laughing long enough to whisper. But soon their whispers became so rapid, so intense, that their driver grumbled, “Cut that out! You sound like a bunch of bees when their hive has been mortared shut. I can’t stand secrets. It brings out the worst in me.” He didn’t scare anyone.
The last day before school closed for Christmas vacation, the kids got on the bus, put their noses in the air, and walked silently by him, even while he begged for strange foods, threatened them with wild punishments, and flashed his pretend X-ray machine at them.
When they came to the first stop on the trip home, the rider didn’t get off. He stopped short of the door and said, “All right, Mr. Turner, this is it. We’re a bunch of wild and woolly kids, and we’re not going to let it get out that you lasted as our bus driver until Christmas.”
All the other kids leaped from their seats and shouted agreement. The shouts were so loud that Mr. Turner grabbed some earmuffs from one of the boys and socked them onto his own ears. Then he demanded, “What’s this? You kids hijacking my bus?”
“Nope, Mr. Turner, we’re hijacking you. Turn around and don’t move and …
“HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!” they all shouted.
Instantly two girls’ umbrellas went up and tinsel dropped from the ribs, making fascinating Christmas trees. Lunch boxes were opened and out came a marvelous array of Christmas cookies. Some were shaped like sardines, others like frog legs or mushrooms, and just about every other silly thing he had teased them for. When someone pounded on the front door of his bus, Mr. Turner was forced to open it. There stood some mothers with a thermos of hot chocolate, cups, and Christmas napkins. Then the singing of carols began.
“Stop the music! Stop the music!” I can’t have this sort of thing happen to my perfect record. I’ve never gotten a child home late this year, and now you’re throwing a blast that is shooting my record right through the roof.”
But everyone kept on singing, and Mr. Turner kept on stuffing cookies into his mouth, his shirt pockets, pants pockets, and a couple even into the tops of his snowboots.
Said one of the mothers, “A man that crazy just might last as our kids’ bus driver until June.”

During a childhood camping trip, Elder Steven R. Bangerter and his family rode dirt bikes to the top of a mountain. On the way down, he lost his way and became separated from the others.
As he knelt that afternoon and pleaded with his Father in Heaven for help, in his mind’s eye he saw the trail he had lost. Just as he started down it, “my brother reached the top of the trail on his motorcycle, embraced me, and guided me back through the dark to the camp, which was hours away.”

A small branch with big ideas can accomplish a lot—and do a lot of good at the same time, too. That’s what the members of the Toukley Branch, Sydney Australia Newcastle Stake, discovered when they pooled their talents to put on a family fun musical that helped strengthen testimonies and introduce nonmembers to the Church.
Twenty parents and 21 youths worked together for five months of rehearsals to perfect the show. The parents helped with make-up, costumes, ticket sales, promotion, and orchestra, and the young people performed on stage.
“It made me feel good to have mum in the production,” said Shelly Benson, one of the performers. “I felt that I could lean on her for encouragement.”
The purposes behind the show were to help the building fund (the branch has land but not a chapel), to commemorate the Sesquicentennial, to serve as a missionary tool, and to create a fun experience for adults and the youth of the branch.
Sister Gayle Shearim wrote the play, weaving in concepts from the plan of salvation. Because the Toukley Branch is small, she invited members from neighboring wards to participate, too. Since the stake boundaries are 150 miles north to south, and 40 miles across, some participants had quite a commute.
But the results made all the hard work worth it, they said. Not only did the show bring the performers closer, two baptisms were reported as a direct result of the play, two inactive members were reactivated, and over 2,000 people were exposed to the gospel in Sydney, Newcastle, Gosford, and Toukley, Australia—big results for a little branch.

Many can bear testimony of how the Lord has led them to the truth by dream or in a miraculous manner. My wife’s grandfather down in the South dreamed one night that an unusually tall man and a short one came up the Catawba River and visited him. They had something precious to give him. All the next day he watched the road that passed his home. At length he saw them in the distance as he had seen them in his dream. He went out to meet them. They announced themselves as Mormon missionaries, and he gladly accepted baptism at their hands.

