Gospel Story Finder

I have found happiness in doing as the prophets ask, so when President Ezra Taft Benson urged us to read the scriptures every day, I wanted to do so.
But I began making up excuses. I decided that I had too much homework to begin my scripture study that day. I did this for weeks, even months, while my conscience continued to bother me.
One night while I was frustrated over my math homework, I knelt in prayer to ask for strength. When I looked up, the first thing I saw was the Book of Mormon sitting on my dresser. I picked it up and began to read, not really knowing why since I had a lot of math left to do. I finished a chapter in 1 Nephi, then went back to my treacherous math problem. I found I could solve it.
I made a decision to be obedient. I would read the Book of Mormon each night. Then I would see if taking the time to study the scriptures had any effect on my grades. After several weeks, I found that this habit of reading every night, even though it took some time, helped me achieve more academically. I still had to do the work, but the reading gave me an extra push. It motivated me in ways that nothing else could. I was able to understand what I studied, and I had the patience to stick with my work. Not only did my grades improve, but I was easier to get along with and happier than I had ever been.

I just finished reading “When a Friend Dies” in the April 1987 issue, and I really feel strongly to write and thank you for this article. Two weeks ago four of my friends died in an accident. When I heard what had happened, I was totally shocked. Then it sank in and pain and emptiness just overwhelmed me. That day when I went to school everyone was upset and felt the same sense of loss that I felt.
But the understanding of the gospel, my prayers, and the scriptures have helped me to understand and go on with my life.
The pain of losing such good friends is still there, and I will never forget them. But now when I have that giant question “Why?” I can go back to this article and it will definitely help me out.
Thank you so much for your perfect timing, your wonderful magazine, and the best article in the world.

Whilst former England Missionary Training Centre president, Crag Ostler, was serving in his call, he built up a close relationship with Ralph Assherton, son of Lord and Lady Clitheroe of Downham. Ralph has the responsibility for the day-to-day running of the village and the family estate, and so he takes a real interest in village life and those who visit. All missionaries in the missionary training centre are given a Church history tour of significant sites in the northwest of England, including Downham. Over the years, these visits from the missionaries to Downham have led to the development of a relationship and friendship.
Ralph Assherton had always been very supportive and accommodating regarding these regular visits from the missionaries and would often spend time speaking with President Ostler. They realised they had much in common.
Sadly for President and Sister Ostler, when their assignment at the MTC was completed they did not have an opportunity to meet in person to say goodbye to Ralph.
However they had not forgotten Ralph’s friendship and kindness towards them and the missionaries. Once home, Brother Ostler was determined to express his gratitude to Ralph for the last three years.
Through research, Brother Ostler learnt that one of Ralph’s interests was bell ringing. If you go down to Downham on a Tuesday evening you will hear the bells of St Leonard’s church being rung by Ralph!
Brother Ostler organised the presentation of a handheld bell and a personal letter to Ralph, on his behalf- and on the many others who had benefited from Ralph’s kindness.
On 29 June, President Don H. Staheli, president of the Missionary Training Centre, Sister Staheli, and a number of missionaries gathered in St Leonard’s church along with Ralph Assherton and others to make the presentation. As part of the presentation, musical items were provided by the missionaries, including a beautiful violin solo.
Ralph then took some time speaking to the missionaries, taking questions, and even gave a demonstration with his new handbell.
President Staheli and others expressed their thanks to Ralph and his family for the kindness and support they have shown and continue to extend towards the Church.

