Gospel Story Finder

She was shy. I was outgoing. Why was she getting all the attention?
This question must have passed through my mind a million times every Sunday during my early teen years. Donna Gilliam was in my Beehive class, a quiet, pretty girl whose parents were deaf. Because of this she knew sign language perfectly. And all the adults thought that was so sweet. She would translate at Young Women functions, and the mothers would cry. She would translate at everything. And everyone, except me it seemed, was deeply moved.
That was a time in my life when I was selfish, wanting attention, wanting to be in the spotlight. But competing with Donna was impossible. In her shy way, she, and her family too, found a special place in our meetings and in the hearts of the ward members. Nevertheless, my jealousy continued.
A month after I turned 14, my mom was in a very serious car accident. Though she did not die, she suffered serious injuries. She had to stay in the hospital in traction for a month and a half. The accident happened in November, and it soon became clear that our mother would be spending Christmas in the hospital. Because it was important to include her in all the family activities we could, that meant we too would be spending Christmas in the hospital.
Others in my family looked forward to that Christmas as a growing experience. I viewed it as plain terrible.
I wasn’t much of a spiritual uplift to my family on Christmas Eve. I isolated myself in the corner of the hospital room and just sat there feeling terrible inside. We were all just looking at each other, about ready to open our presents, but somehow the usual anticipation and excitement of Christmas were absent.
That’s when Donna walked in.
“Hi, Sister Fee,” she said quietly to my mom as her parents came in behind her. “We just came by for a minute. We thought we might sing.”
We all looked up in surprise. Her parents were deaf! How could they sing? I put my presents to the side and lifted my head in interest. I wasn’t exactly happy that they were going to sing, considering my jealousy of Donna, but I listened anyway.
I wasn’t at all prepared for the feelings that burst from within me as I listened to their soft voices sing “Silent Night.” Their hands moved in simultaneous motions, telling of the Christ child and heavenly peace. Tears spilled from my eyes, though I tried to control them. I heard the soft crying of my mother from the hospital bed. Donna’s eyes were tear-filled too. It became all too clear to me that I had been unfair to her.
When the song ended, their hands rested at their sides. We all looked at each other, overcome with emotion. Then they left, as quietly as they had come. Still in the corner of the room, I pondered the new perspective I had gained. Why had I ever been jealous of her? She had a very special talent. She and her family had brought a special spirit into our Christmas, changing it from a gloomy one into a celebration of renewal and hope. The Spirit assured me that my mom would be okay. That Spirit also brought me a new realization that I had talents too.
Right there in that hospital room I then promised myself that I would work on my own talents and stop being jealous of others. With that goal in mind, I found peace within myself. The song repeated softly in my head, “Silent night, holy night.”
All was calm in my heart.

Last October my mom told my siblings and me to listen to ward business that Sunday instead of drawing. So when sacrament meeting started, I paid close attention to the opening prayer and the hymn. Once that was over, the person conducting the meeting asked the bishop to stand up. Then he said the bishop was being released.
He asked my dad, who was first counselor at the time, to stand up. Then he announced that my dad was going to be the new bishop!
I was really worried that something about my dad would change drastically. I had always thought bishops were people who were formal and serious, most unlike my dad. That they had perfectly well-behaved kids who sat quietly on the bench every week. That was not my family.
But I realized that bishops aren’t men with perfect families. They aren’t men who are solemn and serious. They are men with the priesthood. Men with strong, good testimonies.
I don’t know why the Lord chose my dad to be the bishop, but I know that He has His reasons. And I know that my dad did change … but not into a stiff and serious man I didn’t know. I could tell his testimony grew.
And so did mine.

Sophie’s grandparents live by the sea. Sophie and her younger brother, Jacob, love to help their grandmother clean the beach by carefully removing pieces of glass and other items. They make sure the beach is clean and safe for both animals and people.
Sophie says, “Jesus taught us to love each other and to help each other. Taking care of nature and helping to keep it clean and safe for humans and animals is a way of helping others. By taking care of the world around us, we take care of the home of all people. The world God created for us is a great blessing!”