It all started when my stake set up a project to help refugees. I really liked the project, so I asked my mom to tell my schoolteacher about it, and my teacher wanted to do something with the fourth grade. To set the example for the project, my sister, Maddie, and I went door to door asking for donations.
The day came to present the project to the rest of the fourth grade. I was a bit nervous. Actually, I was super freaked out, but I did my best. I told all the other fourth graders what we needed for school kits for the refugees. I told about how we went door to door, and I gave them a challenge to try to do better than me in raising money. Together we made over 100 kits! We put in notebooks, pencils, and other school supplies. We also added a note to say, “Welcome to Germany.”
My mom and I took the kits to the refugee camp. I wouldn’t say the camp was nice, but there was a playground and an area for learning academics. There was a train next to the camp that was really loud, and the kids told me it sounded like jets flying by in Syria and other places like that. Maybe it sounded like bombs to the kids who had heard them in their home countries.
I met a few kids at the camp my age, including Daniel, an awesome chess player. I didn’t get to play chess against him, which was too bad because I love chess, but they invited me to play foosball and ping-pong. The boys told me that they missed their homes and really wanted to leave the camp and go to school again.
After we played foosball and ping-pong, we handed out the kits. I feel good that I could do something kind for the kids who lived at the camps.

“But how can you go on a mission? I’m getting married, and you’re the only member of my family who can come. You’re my mom! I mean, it’s only the most important day of my life. What kind of wedding is it going to be for me with no family to celebrate?”
I remember the conversation as if it were yesterday. I was a freshman from California going to Brigham Young University planning to marry George, a quiet boy from Manti, Utah, who had just returned from his mission to Italy. My parents had divorced when I was 12, but I had a wonderful non-LDS father, two inactive sisters, and a devout and adventurous LDS mom who, at age 47, had decided to go on a mission. She would leave just months before my scheduled wedding day in the Manti Utah Temple.
Mom hadn’t intentionally planned to miss my wedding, but she hadn’t told anyone about sending in her mission papers. George and I had surprised everyone, including ourselves, with a Valentine engagement and a May wedding date. I cried for days. It seemed the event I’d been so anxiously awaiting was now a source of great sorrow and disappointment.
George called my dad to explain why we were getting married in the temple, since my dad would not be able to attend. My father’s voice was thick with emotion as he questioned my fiancé. George explained how much he loved me and how he wanted to convey that love by entering into a marriage that, if worked toward, would last through eternity. He also told my father how much we loved and respected him.
My father shared his feelings of love for us and said he understood, but listening on the other line, I could hear tones of doubt and disappointment in his voice. I was his youngest child, and he wouldn’t even have the chance to give me away in a traditional wedding. I hung up the phone and cried for two more days.
My mom left for her mission, and I concentrated on school and preparing for finals. Preparations for my May wedding almost became an afterthought. In fact, my attention would not have been as focused on wedding plans if a girl in my dorm, Teresa, had not also become engaged on Valentine’s Day.
Teresa and her fiancé were planning to marry in the Salt Lake Temple and have a large reception afterwards. Each weekend she would go to Salt Lake to work with her mother on the preparations. And each Monday, Teresa would return with stories about their progress, including a detailed description of her beautiful dress.
I was making my own dress, and since I only managed a C minus on my apron project in 10th grade home economics class, the design was, needless to say, simple. I had chosen cotton material with six satin-covered buttons down the front and a bit of lace around each cuff. It cost 30 dollars. My terrific dorm mom helped me put it together during finals week.
I remember sitting at the sewing machine late one night picking out stitches from yet another seam and grumbling about Teresa’s professional fittings into a gown with yards and yards of cascading white satin draped with hand-sewn French lace. I could imagine that Teresa must look like a dream bride as the seamstress would pamper and pin and her mother would compliment and cry.
I’d cry, too, every time I thought about Teresa and her plans. It wasn’t that Teresa was flaunting her good fortune. It was me, not she, who had some repenting to do.
I awoke on my wedding day to sunshine and the smell of lilacs. I pushed open the small second-story window and felt a gentle May breeze dance its way past me into the room. The Manti Utah Temple stood gleaming on the hillside, beckoning.
As I turned from the window, I saw my simple white dress hanging on a wall hook by the side of the bed. Someone had lovingly pressed out the travel wrinkles and quietly hung it there while I was sleeping. Tears welled up in my eyes. I missed my mom, dad, and sisters. I wanted them with me. How could I possibly get married with no family, no reception, and no gorgeous gown?
Then, as my eyes rested on my 30-dollar dress, the Spirit spoke clearly to my soul: What you do in faith is rewarded in power.
I caught my breath. I wasn’t marrying for this moment, or even this lifetime, but for eternity. Against earthly disappointments, I was manifesting my testimony in action. I loved my Heavenly Father, I had faith in His system of marriage, and because of that faith He would bless our union with power.
It was true. We are now celebrating nearly 30 years of joyful commitment. Even though there have been times of miscommunication, disappointment, and struggle, the power of eternal bonding has pulled us through. We look across the breakfast table at each other and think, There is my very best friend.
The power has also extended to other family members. My mother and I are great friends. And my father, even though he has now passed on, truly did honor and respect George and me as “young people with stability in this crazy, mixed-up world.” My sisters, although still not active in the Church, are beginning to see some consistency in what George and I have put together.
Please don’t think I’m flaunting my good fortune. I’m just so exuberant about the wondrous ability God has to bless our lives if we put our faith in Him. It’s that simple. Love Him, trust Him, and the miracle of eternal sealing can happen, even in a 30-dollar dress.