Mr. Gibson got up from his chair and walked over to Steve and Cathy. “You two come with me, and I’ll show you what life does to people and their ideas about forever.”
They followed him into a small back bedroom. The blinds were pulled, and there was only one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The room was filled with pictures and trophies and sports equipment.
“Go ahead, look around.”
As they examined each picture, it was as if they were viewing the growth of a small boy into a young man—pictures of a three-year-old being held on a quarter horse by his proud father, a seven-year-old standing beside his father displaying a string of fish, a thirteen-year-old wearing a 4-H jacket and showing a hereford steer he had raised, a boy kneeling beside a trophy elk he had shot, a seventeen-year-old beside a cute girl in a formal gown, a proud graduate in a black cap and gown, a nineteen-year-old in front of the small white house wearing an army uniform.
The last picture frame contained a telegram announcing the boy’s death in combat in Vietnam.
“It took us 19 years to raise him,” the man said bleakly, “but they killed him in one second with a land mine.”
“We’re both sorry,” Cathy said.
“I don’t need your sympathy,” the man said bitterly. He reached down and picked up a fishing reel in his hand, turning it over slowly, studying it. “He was a good boy, and if he’d lived, by now he’d be married and have children, and I’d have some grandchildren, and life would have some meaning.”
He put the reel down on the shelf and turned to confront them. “Who remembers my boy anymore?”
They didn’t know what to say.
“Nobody does. Not anymore. This is all that’s left of him. What you see in this room. A few pictures and some ribbons from a county fair. And when my wife and I die, somebody will buy the house and toss it all away.”
He took a step toward them, his face in agony. “Now you tell me, where is this forever you keep harping about? Where is forever for my boy?”
Cathy threw her arms around him as if he were her grandfather. Steve could hear her crying. At first the man stood there mutely, his arms at his side, untouchable in his grief. But then, seeing that she shared his sorrow, he put an arm around her to comfort her.
A moment later she stepped back and said, “God loves your son. His body is destroyed but his spirit is alive. Someday his body and his spirit will come back together, and he will stand on this earth with a perfect body. I know that is true.”
He examined her face, searching for any insincerity, but he found none.
She continued, “God has commanded that temples be built so that we can help those who have died to receive the rich blessings they might have had if they’d lived. Your boy will live again.”
Somehow the despair that had filled the room lifted. Steve felt the sweet influence of the Holy Ghost bear witness to Cathy’s words.
The man looked at her upturned face for a long time and then simply said, “Nobody’s ever told me that before.”
“Mr. Gibson,” Cathy said, “today I was in one of those temples. I’ve never been more certain that God loves all his children. He loves your son David.”
The man slowly nodded his head. “David was a good boy.” Then looking around and seeing for the first time that it was only a room, he said simply, “It’s cold in here, isn’t it? Let’s go in the living room and talk some more.”

The call in 2013 came as a surprise to 45-year-old Solomone Kaumaititoya. It was not something for which he sought or to which he aspired. In fact, it caused him deep introspection and feelings of inadequacy. He would continue in his full-time career as an airline purser to financially support his family.
Kaumaititoya prayed fervently, asking, “Lord, what do you want me to do? What do you want me to say?” He also wondered, “How can I still do my job and be a stake president?”
The answers came to Kaumaitotoya in the form of scriptures and dreams that penetrated his heart deeply.
The words found in Moses 1:39, “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man,” left an impression upon Kaumaititoya. He said, “This was a call to do the Lord’s work. It wasn’t about me.”
Dreams came to President Kaumaititoya every few days when he was first called. He was shown some of the events that would happen in the stake. He said, “I knew what to do because I had seen it in a dream.”
He found that his life experiences had also prepared him in ways he couldn’t foresee. President Kaumaititoya had a very difficult childhood. As a young teenager, he climbed a hill one day to pray and to ask God why he had to go through such hard things.
He recalled, “I was really angry with God. I couldn’t understand why the Lord would let me go through such hard things. I was asking Him why?”
Kaumaititoya didn’t understand, at first, the answer that came on the hill that day: “For your experience.”
As he served, he made sense of what “for your experience” meant, when a teary congregant walked into his office to seek his ecclesiastical counsel about a similar family situation. Afterwards, it dawned on Kaumaititoya what the answer to his boyhood prayer meant. His path and his challenges had prepared him to minister to and serve people with understanding and love.
Lavinia Kaumaititoya voiced her gratitude for her husband’s opportunity to serve. She said, “I have seen my husband grow and change to become a more spiritual, loving father and husband. I have seen him coming to know the Saviour.”
Latter-day Saints believe that callings or invitations to accept responsibilities or offices in the Church, are opportunities for growth and refinement. Serving the Lord and others in these volunteer roles increases love for God and for His children. It is a blessing to sacrifice time and energy for the Lord and to be called by Him to do His work.
Nine years ago, when Lavinia and Solomone Kaumaititoya learned that it was time for a new stake president to be called, they fasted and prayed. They called upon the Lord to bless those seeking inspiration to know who the Lord wanted to lead their stake. They prayed that their stake would be blessed.
Almost as a bookend, the Kaumaitotoya’s again fasted and prayed the week before the stake conference when Solomone would be released as stake president, offering prayers of gratitude, and seeking blessings for the new stake president.
Solomone Kaumaititoya declared, “President Adrian Yee has the authority to lead the stake now, and I sustain him. I’m ready to do whatever the Lord wants me to do.”