I turned the corner of the street just in time to see the bus pulling up to my bus stop. I ran as fast as I could, running between pedestrians, and leaped onto the bus just as it began pulling away.
Buses in Manchester, England, were always crowded at this time of night, but I didn’t mind. As an American student at the Royal Northern College of Music, I didn’t have very much free time to meet the British people, so I looked forward to my crowded bus rides as opportunities to make new friends.
I finally found a seat next to a lovely young woman who was deeply involved in reading a pamphlet. I sat down quietly, trying not to disturb her, but I couldn’t help looking at what he was reading. It was a religious pamphlet that had the title, “Believe in Christ and Be Saved!” Further down the page I read the words, “We are saved by faith alone.” I looked up to find the young woman smiling at me curiously. “Oh, excuse me,” I said, “but I couldn’t help noticing your pamphlet. Are you interested in religion?”
“Oh, no!” she said in a strong, contented voice. “I’m already saved! I’m just reading this for fun. And what about you?” she asked. “Are you saved?”
I had never been asked the question in that way before, and I stammered with my answer, “Well, I’m … I’m … I’m trying! I am a Christian.”
“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!” she shouted in a loud voice, making several of the other passengers on the bus turn around to look at us. Then, a little more softly, she asked, “What is your church?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’m a Mormon.”
“Oh, no!” she whispered, leaning away from me with fear in her eyes. “Oh, I know about Mormons! You’re not Christian.”
“Yes, we are!” I said.
“No,” she said again. “No! I remember two Mormons came to my home once and told me that they had a message for me about Jesus Christ. I let them in to talk about Christ, and all we talked about was some man named Joseph Smith. I don’t believe in him, and they didn’t tell me about Christ. Your church isn’t Christian.”
She was so sure of her opinion that I didn’t know what to say in return. But then I heard myself talking about Joseph Smith and explaining why he was so important to the restoration of the true gospel. I told her about continuing revelation and bore my testimony of a living prophet on the earth today.
She listened politely for some time, then apologized as she stood up, “I’m sorry, but this is where I get off. It’s been nice talking to you, but I still say Mormons aren’t Christian.” With that, she got off the bus and left me staring after her.
I worried all the way home, and for the rest of the evening I couldn’t stop thinking of the young woman and her incorrect belief that Latter-day Saints didn’t believe in Christ. What could I say, if I ever met her again, to convince her that I did have a testimony of Christ and that I believed that I belonged to his church?
I turned to my scriptures, hoping to find some kind of answer or at least some comfort. I picked up my Book of Mormon, and in 2 Nephi I began to read the beautiful and plain words testifying of the Savior.
“And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins” (2 Ne. 25:26).
Since I had been studying in England, I had told many people on my bus about the Church. I had talked about Utah and Brigham Young University, about pioneers and prophets, about families, about developing talents and storing food. I had talked about Joseph Smith and the restoration of the gospel, and about missions and the scriptures. But had I ever “talked of Christ”?
In my prayers that night I gave sincere thanks for Jesus Christ, the reason this gospel and church are true, and the source we can look to for a remission of our sins. I also prayed that I would see again the young lady I had talked with on the bus, so that I could tell her about the most important part of my testimony, my belief in Christ.
I did see her again, the very next day on the same bus. She seemed happy to see me, and we chatted about the weather and my music classes. As we got closer to her stop, I turned to her nervously and said, “I forgot to tell you something about my church yesterday.”
I began to talk of Christ. The words were not eloquent or powerful, but I bore my testimony of Jesus Christ as our Savior and as the head of our church. “My church teaches its members many things,” I said. “Sometimes we get so caught up in these wonderful truths that we forget the most important truth we have, that Jesus is our Savior and is at the center of our church. I’m sorry I didn’t talk about him sooner.”
I talked about the scripture in 2 Nephi [2 Ne. 25:26] and told her that I knew the Book of Mormon was another testament of Christ.
The bus had stopped and people were pushing their way off. Without looking at me, the young woman got up and joined them. But as she got off the bus, she looked up at my window and called, “Thank you!”
I never saw her again. I don’t think she ran home to call the elders and ask to be baptized. But she did leave that bus knowing that I believed in Jesus Christ and that I knew The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is his Church and worships him.
How grateful I am for the powerful words of Nephi that reminded me of what it is we always ought to be teaching our brothers and sisters. In talking about the many wonderful blessings of our church, I hope I never again miss the opportunity to show, through words and actions, that at the center of our belief is Christ.

One day the missionaries gave her a special challenge.
“Will you try to pray during the week?” asked Elder Parker.
Up until now, Kelly had only prayed with the missionaries. But she wanted to try it on her own. She knew Heavenly Father was always listening, and He wanted to hear from her.
“I’ll do it,” she promised.
The next day at school was a special one. Kelly was going to sing in a competition! She had learned a beautiful new Chinese song. Learning all the notes and tones had been hard work! She had practiced and practiced and practiced.
Now that it was time to perform, Kelly was nervous. She pulled out the picture of Jesus she had put in the pocket of her school uniform that morning. She decided to say a prayer, like the missionaries had shown her. “Heavenly Father, please help me let go of my nervousness,” she prayed. “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Then Kelly stepped out onto the stage. She stared at the audience and the judges. She thought about the picture of Jesus in her pocket and felt a little bit better. She took a deep breath and started to sing.
She sang all the words just like she had practiced. As she sang the last note and took a bow, Kelly knew Heavenly Father had heard her prayer and helped her.
With a smile, Kelly walked off the stage. She couldn’t wait to tell the missionaries about what happened! She knew she wanted to keep praying every day.

I learned this truth in a profound way as a young mother when I was diagnosed with a rare and debilitating illness while expecting my youngest child.

There were days I begged Heavenly Father for relief. I pleaded for the protection and life of my unborn baby. I wondered if I could endure.

My prayers for healing were not answered in the way I wanted them to be, yet I was carried, carried by tender mercies and by small, quiet acts of service, most of them anonymous.

I will never forget one day that was particularly challenging. A soft knock on my front door led me to find a simple decoration someone had left on my porch. No note. No recognition. Just love. Done for me, because of Him.

It was a reminder that the love of God transforms the way we love one another.