Elder Ribeiro’s family joined the Church in 1978, when he was 11 years old. While his grandparents and mother were very religious people, his father’s beliefs remained a mystery. He had never spoken to his children about God. One day, when the family was enjoying a holiday in Lisboa, his father met the missionaries in the street. To the surprise of the family, he gave them their address. Since their address was hard to find, he said he didn’t think the missionaries would ever find them. Then one day they heard a knock at the door, and it was the missionaries.
Since his father was a man of honour, he allowed the church representatives to come in and teach the missionary lessons. After the first lesson, they gave him a Book of Mormon. During the second lesson, the missionaries felt inspired to invite him to be baptized. He accepted and the whole family joined the Church.

Not long ago, I sat in the Draper Temple, observing the sealing of a beautiful young couple. I marveled because I had some knowledge of the groom’s dark past. I did not know everything he had been involved in; I just knew that he had been involved in, well, pretty much everything. He had fallen deep and far. If there be no Christ, that young man does not change; that young man cannot change. Yet there he was in the sealing room, changed. I searched his face, trying to detect some residue from his dark past, but there was none. Instead, his countenance shone with light and love and hope and joy. Why? Because there is a Christ, and His Atonement leaves no tracks, no traces.

No matter how far or how deep you may have fallen, Jesus has descended farther and deeper. During His descent, He became acquainted with your grief, and He was bruised by your iniquities.31 He voluntarily did this so that He could bring you back home where you belong. Nor is it His aim to simply save you by the skin of your teeth. No, His promise is sure: “I am able to make you holy”32—without spot.

May 26, 1853 I went to Fourchu, a place 6 or 7 miles from Gabarouse. On my way along the beach I saw a large duck on the waves, picking among the kelp. This was a desolate place, no houses for 6 or 7 miles. The Spirit said to me, “You are going among strangers. No Saints there. Take the bird with you.” So I sat down right where the wave broke and the bird floated straight towards me, picking among the kelp and sea weed. When it got close to the shore it put its head under its wing, so I jumped and caught it. It was lively enough then and tried to get away. So when I got to Fourchu (6) I went to a house, asked if that was Mr. Cann’s. They said yes. I told them I had come over from Gabarouse to preach the Gospel to them. I had forgotten the duck. I then happened to notice them looking at it. Says I, “Here is a bird. I saw it out on the water and I thought I would bring it along, that it might be good to eat.” Says he, “Is it hurt?” “No, Sir.” I handed it to him. Heexamined it very close and said it was all right. It was cooked. We ate it. It was fat and good. A few came in. We had a meeting. The sectarian minister had poisoned the minds of the people, but Mr. Cann and family treated me very kindly … and spoke favorably to others of me.

Suluya Racule, three weeks older than Vani, faces her own challenges. Suluya didn’t grow up in the Church, although it seemed like she did. She began attending Primary when she was nine because her aunt, a Church member, was a Primary teacher. She spent the first 15 years of her life as a nonmember, even though she knew a lot about the gospel. And she kept going to church even when her aunt and uncle moved to Tonga. But her membership status changed from nonmember to member in December 1995 when she was finally able to be baptized.

Even now, almost four years later, Suluya is still the only member of the Church in her immediate family.

“My parents were against my getting baptized. They thought I was too young to know the truth, and they thought I should go around to other churches and see what they were like before I decided,” she remembers. “But I had this strong feeling inside of me that this was the true church. I couldn’t think of any other church to go to.”