Paulo flicked a few drops of water onto his customer’s shoes and then snapped his buffing rag furiously across the already shining surface. The effect was amazing.
“Paulo! They shine like polished silver,” the man exclaimed. “You must be the best shoeshine boy in Rio de Janeiro. No, in all of Brazil!”
Chico (Little One), Paulo’s pet monkey, was tied to Paulo’s shoeshine box by a leather thong and was now chattering angrily from Paulo’s shoulder. His shrill voice screeched louder and louder as he flipped one somersault after another, while slapping his pink bald head with his tiny, wrinkled hands.
“Oh, excuse me, Chico,” the man said. “I did not mean to forget you, for you are, indeed, the best little monkey in all of Brazil.” Smiling, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny coin. “You can have this, Chico, or give it to Paulo for his new futebol (soccer ball) that he is trying to buy.”
Jabbering happily, the little monkey took the coin and flipped it high into the air to Paulo. He then stood tall and straight, proudly clapping his hands.
“It would seem that Chico wants you to buy that new futebol,” the man remarked. “And so do I. Because of your fine work, here’s an extra cruzeiro (Brazilian dollar) to help you buy it.”
“Muito obrigado (thank you very much),” Paulo said excitedly, stuffing the money deep into his pocket. “That’s the last cruzeiro I need to buy the futebol. But how did you know I was saving for one?”
“How did I know?” the man laughed. “I think the whole town knows. Now, if you hurry, you may still have time to buy a futebol before the store closes.”
“You’re right!” Paulo said with a grin.
Clutching his shoeshine box under one arm and Chico under the other, Paulo raced through the city streets. The evening shadows were beginning to fall as the ice-cream wagons and bakery stands folded up their umbrellas and wheeled their portable units home. Merchants were pulling together metal doors to be locked into place for the night.
“Oh, Chico! I’m afraid we’re too late to buy the ball tonight,” Paulo said breathlessly as he rounded the last corner and came to a stop in front of the soccer supply store. The door was already bolted shut. “We’ll just have to come back in the morning.”
Chico sat in silent disappointment, then shrieked with excitement when Paulo pulled an old ball of rags from the shoeshine box. “Just think, Chico,” Paulo said, bouncing the ball neatly from one foot to the other, “tonight’s the last night for this old ball. Tomorrow I’ll have a real futebol.”
Paulo skillfully lofted the ball high into the air and slightly ahead of him. With perfect timing, he stepped under the falling ball and struck it a sharp blow with his forehead, sending it rolling down the street.
As Paulo slowly dribbled the rag ball homeward, it was easy to pretend he was a soccer hero. He imagined himself making first one goal and then another to tie the score. The fans were on their feet, urging Paulo’s team to win. Paulo received a quick pass from a teammate and, looking for someone to pass to, deftly dodged a charging defender. All of my teammates are covered, Paulo dreamed on. The crowd’s roar rose to a deafening pitch as Paulo sidestepped yet another defender and rifled the ball with a sharp kick that scored the winning goal. The crowd’s chant was music to his ears—“Paulo! Paulo! Paulo!”
The sound of breaking glass brought Paulo back to his senses. Chico was scolding angrily and jumping up and down on his master’s shoulder, and the fear in Paulo began to grow. He crept slowly up to a gate set in a high yellow wall that surrounded an expensive-looking house. Peering through the wrought iron gate, Paulo saw his homemade rag ball lying amid the broken remains of a beautifully decorated vase on the front porch of the house.
Paulo’s stomach tightened with fear. “A broken vase!” groaned Paulo. “That vase must cost more than three futebols.” Looking around quickly and seeing no one, Paulo began to run.
Chico disapproved and went wild, leaping and turning somersaults on Paulo’s shoulder and squawking at the top of his voice.
“Would you please be quiet, Chico! What do you know, anyway?” Paulo asked. “You’re just a monkey and people don’t put monkeys in jail or take their futebol money. So please be quiet.”
Chico’s chattering stopped and Paulo soon slowed to a walk. His legs still felt rubbery, but the pounding in his chest didn’t hurt quite so much now. What really bothered Paulo was his conscience, and he knew what he had to do to remedy that. “Chico, I have to go back,” Paulo said, retracing his steps. “Remember that church song I sometimes sing to you, ‘Do What Is Right’? Well, now I must do what is right.”
But I’m so scared, Paulo thought as he stopped in front of the house with the high yellow wall.
Looking through the gate, Paulo could see the empregada (maid) cleaning up the broken vase. He got her attention by clapping his hands (a Brazilian custom for entering a yard).
“Por favor (please), could you get the dono (owner) for me?” Paulo asked. “I must speak to him about the vase.”
The empregada left and returned in a few minutes with a tall, kind-looking man. “Can I help you, young man?” the dono asked.
Paulo hesitated. He knew what he wanted to say, but somehow, he couldn’t open his mouth to say it.
“Go on. Don’t be afraid.”
The dono seemed so friendly that before he knew it, Paulo was blurting out the whole story to him. “And that’s what happened,” he concluded. “It was an accident, Senhor, but I have money to pay for the vase.” Paulo dug deeply into his pocket and held out all the money he had been saving for his futebol. “It’s not much, but I hope it’s enough so I won’t have to go to jail.”
“You won’t have to go to jail,” the man said with a laugh. Then he added, “You must be Paulo.”
Paulo gulped. “Yes, I’m Paulo. But how did you know that?”
The man laughed again. “I think the whole town knows of Paulo and Chico and how hard they’ve been working for a new futebol.”
The man looked long and hard at Paulo and then sat down. “Paulo, it took courage to come back here when no one knew that you were the one who broke the vase. Yet, you came back and brought me your futebol money. Why?”
Paulo looked the man straight in the eye. “No one else knew, Senhor, but I did,” he said quietly.
“I’m glad you came back and that we had this talk,” the dono said, shaking Paulo’s hand. “You keep your money and buy that new futebol.” The man’s bright eyes twinkled with a smile. “However, you must repay me for the vase.”
“But, Senhor, I’ve not enough money for both the vase and the futebol,” pleaded Paulo. “How can I do both?”
“You will have to shine my shoes for three months as payment,” the man explained. “I have heard that you’re the best shoeshine boy in town. But today, because of your courage and honesty, I think you must be the best boy in all of Brazil!"