I yanked the middle drawer right out of my dresser and rifled through it, hurling all the rejected clothing to the floor. It was “Bulldogs Wear Blue” day at school, I was late, and I still couldn’t find my Bulldogs sweatshirt. Finally recognizing a blue sleeve poking up out of the bottom drawer, I grabbed the wadded sweatshirt. Giving it a good stretch to try to pull out the wrinkles, I threw it over my head and rushed to the front door.
“‘Bye, Mom,” I said, smearing a kiss on her cheek and racing down the driveway toward the bus stop. From the sidewalk, I could see the last child boarding the bus.
“Here comes Michelle,” someone called to the driver. Then everyone on the bus turned to watch as I ran to it. Red-faced from running and from embarrassment, I slunk into the first available seat without ever looking up.
At school, I was halfway through the Pledge of Allegiance when I glanced at the chalkboard and realized that I had forgotten my homework. Last night I had struggled through a math story problem four times before I figured it out, and now I had left it home, where it would do me no good at all! When a day starts like this, it’s guaranteed to be rough. By the time the bell rang at three o’clock, I was miserable.
I trudged home from the bus stop, rehearsing my troubles of the day. Maybe Mom made some of her delicious peanut-butter cookies, I thought. The chewy ones with the crisscross marks on the top. Warm. With milk. I couldn’t wait!
My happy thoughts quickly disappeared when I walked into the kitchen. My little brother—not my mother—had been busy in the kitchen! There was a white powder trail from the flour bin to the middle of the floor, where he sat with a big mixing bowl full of slimy goo. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m making bread just like Mom,” he answered, throwing a handful onto the floor and “kneading” it into the linoleum.
On another day, I might have thought it was funny. But not today—I was angry! I wanted to be greeted by warm cookies, not a little brother making a big mess!
Just then Mom walked in and saw the disaster. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Michelle, why are you just watching him make such a mess?” Her voice rose a notch. “And your room is a disaster! Go to your room and don’t come out until it’s clean.”
I slammed the door to my room and flopped onto the bed. It isn’t fair! I didn’t make a mess in the kitchen. Why am I in trouble? I’m the one having a bad day. Nobody cares. I sat up and wiped the angry tears from my eyes. I could hear the twins crying. My slammed door must have woken them from their naps.
I looked around my room. It really was a disaster! There was a drawer on the floor, and I had scattered clothes everywhere that morning while looking for my Bulldogs sweatshirt. And during the day, my would-be-baker brother must have invaded my toys, because they were scattered around the room, too. It was a mess. And it wasn’t fair! That brother of mine was a problem. Why can’t he stay out of my stuff? I wondered. I decided to rearrange my room so that he couldn’t reach my toys anymore.
I pulled everything off all the shelves and out of my desk drawers—toys, papers, crayons, everything! Everything of any interest to a little brother was going to be moved out of reach. As I rummaged through my closet, looking for toys that would need to be protected, I found my Tyrannosaurus Terror Drawing Kit.
Meanwhile, Mom had gone to the twins’ room to settle them down again. Then she had returned to the kitchen and found my brother trying to clean up his mess. Dragging a wet towel in the dough, he had smeared paste from the middle of the room to the sink and all around!
After Mom finally got the kitchen under control, she came to my room, where she found me sitting on an even bigger pile of stuff, playing with my dinosaur drawing kit. I knew right away that I was in big trouble. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to say something (or maybe yell something). Instead, she just turned around and left crying, looking totally defeated.
I felt awful. Everything had gone wrong—my sweatshirt, the bus, my homework, my little brother—and Mom was upset with me. I felt all alone. Not knowing what else to do, I knelt and prayed. “Heavenly Father, please help me. Help me so everything is OK. Help my mom be happy. Help her to love me even though I have a messy room. Please, Heavenly Father, please help me.” Still kneeling beside my bed, I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed.
Shortly, I heard Mom in the hall. I jerked up and grabbed a shirt to act like I was putting it away. I didn’t want to get in trouble again for not working.
When Mom came into my room, her eyes were red and swollen worse than mine. She quietly asked if I had been praying. I hesitated because I knew I was supposed to be cleaning, but I nodded yes.
Mom cleared a spot beside me, sat down, and put her arms around me. “I love you,” she said. “I’m sorry I was upset with you. I’m sorry you’re not having a very good day. I’ve had a hard day myself, and I was praying for help when the Spirit whispered that you were praying for me, too.”
“Really?” I asked. “Heavenly Father heard my prayer, and the Holy Ghost told you?”
“That’s right,” Mom said, smiling.
I started to cry again, but this time it was because I knew that somebody cared. Heavenly Father had watched my awful day, and He understood that I needed love more than I needed a clean room. And even though I didn’t get warm peanut-butter cookies, I felt a real warmth inside, a comforting knowledge that I am never alone.

When I was 16, I had the opportunity to attend general conference in person for the first time. My family was living in western Oregon, USA, and we drove to Utah to attend conference and to drop off my older brother at the missionary training center.
I went to the conference with a desire to be taught by the Holy Ghost. As a result, I received a manifestation from the Spirit that I probably would not have received had I not prepared myself.
During one of the sessions, everyone stood and sang the congregational hymn, “Guide Us, O Thou Great Jehovah.” As we sang, I had the distinct impression to look around the Conference Center. I did and was struck by the power of the unity of the thousands of people there as we all raised our voices in praise to God.
Then I had an experience where I felt like Nephi when he saw the vision of the tree of life, for the Spirit told me, “Look” (see 1 Nephi 11–14). I looked at President Thomas S. Monson and felt that the unity of the Church existed because we are led by a living prophet. Through the witness of the Holy Spirit, I know President Monson is the true prophet for our day, and I know that Jesus Christ leads this Church through him.