Maybe it takes a little adversity—or even a lot of it—to truly appreciate what you have. Vani admits it’s been difficult at times not having her mom and dad around. Suluya, meanwhile, would like nothing better than to have her family join her on Sundays. For now, she goes to church alone.

When Suluya is asked about her conversion, she gladly shares the details of her Christmas Eve baptism. She fairly beams as she remembers that day. Suluya then mentions the death of her father two years ago. “Heart failure.” He was 47. The conversation switches gears.

“Although I’ve always wanted my family to join the Church, his death has encouraged me even more to help my mom and my sister get baptized. I’m trying so hard to get them to come to church with me,” she says. When Suluya was baptized, her family didn’t attend the service. “But they understand that the Church is a commitment to me, and they respect my decision and support me. Still, it’s hard to see families sitting together at church, and my family isn’t there. When you have something this good, you want to share it with your family.”

Suluya admits she was closer to her father than to her mother, but accepts that maybe in some ways his death was a blessing. “It’s brought my sister and me closer to our mom. We’ve really gotten to know our mom better,” she explains.

In the evening of the first day that I arrived in Preston [England], my companion, who was the district president, said we would go down to the marketplace and hold a street meeting. There, Elder Bramwell and I raised our voices in a hymn, offered prayer, and preached the gospel to a gathering crowd.
I feel especially fortunate to have been sent to Preston as my initial missionary assignment. Not only did I labor there, but I labored in the surrounding towns where the first missionaries in England taught the gospel. I was not as effective as were they. When they first arrived, there evidently was little or no prejudice against them. When I arrived, it seemed that everyone was prejudiced against us.
I was not well when I arrived. Those first few weeks, because of illness and the opposition which we felt, I was discouraged. I wrote a letter home to my good father and said that I felt I was wasting my time and his money. He was my father and my stake president, and he was a wise and inspired man. He wrote a very short letter to me which said, “Dear Gordon, I have your recent letter. I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.” Earlier that morning in our scripture class my companion and I had read these words of the Lord: “Whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel’s, the same shall save it” (Mark 8:35).
Those words of the Master, followed by my father’s letter with his counsel to forget myself and go to work, went into my very being (from Ensign, July 1987, 7).

Eliza wiped her brow as she began the evening meal. It seemed only yesterday that she had been in the cool, green Sussex countryside of England, among her beloved family and friends. Her husband, Edward, had owned a large fishing boat. Life had been pleasant and secure. Eliza smiled as she fixed dinner a short distance from the railway tracks. She thought back on the day the missionaries had taught her family the restored gospel. Accepting the gospel truths had added the missing spiritual knowledge their lives had lacked.
With Eliza’s conversion came an intense desire to join the Saints in the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. Whenever she had a farthing or two after meeting household expenses, she put them into her “emigration fund” and dreamed of the day they would sail to America.
Her reflections were interrupted as little Keziah and Keturah called to her to share their discovery of a pretty pebble. Her daughters, aged four and two, were truly a delight to her. Their simple joys at seeing gophers, sunflowers, and buffalo as they crossed the United States made their trip bearable. Still, Eliza worried about their future.
If not for the gospel, the future would have been very bleak the day a violent storm had sunk Edward’s boat, even though it had been secured to the dock. With the irreplaceable loss, Edward had carefully weighed their alternatives and decided to go to America. Eliza remembered how her heart had leaped at the prospect of a home where their children could grow up within the shadows of the temple that was being built.
Friends in England had scoffed at their “foolishness”. So what if they had run into a bit of bad luck. That was no reason to abandon their home and livelihood and head off to America. Didn’t they care about their children’s future? Why, Edward, Jr. was only six weeks old. Surely he would never survive such a journey! Besides, they had no money except the little that Eliza had managed to save.
But Edward and Eliza were determined. By selling their household goods, they raised enough money to travel from Sussex to Liverpool and to partially secure passage to New York aboard the Hudson. To help pay the rest of their passage, Edward worked on the ship as a cook.
Eliza’s thoughts again returned to the present as the sun began to set. She called her daughters and husband to eat the meager meal of ash cakes, jerky, and dried fruit.
Upon arriving in New York, she had written to their families in England that she and Edward and the children were all well and that the six-week crossing of the Atlantic had been uneventful, in calm weather, and with no awful sickness.
Indeed, the real challenges had begun after they’d arrived in New York. In order to get to the Missouri River, where they would be outfitted with a small wagon, they had to ride the train in open cattle cars because all other kinds of cars were being used in the Civil War. At times there was barely standing room in the cattle cars! Some passengers sat in the doorways, their legs dangling precariously over the edge. The pungent odors of so many people traveling in such crowded conditions, mixed with the stench the cattle had left behind, made the journey very unpleasant.
Not only were the cattle cars crowded and uncomfortable, but also dangers abounded. Once, sparks from the wood-burning engine flew wildly about and set some of the passengers’ clothing on fire. Fortunately the flames were quickly smothered by nearby travelers.
Times like this evening, when the train stopped for a while, were a blessing—families could eat together away from the noisy crowds and the heat and smell of the cattle cars. Keturah and Keziah especially enjoyed running and stretching their legs, breathing fresh air, and not worrying about soot or sparks from the engine. Even baby Edward cooed and smiled when Eliza placed him on a blanket in the cool shade of a bush before preparing dinner.
The call of “All aboard!” interrupted their meal. Hastily the family gathered their few belongings, and Eliza told Keziah and Keturah to take their father’s hands.
Turning to pick up baby Edward, Eliza’s heart leaped into her throat. Her precious babe was not where she had laid him just an hour earlier! Keziah and Keturah said that they hadn’t moved their baby brother while playing. Frantically the family began to search the nearby bushes. While she searched, Eliza fervently prayed for Heavenly Father’s help in finding her son.
“All aboard!” sounded in Eliza’s ears again. The train was about to leave!
Suddenly a flash of lightning lit the sky, and she saw where her sleeping son lay. Scooping him up, she gratefully thanked Heavenly Father for His loving and watchful care.
It didn’t matter to Eliza that she had sacrificed much for the gospel, or that she would ride many more miles in cattle cars before walking west alongside a wagon for hundreds of miles more. She was just grateful for the gospel and the knowledge it gave her of a loving Heavenly Father Who was watching over her and her family.