Illustrations by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
One night, Joseph was told that a mob was coming to try to steal the gold plates. He ran to get them from their hiding place in a hollow log.
Are the plates safe, Joseph?
Yes, I have them right here. I was attacked three times as I ran home! I hit each man who tried to tackle me.
Are you all right?
I think my thumb is dislocated.
Another time, Joseph felt prompted to hide the plates under the hearthstones. Moments later, a mob approached.
Do you remember Grandfather Mack’s story about chasing away the Indians?
Yes. He ran at them screaming and waving his stick. They thought he was leading an army, so they ran away. But he was really alone.
Are you all ready to do the same thing?
Joseph rushed out of the house screaming, and his family followed. It worked! The mob scattered.
So many people tried to steal the plates that Joseph and Emma moved from New York to Pennsylvania. Even there, some people would not leave them alone.
My husband, Martin, and I have given you money to help you translate. I deserve to see those plates! I won’t leave until I see them.
When Mrs. Harris didn’t find the plates in the house, she decided to look for them in the woods. It was hours before she came back.
Emma, I didn’t think there were snakes in this part of the country in the winter. I’m sure I found the place where Joseph buried the plates. But as soon as I started to clear away the snow, a horrible black snake appeared and hissed at me. I was so frightened I ran all the way back here!
With the Lord’s help, Joseph kept the plates safe until he was finished translating them.
Then he gave them back to the angel Moroni.