Elder Asay’s father always hoped that his sons would become athletes. The boys were taught how to shoot baskets, throw balls, jump, and pole-vault in the training facilities their father had built for them in the orchard. “I was a pole-vaulter in high school,” Elder Asay remembered, “and won the state championship one year. I’d go home and work out in my father’s orchard because the facilities we had built were better than those at the high school.”
In the summertime, Elder Asay and his brothers spent some time with their father on the mountain range. He was a forest guard with the U.S. Forest Service each summer, and the boys loved to go with him. This was another ideal time for teaching and training. “We spent a lot of time in the canyons and the parks, repairing, painting, clearing trails, and doing other things for the Forest Service. It was great to be together out in nature,” Elder Asay recalled.
One such learning opportunity took place one day in a park where they were all working together, repairing some tables and benches at one of the camp picnic facilities. “My brother, who was about twelve at the time, found a full pack of cigarettes. And Dad must have seen him stealthily put it into his pocket. He called us together and asked him what he had picked up. My brother pulled the cigarettes out of his pocket. Dad said, ‘Open the pack.’
“Dad instructed each one of us to take one, saying, ‘Put it in your mouth and see how it tastes.’ Very quickly he had four spitting boys on his hands. Dad asked if any of us had liked the taste. We all said no. Then he told us to remember this experience, and added, ‘Tobacco doesn’t taste good, it isn’t good for you, and it isn’t in accord with God’s law.’
“We made a pact then and there that we would never touch cigarettes again.”
Elder Asay has many fond memories of farm work during his childhood. One summer he had a job tromping hay. The hay was stacked loosely on a wagon, and he would climb on the stack, settle the hay, and put it in place so the stack could be high and yet would balance. On the last load, at the end of the day, they would keep it on the wagon and ride with it into town.
One particular day the last load was stacked really high as Carlos and the others rode into town. “Moving up the lane,” Elder Asay related, “we hit some pretty deep ruts, and the load shifted. There was a slope, and as we made a turn from the lane up onto the highway, one of the Jensen brothers, who was driving the team, said he didn’t know if the load would stay on the wagon. Brother Jensen asked me to move to the rear of the load so that if it shifted and tipped over, I would be able to slip off the back. But when I got midway onto the load, the wagon tipped and I was thrown some distance onto a rock pile. I remember landing on my shins and then all the hay came down on top of me. My legs were bruised and bleeding.
“Hay is heavy and I thought I was going to suffocate, but somehow I remembered there was a fence close-by. So I started to crawl toward it, knowing that if I could reach it, I would be able to climb up out of the hay. My progress was slow, but as I came up to the top of the fence, I saw the Jensen brothers frantically looking for me. It was a miracle my life was spared.”
Elder Asay never aspired to be a General Authority. It was the furthest thing from his mind when he was called to serve in that capacity. But he does recall that one time when he was a small boy in Primary, he was asked to memorize the names of all the General Authorities in the Church, starting with Heber J. Grant, J. Reuben Clark, David O. McKay, and so on. He remembers asking himself the question, What if you were one of them? What if you were ever to be in those circles? He recalls that the feeling was quickly gone and he shrugged it off. Years later, when he was called to be a General Authority, he reflected back to that time in Primary.
“Avoid the slippery paths of youth and prepare yourselves in all things for whatever opportunities come along,” is Elder Asay’s counsel to boys and girls everywhere.