Most of us have memories of perfect days—days that stand apart from the rest because something or someone made them unforgettable. One of mine happened when I was in the fifth grade. On a particularly bleak Saturday morning in January, my father suddenly announced that we were going skiing.
“All of us?” I asked, thinking of my brothers, John and Jim.
“No,” he responded, “just you and I.”
He urged me to finish my breakfast in a hurry as he gathered our equipment together. Half an hour later we were heading up Provo Canyon to the old Timp Haven ski resort. Dad and I spent the entire morning there, perfecting our snowplows and challenging one another to races. Later that day, after thoroughly exhausting ourselves on the slopes, we traveled to my Grandpa Edwards’s warehouse where we helped him and other family members bag potatoes for hauling. Although it was cold outside, dad worked so hard that huge beads of perspiration rolled freely off his forehead. Afterwards, he and I went to a nearby drive-in and had hamburgers, fries, and shakes—just the two of us.

Ernie is Molly’s closest friend (besides her parents; grandmother; and older sisters, Gerri, Linda, and Sherry, who are grown up and married and living in other towns). Molly named Ernie even before he chose her. Yes, he chose her. He was one of a litter of puppies born to her grandma’s neighbor’s dog. When the puppies were old enough to leave their mother, Molly called, “Here, Ernie,” and he was the one that came! He’s a friendly dog and loves and protects her.