Many years ago, I went to a summer Scout camp with our son Justin. As the activities got underway, he excitedly announced that he and his friends wanted to earn the archery merit badge. Doing so required the boys to pass a short written test and hit a target with their arrows.
My heart sank. At the time, Justin was quite frail due to cystic fibrosis, a disease he had been battling since birth. I wondered if he could pull the bow back far enough to send the arrow to the target.
As he and his friends left for the archery class, I silently prayed that he would not be humiliated by the experience. A couple of anxious hours later, I saw him coming up the path toward me with a big smile. “Dad!” he exclaimed. “I got the merit badge! I got a bull’s-eye; it was on the target next to mine, but I hit a bull’s-eye!” He had pulled the bow back with all his might and let the arrow fly, unable to control its trajectory. How grateful I am for that understanding archery instructor who never said, “Sorry, wrong target!” Rather, upon seeing Justin’s obvious limitations and earnest effort, he kindly responded, “Good job!”

Most musicians don’t take up a new instrument and play a concert tour nine months later—especially if they’re 12 years old. John Mitton, a Salem, Oregon, deacon, started on the piano at five and added violin study at six. It wasn’t until September 1974 that he went to work on the organ, but he proved so adept that he spent last summer touring Europe, giving more than 50 concerts.
John, accompanied by his teacher, William Fawk, traveled throughout Germany, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, France, and Denmark playing the works of Bach, Purcell, Lubeck, and others.
In Austria, John played at the 10th century Abbey of Seckau near Vienna, and his concert was broadcast throughout the country. He was also a guest of the Vienna Boys’ Choir and attended music classes where they were studying a Beethoven mass. John was invited to return and play a concert with the Choir this summer at the Imperial Chapel. In Palermo, Italy, one of the cathedral directors took away the wine glass customarily given organists, noting that a “Mormon organist,” as John was referred to throughout his tour, wouldn’t need it.
John and his teacher were honored at a dinner given by the U.S. Consul General of Italy before a concert at the six-manual organ at the Monreal Basilica. Throughout his tour John received invitations from music professors as well as the public to return for additional concerts.
Prior to his tour John got some good experience playing before an audience as the Salem Fourth Ward Primary organist. He also played at many Church meetings and community programs. John also plays the violin in his school orchestra and keeps up his piano study.
But music doesn’t occupy all of John’s time. He’s studying Spanish. He’s a ham radio buff and substitutes frequently on a paper route. Last summer John and other Salem Scouts did a 50-miler, camping five days near the beach and hiking out every day. Of course, music was one of John’s first merit badges.
John’s interest in music is part of a family tradition. His great grandfather, Samuel Bailey Mitton, was a tabernacle organist, and one of his compositions, “Awake! O Ye People, the Savior Is Coming” is in our hymnbook. His mother, the former Ewan Harbrecht, was a soloist with the Tabernacle Choir and toured Europe 20 years ahead of John. Sister Elizabeth, 17, is a violist; brother David, 15, is a cellist and bass guitarist; and Esther, 6, is following John on the piano and organ.
John is planning on serving a mission for the Church. He also would like to study organ on the college level and perhaps teach someday. Motivation is no problem for him. “Playing the organ is a challenge; it’s also a rewarding experience. My parents and teacher never have to make me practice. I do it because I know I’ll get better. Having the opportunity to tour Europe is a real incentive in itself.”
Last summer John and his family visited Salt Lake City and met Tabernacle organists Alexander Schreiner and Roy M. Darley and former director of the Tabernacle Choir J. Spencer Cornwall. Brother Cornwall told John that he was endowed with a great gift and must be humble and grateful because it is a gift from the Lord.
At home in Salem, John is practicing baroque pieces two hours a day on his stake center’s organ in preparation for this summer’s concert tour. He’s looking forward to playing some of the world’s most magnificent organs as well as enjoying some of his favorite foods—bratwurst, Wiener schnitzel, and pommefrites, the German version of an American favorite, French fries.