Nima and his family lived in Banepa, Nepal, at the base of the Himalayas, the highest mountains in the world. His people, the Sherpas, call the highest peak, Mount Everest, Sagarmatha (House of Snow).
Men and women come from all over the world to Mount Everest. They come to take pictures of it. They come to climb it and to place their nation’s flag on its summit. Climbing this mountain is a test of human strength against the rigor of the mountain.
Because Nima’s father, Mingma, was a strong and experienced porter, he was sought after as a porter and a guide. That was what Nima wanted to become too.
Other boys of twelve had already begun carrying supplies for short distances to the base camps near the bottoms of the mountains. But because Nima had been born with a twisted foot, his parents thought that he would surely be hurt or killed if he lost his balance on the mountain trail.
A week ago a party of climbers had come from the capital city of Katmandu to hire porters. How Nima hoped they would hire him! But it was no use. Even though his own father was hired as head porter and would choose the men he needed to help him, he would not take Nima.
In this expedition there were doctors and scientists who would study the terrain and ice formations, the weather, and the effect of the thin air on the climbers.
The expedition moved out of town in a long, long line. Most of the men of Banepa were needed to carry all of the supplies and equipment. Nima was left with the women and young children.
The evening after the expedition’s departure, a rumor ran through the streets that a child was sick with smallpox!
Nima’s mother went to the house of the sick child to learn if the frightening report was true. She came home looking grave. “I’m sure that the child has smallpox,” she said. “If only the expedition had been delayed! There were doctors among the men.”
After everyone else was asleep, Nima sat staring at the red coals of the fire. He saw a chance to prove his strength, but doubt haunted him. Surely his parents would have more confidence in him if he proved that he could climb the mountain trails. Suddenly Nima stood up and shook the doubts from his mind. He would not be controlled by doubts!
Just before the roosters woke the town, Nima set out with a bundle on his shoulders. He was going to find the foreign doctors and ask for help for the sick child. In one hand he held firmly a T-bar staff, the staff of the porters. And inside his bundle he had everything he would need for a long hike: a blanket, food for two days, and a container of water.
The first part of the hike was pleasant, and Nima moved along at a steady pace. Then, little by little, his left leg began to ache, and he had to stop often to rest. Finally, as the long day wore itself out, his leg and foot both began throbbing with pain. At every step, he used the staff to take the weight off his body. The temptation to make camp and lie down was strong, but he would not forget his mission. With the coming of darkness he saw the fires of the camp. He’d made it—but without the fifty-pound load he would have been carrying if he’d been working as a porter! Nima was dizzy with pain.
He found his father eating the evening rice with his friends. Quickly he told them about the sick child.
“But Nima, why did your mother so foolishly send you for the doctor?” asked his father.
“She does not even know I came,” answered Nima.
“I see.” Mingma put a hand on Nima’s shoulder. They went together to the tent of Dr. Kelly, who showed his concern as he heard about the trouble in town.
“Wait, please,” the doctor said. He went to talk with others of his party. When he returned, he said he would go back with Nima to Banepa the next morning.
Nima did not want to think about going down the same path he’d just come up. I must do it somehow, he decided, massaging his foot and leg underneath his blanket. He would not admit his agony to anyone.
Morning came too soon. But Nima got up, ate his rice, and waited for Dr. Kelly. How will I ever make it? he wondered. Truly Ihave been foolish. Not having tried shorter hikes first, this distance is unbearable.
The doctor arrived, and the two of them started down the path. As the sun rose higher and higher and the path’s descent became steeper, the doctor took off his jacket. “I need a rest stop,” he said.
Nima sank onto a stone gratefully. He was not sure he could get up again.
Dr. Kelly took some chocolate from his pack and gave Nima a piece. “You are a strong-willed boy, Nima,” he said. “I think you are in great pain.”
“I like to hike,” said Nima.
“I’m sure you do,” the doctor replied, “but I am not speaking of that. I am concerned about the pain you are trying to hide.”
“I will be a porter like my father,” said Nima.
“That is a fine plan,” the doctor said, “but if you are serious about it, you must do something about your handicap.”
Nima looked away. He did not like this talk about his handicap.
“One of the doctors with us is a bone specialist,” Dr. Kelly went on. “Perhaps I could ask him to look at your foot to see if it might be straightened with surgery.”
“No,” answered Nima. “I don’t need help. Thank you.”
But after they started again, Nima’s mind seethed with the ideas the doctor had planted. Is it possible? Can something be done to make walking easier for me, to make the pain go away forever?
A short time later Nima admitted that he needed to rest again. While they rested, Nima asked hesitantly, “Have you seen others with a foot like mine?”
The doctor nodded.
“And these others you have seen—have they been helped so that they can walk more easily?”
“Yes, Nima.”
Nima felt tears welling up in his eyes. He turned away. It was a sweet hope. But it was also a bitter thing to admit his imperfection.
Nima and the doctor had to take many rests because of Nima’s foot, and it was dark when they reached the town. “I have delayed you,” said Nima. “It is something a porter would never do.”
“But today we have walked as friends,” said Dr. Kelly. “I think, with help, that you will climb to the tops of many mountains.”
Nima’s face brightened.
“This is not my first experience with mountains,” continued Dr. Kelly. “I have climbed many. It takes physical strength, but it also takes determination and self-confidence.”
Nima nodded. He understood these things from his father.
“I think you have the necessary inner strength,” said the doctor. “Otherwise you would not have made it to our camp yesterday or back home again today.”
Nima smiled. “What is the name of the doctor who is your friend?” he asked.
“Dr. Holland,” answered the doctor. “Would you like to meet him?”
Nima looked up at the House of Snow gleaming in the pale moonlight. “Yes, please,” he said. “I truly would.”

Back in 2012, my wife became pregnant with our fourth child. At twenty-one weeks, we went in for an ultrasound; I could see the expression of the ultrasound technician changed as images started showing up on the screen. Naturally, my three young boys wanted to know if the baby was a boy or a girl, but the ultrasound tech said she was unable to make that determination and quickly ended the session.

Later that afternoon, the doctor called us into his office and explained that the baby was very sick and had a low probability of survival. This devastating news hit us hard. It turned out that the baby was not producing the needed amniotic fluid that is necessary for lung development. Over the next several months, we met with several specialists. Each specialist did their examination and pretty much came to the same conclusion: there was little hope, the fetus would probably die before the next visit, and they recommended terminating the pregnancy to avoid any further complications. Of course, we would not consider terminating the pregnancy and continued to pray for a miracle. Each time we met with a doctor, we expected that there would no longer be a heartbeat, but instead, each ultrasound showed a growing baby with a healthy beating heart.

About three weeks before the due date, we were referred to yet another specialist. After his examination, he revealed to us that the baby was, in fact, a girl and said he thought, in the right circumstances, there was hope. He explained that as long as the baby was still in its mother’s womb, she would be fine. The problem was that she couldn’t stay in there forever. He discussed a plan to do a C-section a few days before she was due because it would be less stressful for the baby. They would also have a team of specialists and some very special equipment brought in that would give the baby the best possible chance for life. We left his office feeling very good about the prospects of the baby surviving.

That very night at about 10:30, without any previous indications, my wife started having contractions. Three weeks early, and before the doctor could be ready to deliver the baby, it became obvious that the baby was coming. I put my wife in the car and drove the 20 minutes to the hospital. The baby, which we named Elizabeth Ann, was born shortly after we arrived. The doctor had no time to prepare for the delivery, but he and the nurses started working on the baby and did everything they could.

When she was born, she was a perfect, beautiful baby girl with none of the abnormalities the doctors warned us might exist. She was awake, squirmed around like babies do, cried a little, and even opened her eyes and seemed to be looking around. The doctor told us at the meeting we had earlier that they would give her a sedative so she would sleep and not feel pain and experience the natural panic that the lack of oxygen causes while they worked on her. Which they did.