Another common experience with light helps us learn an additional truth about the “line upon line, precept upon precept” pattern of revelation. Sometimes the sun rises on a morning that is cloudy or foggy. Because of the overcast conditions, perceiving the light is more difficult, and identifying the precise moment when the sun rises over the horizon is not possible. But on such a morning we nonetheless have sufficient light to recognize a new day and to conduct our affairs.
In a similar way, we many times receive revelation without recognizing precisely how or when we are receiving revelation. An important episode from Church history illustrates this principle.
In the spring of 1829, Oliver Cowdery was a schoolteacher in Palmyra, New York. As he learned about Joseph Smith and the work of translating the Book of Mormon, Oliver felt impressed to offer his assistance to the young prophet. Consequently, he traveled to Harmony, Pennsylvania, and became Joseph’s scribe. The timing of his arrival and the help he provided were vital to the coming forth of the Book of Mormon.
The Savior subsequently revealed to Oliver that as often as he had prayed for guidance, he had received direction from the Spirit of the Lord. “If it had not been so,” the Lord declared, “thou wouldst not have come to the place where thou art at this time. Behold, thou knowest that thou hast inquired of me and I did enlighten thy mind; and now I tell thee these things that thou mayest know that thou hast been enlightened by the Spirit of truth” (D&C 6:14–15).
Thus, Oliver received a revelation through the Prophet Joseph Smith informing him that he had been receiving revelation. Apparently Oliver had not recognized how and when he had been receiving direction from God and needed this instruction to increase his understanding about the spirit of revelation. In essence, Oliver had been walking in the light as the sun was rising on a cloudy morning.
In many of the uncertainties and challenges we encounter in our lives, God requires us to do our best, to act and not be acted upon (see 2 Nephi 2:26), and to trust in Him. We may not see angels, hear heavenly voices, or receive overwhelming spiritual impressions. We frequently may press forward hoping and praying—but without absolute assurance—that we are acting in accordance with God’s will. But as we honor our covenants and keep the commandments, as we strive ever more consistently to do good and to become better, we can walk with the confidence that God will guide our steps. And we can speak with the assurance that God will inspire our utterances. This is in part the meaning of the scripture that declares, “Then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God” (D&C 121:45).
As you appropriately seek for and apply unto the spirit of revelation, I promise you will “walk in the light of the Lord” (Isaiah 2:5; 2 Nephi 12:5). Sometimes the spirit of revelation will operate immediately and intensely, other times subtly and gradually, and often so delicately you may not even consciously recognize it. But regardless of the pattern whereby this blessing is received, the light it provides will illuminate and enlarge your soul, enlighten your understanding (see Alma 5:7; 32:28), and direct and protect you and your family.
I declare my apostolic witness that the Father and the Son live. The spirit of revelation is real—and can and does function in our individual lives and in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I testify of these truths in the sacred name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

Another time—it was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, about 1943—I went to priesthood meeting. There was a large framed board. It had the pictures of all the young men serving in the military. Priests who had been at the sacrament table a few months earlier were now in the war. Each week it would be updated. Those who were killed in action had a gold star by their picture; those who had been wounded, a red star; and those missing in action, a white star. Every week, as a 12-year-old deacon, I checked to see who had been killed or wounded.

In quorum meeting that morning, the member of the bishopric said, “This Thursday is Thanksgiving. We ought to all have family prayer in our homes.” Then he said, “Let’s put on the blackboard the things we are grateful for.” We did, and he said, “Include these things in your Thanksgiving prayer.” I got sick to my stomach, as we never had a prayer or blessing.

That night at 6:30 we went to sacrament meeting. At the end of the meeting, the bishop stood up and was very tender. He told about the young men from our ward who had been killed and wounded. He talked about our liberty, our freedom, our flag, and this great country, and our blessings. Then he said, “I’d hope every single family would kneel and have family prayer on Thanksgiving Day and thank God for His blessings.”

My heart ached. I thought, “How can we have family prayer?” I wanted to be obedient. I hardly slept all Sunday night. I wanted to have a prayer for Thanksgiving. I even thought I would say it if someone asked me, but I was too shy to volunteer. I worried all day Monday, and all day Tuesday, and Wednesday at school.

Dad did not come home on Wednesday until early in the morning. Thursday we all got up. There were five boys and two sisters. We skipped breakfast so we would have a real appetite for Thanksgiving dinner. To work up an appetite, we went to a nearby field and dug a hole six feet deep and six feet wide. We made a trench to it as a hideout. I remember with every shovelful of dirt, I thought, “Please, Heavenly Father, let us have a prayer.”

Finally at 2:30, my mother called us to come and eat. We cleaned up and sat at the table. Somehow Mom had managed to have a turkey with all the trimmings. She put all the food on the table, including the turkey. I thought my heart would burst. Time was running out. I looked at my father, then my mother. I thought, “Please, now, someone, anyone, please can’t we have a prayer.” I was almost panicky; then all of a sudden everyone started to eat. I had worked hard all morning and afternoon to work up an appetite, but I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t want to eat. I wanted to pray more than anything else in this world, and it was too late.