Linda Buysse-Vergauwen, who teaches elementary school in Belgium, was on a study trip with a colleague and gave her a copy of the March issue along with a special note and an invitation to come to hear her speak in church on Easter Sunday. The friend went and had a positive experience. “The special issue of the Liahona gave me the opportunity to put a little seed in the heart of a friend,” Sister Buysse-Vergauwen said.

When I was baptized, I was already too old for Primary. Even so, I attended it for two years. I did hold the priesthood, but the branch was small and the Primary teachers were so good that I went there. I loved it and was grateful that the teachers didn’t tell me that I couldn’t attend because I was too old. I remember three outstanding teachers. Olga Ramos, Lida del Bosque, and Irma Torres were their names. All three cared a great deal about us children. They diligently taught us and had activities for us. They were young adults then. Now they are married women with grandchildren. I am very grateful to them because it was through their teaching that I learned the gospel.

This pattern can be seen in the life of Jasmine B. of Washington, USA, who received help in coping with a disease. Before contracting the disease, she was a healthy young woman who excelled on her high school track team and loved getting up early for seminary.
Then she started feeling ill. She lost 15 pounds very quickly, and no matter how much sleep she got, it became harder and harder to get up for seminary. She couldn’t run as well as she used to and was hungry, thirsty, and weak all the time.
Over a month went by before she started to pray for help. “I held off so long,” she says, “because the thought of praying for help was an act of submission, admitting that something was indeed wrong with me. It scared me.”
But because she humbled herself to seek the Lord’s help, answers started to come. She went to see a doctor, who discovered she had developed type 1 diabetes, which meant her body could not produce insulin to process sugar. Diabetes has lifelong consequences and must be carefully monitored. Even as the doctors developed a plan to help her manage her condition, she began to worry that she would not be able to continue running track.
“I never ceased to pray as I struggled to understand my new life and to control my disease,” she says. “I prayed for strength and understanding and that I would be able to accept this trial. I would not have made it through those hard days and weeks without prayer.”
Jasmine made incredible strides. Within two weeks of being diagnosed, she was back practicing on the track, and later that year she did well in state competitions. “I believe Heavenly Father has blessed me with a strong, healthy body because I have been striving to be steadfast in the gospel,” she says. “Having diabetes was not the end of the world. With His help, I knew I could get through this.”
By the grace of God and through her dependence on Him, Jasmine is able to cope with her disease and have wonderful successes in her life.

One of the choicest experiences this man related to me was about a horse. Because he was a commanding officer in the Canadian Cavalry, a horse was very important to him:
“I looked around for the best horse in the area to buy. I loved horses—I always had. I finally found just the right one. I paid seventy-five dollars for this horse, which was a lot of money in those days. I quickly picked an excellent horseman who was an expert in horse training. He worked and worked with Steamboat, as I called him, and before long, he was not only the best-looking horse in the Canadian Cavalry, but also the best trained. I could tell him to lie down, to roll over, or to come to me, and this horse immediately obeyed. I was so very pleased.
“We were in Cardston at the time and I had enjoyed riding Steamboat for a couple of years when one day a Colonel Walker from Winnipeg visited our headquarters there. His main mission was to buy a fine horse for the general. He didn’t tell me this at first, but just said:
“‘I hear you have a fine horse.’
“‘He’s a dandy!’ I answered.
“Then he asked to take a ride on Steamboat and I said, ‘All right.’
“When he returned from a short ride, he dismounted and asked, ‘How much would you take for this horse?’
“I was sure he was joking with me, so I quickly replied, in jest, ‘Oh, five hundred dollars.’ This was an outrageous sum.
“‘Sold,’ he said.
“I was stunned! ‘But I was just joking, this horse is my pride and joy,’ I stammered.
“Colonel Walker stood straight and tall and said, ‘You told me the price, I will pay it, so we have just made a deal.’
“I was brokenhearted for a long time at the loss of my joy, Steamboat, my friend.
“About a year later,” he concluded, “while I was in England visiting our headquarters there, I was invited to inspect their horse stables. As I was walking down a row of stalls, I saw my great friend in one of them. ‘Steamer,’ I shouted.
“The horse jumped like he’d been shot. I climbed into the stall, threw my arms around that horse and cried and cried. An old friend is hard to forget.”