She looked and acted so normal to me that I was convinced that she was going to be just fine. But after about 45 minutes, the nurses brought her to us and explained that there was nothing more they could do and asked if we wanted to hold her until she passed away. Of course, we said yes.

Even though this was one of the most heartbreaking experiences any parent can go through, I’ve never felt such a spirit of love, peace, and comfort as I experienced that evening. Although losing a baby doesn’t seem fair, because of the spiritual experience that both her mother and I had, I’ve always taken comfort in knowing that there is a plan of salvation, and I know that we will all be able to be together as a family one day soon.

Four months into her second pregnancy, Delva was told that her baby had a rare chromosome disorder called trisomy 13. There was little chance for the baby’s survival, and because Delva’s life could also be at risk, doctors repeatedly advised her to abort the pregnancy. Faced with an uncertain outcome, Delva chose to trust Heavenly Father no matter what happened.
Christina Smith, photographer
I was told my baby wouldn’t survive for more than an hour if she lived at all. And if she did live, I was told she would have no quality of life. My doctor strongly advised me to terminate the pregnancy. I went to another doctor and was told the same thing: terminate the pregnancy.
Then I went to a doctor who was a friend and a member of the Church. I hoped the Spirit might prompt him to provide a different diagnosis. He looked at all the test results and ultrasounds and expressed the same concern as the other doctors. But he told me he would fast and pray for my family and hope for the best.
I saw many different doctors and specialists throughout my pregnancy. Each time they suggested termination because they feared the pregnancy would put my life at risk. But I couldn’t imagine doing that.
My husband and I were willing to live with whatever happened. If our daughter passed away, we would know that she is a precious spirit. If she lived and it was going to be a struggle, we had faith that we would be able to handle it.
It was still very difficult. I tried to keep my emotions inside because I had a two-year-old daughter and I didn’t want her to see me fall apart. I didn’t know what to do, what to think, or where to turn for help. My husband, friends, and family were supportive, but I felt that they did not fully understand what I was going through. The only person who could truly understand was the Lord. I prayed continually for comfort and guidance.
Eventually, I met with our bishop and explained what was going on. He invited the ward to fast for our family. This was a turning point for me. I began to feel heaven’s guiding light in every decision I had to make.
At eight and a half months, I went in for a 4D ultrasound.
Our baby was due in a few weeks, and I realized that it could be the end. I also wanted to have a recording of my daughter’s heartbeat to put inside a teddy bear to have something to remember her by.
In previous ultrasounds, doctors couldn’t see any physical features. Because of this, they said our daughter’s hands would be stubs and her face would be deformed. The images in a 4D ultrasound are more detailed, so when the technician began the ultrasound, I saw my daughter’s perfect hand waving at me on the screen. I also saw two perfect eyes and a perfect mouth. I had an overwhelming feeling that she wasn’t going to die.
When our daughter, MeLa, was born, specialists were standing by but were not needed. MeLa did not have trisomy 13. Doctors and specialists could not explain why, but my husband and I knew it was a miracle.
After MeLa was born, doctors recommended additional genetic testing to determine if she had any abnormalities. The test results revealed that she did have a rare genetic condition. The geneticist was concerned that MeLa would be blind, deaf, and unable to walk and talk. Today, however, while she does have some developmental delays, MeLa is able to see, hear, and use a training device to assist her in walking. She also says words here and there. She’s the happiest kid!
We are so grateful for the blessings we have received through this whole process. We know that Heavenly Father is the ultimate Creator and the ultimate Decider of life. We are just blessed to be a part of it. Every day we look at MeLa and know that she’s a miracle. Our children bring happiness to our lives and remind us that we have much to be grateful for.
Delva and Kirkome Netane enjoy the time they spend with their children, Teisa (right) and MeLa (left).
Though Delva’s second pregnancy was difficult, Delva and Kirkome are grateful for the blessings they have received. “This experience has brought our family closer to one another and closer to the Lord,” Delva says.
Recalling the difficult pregnancy, Kirkome says, “I was in turmoil. But my wife and I held on to our testimonies of the gospel. We held on to hope and agreed that if there was any chance we could give our daughter, we would do our best.”
“It is a blessing that we get to play with MeLa every day and see her smile,” Kirkome says. “It’s a constant witness to us that God is in control and that answers to prayers can come to us more vivid and alive than anything we could ever imagine.”

When members were invited to join a special choir that would sing at the Oklahoma City Oklahoma Temple dedication, Mary Brunson jumped at the chance. Singing? Absolutely. Mary enjoys doing it and is quite proficient. She’s so into performing and singing that she has a sticker that says “Drama Queen” on the bumper of her car. “I really love to sing,” she says.

So after months of practice for the special event on July 30, 2000, she compared the differences between performing on stage and singing at this occasion.
“It was worship here today,” she says after the first of four dedicatory sessions. “In a play you go out and perform. When I perform, it is pretending. Singing in the choir was not pretending. This was real. This is something that will stay with me.”
She’s speaking about both her experience at the dedication and the white marble temple that sits on the outskirts of Oklahoma City.