When I was a very young bishop in 1950, there was a tap at my door, and a good German brother from Ogden, Utah, announced himself as Karl Guertler.
He said, “Are you Bishop Monson?”
I answered in the affirmative.
He said, “My brother and his wife and their family are coming from Germany. They are going to live in your ward. Will you come with me to see the apartment we have rented for them?”
On the way to that apartment, he told me he had not seen his brother for something like thirty years. Yet all through the holocaust of World War II, his brother, Hans Guertler, had been faithful to the Church—an officer in the Hamburg Branch.
I looked at that apartment. It was cold; it was dreary; the paint was peeling from the walls; the cupboards were bare. What an uninviting home for the Christmas season of the year! I worried about it and I prayed about it, and then in our ward welfare committee meeting we did something about it.
The group leader of the high priests said, “I am an electrician. Let’s put good appliances in that apartment.”
The group leader of the seventies said, “I am in the floor-covering business. Let’s install new floor coverings.”
The elders quorum president said, “I am a painter. Let’s paint that apartment.”
The Relief Society representative spoke up, “Did you say those cupboards were bare?” They were not bare very long with the Relief Society in action.
Then the young people, represented through the Aaronic priesthood general secretary, said, “Let’s put a Christmas tree in the home, and let’s go among our young people and gather gifts to place under the tree.”
You should have seen that Christmas scene when the Guertler family arrived from Germany in clothing that was tattered and with faces that were drawn by the rigors of war and ­deprivation! As they went into their apartment they saw what had been in actual fact a transformation—a ­beautiful home.
We spontaneously began singing, “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright” (“Silent Night,” Hymns, 2002, no. 204). We sang in English; they sang in German.
At the conclusion of that hymn, Hans Guertler threw his arms around my neck, buried his face in my shoulder, and repeated over and over again those words which I shall never forget: “Mein Bruder, mein Bruder, mein Bruder.”
As we walked down the stairs that night—all of us who had participated in making Christmas come alive in the lives of this German ­family—we reflected upon the words of the Master: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).

May I share with you a beautiful missionary experience I encountered recently? I saw a miracle performed by one of your missionary sons who so dearly loved an investigator. I met this gentleman at a special fireside. He said, “I appreciate very much the young Mormon missionary who taught me the most important thing in life and gave me happiness. Sometime I would like to extend my sincere appreciation to the parents who taught him to so live the gospel.” With tears in his eyes, and as he was holding my hands, he said, “Oh, Elder Kikuchi, I thank our Heavenly Father for this glorious gospel,” and then he related the following story:
“One day eight years ago, on my way home from work, I was hit by a hit-and-run driver. For eleven days I was unconscious, and for two years I was in a hospital. When I was finally released from the hospital, my wife had left me and had taken the children with her. We had had a fine family life before the accident, but my life became a total wreck. I was lonesome and depressed, for I had lost my most precious possession—my family. I attempted suicide many times. My only living came from welfare. I was emotionally and physically exhausted; I had become a living vegetable. I couldn’t walk, so I would transport myself by rolling over on the floor and crawling on all fours.
“One evening I went to the hospital to see my doctor for the final results of a series of operations. He told me there was no hope for recovery. Though I had expected him to say so, it was still very shocking for me. All was lost. As I approached a railway bridge on my return from the doctor’s, I wept to see my own face in the wet reflection on the pavement. It was a pitiful sight.”
Brothers and sisters, just when he was about to jump in front of the oncoming train, he met one of your missionary sons.
Cottage meetings began immediately. In them, Mr. Sugiyama learned that the gospel is true, that Jesus Christ is our Savior, Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and the true church of God has been restored in this last dispensation.
As usual, missionaries invited him to church; however, because he couldn’t walk, he said he wouldn’t be able to come. But on the morning of the Sabbath, he awoke early and bravely headed for the church. Though it was close, it took him nearly three hours to traverse the distance between his home and the closest station to the Yokohama chapel. The Yokohama chapel is situated high upon a hill. From the station to the church it took him almost an hour, although ordinarily it would take a person only five minutes. He would cling to the wall, then fall down, only to struggle again to his feet. He finally reached the chapel where the sacrament was in progress. The missionaries had never expected him to come to church. But Brother Sugiyama felt the pure love of God from the missionaries and members and felt himself drawn to it.
Shortly afterward, Brother Sugiyama followed the Lord’s commandment by becoming baptized.
The morning following his baptism, he woke up bright and early. He stretched his legs out in preparation to roll over as usual. But this time, brothers and sisters, something was different. He felt strength in his legs, and his whole body surged with power. He sat up and gradually, eventually, stood on his feet. He hadn’t stood in years without other supports. He walked away that morning! He found that his body had been made whole.
Brother Sugiyama said, “Love hath made me whole, and I will go in peace in the Lord’s way.” Brothers and sisters, miracles are not the only evidences of the true Church of God, but we can learn much from the miracle performed by the Lord through a great young Mormon missionary who loved his investigator so much.