The choir
In the spring of 2000, the Oklahoma City Oklahoma East Stake organized the choir. Mary saw it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So did Ben Harrison and Jonathan Pierce. It didn’t hurt that all three are friends who love to sing—friends who were able to support and encourage each other during rehearsals.
“When we started practicing in the spring, the temple dedication didn’t seem real. It seemed so far in the future,” says Ben, 16, of the Choctaw Ward. Mary, Ben, and Jonathan stopped by the temple site at various stages of construction, watching the sacred building go up. With each passing month, the reality of the temple increased in their minds. Weekly choir practices in preparation for the dedication also helped.
“I really think it will draw us a lot closer to the Church having a temple here,” says Jonathan, 18. “We won’t have to drive all the way to Dallas.” Or Manti. Before the Dallas Texas Temple was built in 1985, the Oklahoma City members were in the faraway Manti Utah Temple district. For Jonathan’s family, temple visits have gone from a two-day journey to a four-hour trip to the 20-minute drive of today.
As Mary, Ben, and Jonathan walk around the temple grounds after the first dedicatory session, they all seem a little in awe of what has just occurred. Maybe at one time having a temple in Oklahoma didn’t seem real. But the three realize they just took part in something they know they’ll remember forever.

A lifetime of memories
“This was an experience you can look back on and remember most clearly because of how unique it was,” says Jonathan. “I really liked singing ‘God So Loved the World.’ Watching President [James E.] Faust put the mortar in the cornerstone and then singing that hymn made me realize God does so love the world that He is going to dot the world with temples.”
All three are also in agreement that they often assumed Oklahoma would never have a temple. But after President Hinckley’s 1997 announcement, it wasn’t long before the temple that will serve members in parts of Kansas, Arkansas, Texas, and Missouri—as well as Oklahoma—was announced.
“This is such a great thing,” says Ben, standing near the temple entrance. “There were times when I thought Oklahoma didn’t have enough members to have a temple. But I’ve seen that we actually are strong, and the temple shows me how strong we can become.”
All three also believe the presence of the temple will help the youth in the area stay stronger in the Church. “A lot of teenagers do drift from the Church when they get to high school,” says Jonathan. “I really believe more boys will go on missions from Oklahoma if they’re able to go through the temple that they can call their own.”
They’re also sure of one thing. “We’re going to wear the temple out,” says Ben.

Last winter my daughter had a white-knuckle experience driving in a severe snowstorm. She reminded me of a similar situation I had with my two sons many years ago. My youngest son, Joe, was three years old, and my son Larry was six. We were traveling by car from San Francisco to Utah in June. The weather had been very good.
As we started our ascent to the Donner Pass summit in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, suddenly and without warning an enormous snowstorm hit us. None of the drivers was prepared. A semitruck in front of us had jackknifed and was spread across two lanes. Other trucks and cars had slid off the freeway. One lane was open, and many vehicles, including ours, were desperately trying to gain traction to avoid the other vehicles. All traffic then came to a halt.
We were not prepared for this blizzard in June. We had no warm clothing, and our fuel was relatively low. I huddled with the two boys in an effort to keep us warm. After many hours, safety vehicles, snowplows, and tow trucks began to clear up the massive logjam of vehicles.
Eventually, a tow truck hauled us to a service station on the other side of the pass. I called my wife, knowing she would be worried because she had expected a call the prior evening. She asked if she could speak to the two boys. When it was the three-year-old’s turn, with a quivering voice, he said, “Hope ya know, we had a hard time!”
I could tell, as our three-year-old talked to his mother and told her of the hard time, he gained comfort and then reassurance. Our prayers are that way when we go to our Father in Heaven. We know He cares for us in our time of need.

I decided to practice my faith by praying and asking God for help and guidance. At first I didn’t realize the impact of my prayers, but after a few days I found that we had more peace at home.
But then my faith was challenged. My youngest brother was hurt and had to have immediate surgery, one of my friends was also hurt badly, and my mother got a sore throat with a high fever. All these horrible circumstances expelled the feelings of peace around me. I was very sad but continued to pray. My grandmother’s favorite poem came to mind, which says that God knows all things better than we do and that we should trust Him. So I started to practice my faith even more and do everything I could. Not much later my brother was able to leave the hospital. My friend was not hurt as badly as it had first appeared. My mother recovered.
Now when I pray for others, I pray with more focus and more faith than before. We should have faith in God, especially when believing in Him and His plans is hard, and never complain—because He knows best.
Jarom K., 18, Graz, Austria

I grew up in Idaho Falls, Idaho, where there are a number of big canals. One hot summer day when I was nine years old, I was hurrying to finish mowing the lawn so I could go swimming in the canal with my friends. But before I was through, my mother came outside and told me that she didn’t want me to go swimming that day. Not long after Mother had talked to me, my friends came along and helped me finish my work. Then I disobeyed my mother and went to the canal with them anyway.
When we got to the canal, we floated on inner tubes and swam and had lots of fun. Even more fun was going over the check, a kind of dam in the canal. We would come floating along on our inner tubes and then drop over the check to be shot rapidly forward as the water fell with great force over it. After a short ride below the check, we would get out of the canal, walk upstream a mile or so, and float down again.
One time my friends went ahead, and as I walked by the check I thought, If it’s fun going over in an inner tube, it’ll be a lot more fun going over without the inner tube!
I left the inner tube on the bank and jumped in. But when I realized how swift the current was, I knew I had made a mistake. The force of the water propelled me over the check. And instead of coming up as we did on our inner tubes, I just kept going down deeper and deeper. I thrashed and churned and tried to get out, but I couldn’t. It seemed as though the devil had hold of my feet, pulling me down and laughing all the time. Soon my air began to run out.
I was desperate. I prayed with all my heart and promised our Father in heaven I would serve Him all of my life if He would just help me. I also told Him, before I passed out, that I was sorry for not obeying my mother.
When I opened my eyes, I thought I was in heaven. I could see some green branches and leaves and could hear birds singing. I watched the white clouds move against a brilliant blue sky. It was beautiful. Thinking I had died, I closed my eyes again to thank my Father in heaven for bringing me to such a lovely place.
The next thing I remembered was water washing over my arms and chest. I opened my eyes and found that most of my body was in the slowly moving water of the canal, and my head was lodged on a large rock above the water on the bank. I was still alive! I closed my eyes and thanked my Heavenly Father for saving my life and promised Him I would always try to obey my mother.
Shortly after I climbed out, my friends came down the canal. They shouted at me and wanted to know where I had been. I only told them I didn’t feel like swimming anymore that day and that I was going home because my mother needed me.
I have always been sorry that I didn’t obey my mother that beautiful summer day in Idaho, but I am grateful that she taught me how to pray and to have faith in our Father in heaven. I know He hears our prayers.

When Jason woke up on Saturday morning, he jumped out of bed, looked out his window, saw the sun shining, and heard birds singing. He smiled his biggest smile. “What a happy day!” Jason said as he got dressed.
He began to clean his bedroom. He was expecting company, and he wanted his bedroom to look just right. He put all his cars and trucks and other toys in the toy box. He put all his books on their shelves. He put his dirty clothes in a basket.
Finally Jason looked around and smiled. “My bedroom looks good,” he said. “Now I am ready for my company.” He jumped back into bed, pulled his blankets up around his chin, and waited.
Pretty soon he heard a noise in the hall. He shut his eyes and tried to act like he was asleep. Squeak, squeak went the door to his bedroom as it slowly opened. Dad, Mom, and Jason’s two sisters tip-toed to his bed and began to sing. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. …”
Jason opened his eyes and smiled his biggest smile. “Thank you,” he said. “I knew you would come for my birthday!”

When Elder Brook P. Hales was eight or nine, he was in a fast and testimony meeting where his father was presiding as bishop. His father invited the congregation to bear testimonies, and nearly everyone present bore testimony. “It was perhaps the first time I felt the Spirit bearing witness to me of the truthfulness of the gospel,” Elder Hales recalls.
He has felt that witness many times since, particularly while serving as secretary to the First Presidency since 2008. When President Thomas S. Monson was sustained as prophet and President of the Church, and again when President Russell M. Nelson was sustained, he witnessed “the mantle of prophet fall on each of these men, and I knew without a doubt that they had been chosen and called to be the President of the Church for their particular time.”
Elder Hales was called as a General Authority Seventy on May 17, 2018, and sustained on October 6, 2018. He will continue as secretary to the First Presidency.

“Come on!” Vicky’s brother called. “Let’s go play with the Rowes!”
The Rowes were their new neighbors. They had moved to Bosnia and Herzegovina from the United States. They had kids the same age as Vicky and her siblings. But they didn’t speak Bosnian. Vicky was the only one in her family who spoke English. She translated so they could play together.
Vicky sat with Mrs. Rowe on the porch while the other kids played.
“Your family seems different,” Vicky said. “In a good way.”
Mrs. Rowe smiled. “Would you like to come to church with us? That might help you see why we’re different. Our church doesn’t have a building here in Bosnia, so we have church with our family at home.”
Vicky was curious when she arrived at the Rowes’ house on Sunday. First they sang a song. One of the children said a prayer. Then Mr. Rowe prayed and passed bread and water to each person. They said it was called the sacrament. After that their daughter Jessie gave a talk.
“Heavenly Father loves us. He speaks to us through the Holy Ghost,” Jessie said. “Sometimes the Holy Ghost gives us a peaceful feeling. Or sometimes He gives us a thought.”
The next day, Vicky walked to the store to buy bread. On her way home, she was about to pass by some trash cans when a voice in her mind stopped her. Stay away, it said.
Vicky stood still. Suddenly, a car came spinning around the corner. CRASH! It slammed into the garbage cans.
Vicky took a deep breath. She was so glad she listened to the voice!
Later, Vicky told Mrs. Rowe the story. “Was that the Holy Ghost?”
“Sounds like it. Sometimes the Holy Ghost warns us of danger.”
“God protected me,” Vicky said. “I’ll always listen to the Holy Ghost.”
Vicky kept going to the Rowes’ house for church every Sunday. Then Vicky shared the Book of Mormon with her mom. Soon her whole family was learning about the gospel from the Rowes. Vicky translated for everyone.
One day Mr. Rowe asked Vicky’s family a question. Vicky repeated it in Bosnian. “Will you follow the example of Jesus Christ by being baptized?”
Vicky waited. She wanted to be baptized. But she was nervous about what her family would say.
Finally, Vicky’s dad spoke. “Da.”
“Da,” her family said.
Vicky was so happy she felt like her heart was going to burst. “Yes,” she said to Mr. Rowe. “Yes, we will.”
A week later, Vicky and her family drove for five hours to the nearest Church building. Vicky felt happy as she stepped into the water to be baptized. She felt even happier when she was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Now she would have the Holy Ghost with her always.

A few months ago I had the privilege of sealing another angel--a beautiful daughter of God--to her eternal companion. The girl had been born deaf. Except by the spiritual ear she had never heard Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony" or Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus." When children come into their family, she will never hear her baby's cry, or its first spoken word, or its first talk in Primary. She is not handicapped, as she marvelously compensates in other ways. She is differentially blessed. Her children will be born in the covenant, she has an eternal companion, and she has a body with heaven's promise of its someday perfection.