With temperatures rising and hot wind blowing in seemingly every direction, my companion and I spent days biking from one end of Yuma, Arizona, to the other in search of people to teach. The heat of summer can be especially challenging, and for a new missionary, it’s sometimes easy to get discouraged.
One day we had been visiting investigators and contacts, and none of them seemed to have the time or the interest to sit down and talk. As we rode our bikes, I began feeling a tinge of discouragement. I closed my eyes and silently prayed for help. The still, small voice of the Spirit whispered, “Pray with your companion.”
After suggesting this to him, we turned our bikes into a park and stopped. As I said the prayer with my companion, pleading for guidance to know where we should go, a feeling of calmness and peace flooded my body. In that instant I knew that our Heavenly Father would place someone in our path who would listen. We ended the day with several good visits with some of our investigators. The answer to our prayers, however, came in full strength that evening as we planned for the following day.
We began our planning session with prayer, again asking for the Spirit to guide us. As we talked about what to do in the morning during those first few hours before lunch, both of us felt an impression to visit a small trailer park behind a commercial section of town. My companion brought up the fact that not many people lived there and that it might be a waste of time to ride our bikes all that way to talk to only a few people. At the moment, we couldn’t decide if it would be worth our time, so we skipped that morning block of time and planned the rest of the day. The Spirit again whispered strongly to visit this area as we came back to plan the morning block. This time we acted upon the promptings and confirmed it with the Lord in prayer.
It was already hot as we left our apartment the next morning to tract in the small trailer park. By the time we got there, I was feeling fairly passive and indifferent and was not expecting much. We locked our bikes to a wooden pillar and stepped up to the front door of the first trailer. I took a deep breath and knocked lightly on the thin wooden door.
Several seconds passed before the knob slowly turned and the door opened, revealing a short Hispanic lady. My first thought was of how tired and stressed she looked. Almost immediately, familiar words filled my mind, and I began to speak. “Hello ma’am,” I started in Spanish. “How are you doing this morning?”
“I’m fine. Can I help you?” she replied.
“Actually, we’re here to help you,” I smiled. “We are representatives of Jesus Christ, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I slowly stopped speaking as tears welled up in her eyes. She raised her hand to her mouth, closed her eyes, and whispered her thanks: “Gracias.” She then took my offered hand and said, choking back sobs, “I have been praying all night for God to send me some angels, and you are here. How did you know?”
My voice trembled a little with emotion as I replied, “We were sent. I know we were sent to help you.”
She told us she was undergoing intense family problems and had been floundering on the brink of depression and hopelessness. In her struggles she prayed and asked for help, for an assurance of love, and for a light in her darkening life. We knocked on her door only seconds after she had ended her prayer.
During the next 30 minutes we presented the basic principles of the gospel, and the Spirit testified to her that they are true. As we felt the Holy Ghost, we knew that she knew our message is true. It was in that instant that I witnessed the necessity of having the Spirit lead us in all we do.
The woman thanked Heavenly Father in the closing prayer, expressing heartfelt gratitude. We stepped off the porch and into the hot and dusty day, our eyes a little misty due to the witness borne by the Holy Ghost. I closed my eyes as we walked and whispered, “Gracias.”

I have just entered room 3021 and plopped my books down, preparing for my Family Relations 101 class. Why, you might wonder, does a guy studying to be a construction engineer want to learn about nonverbal communication with babies and how to deal with a teenager who has an attitude?
The answer is simple. I took this course because I am loaded down with pre-engineering classes. I want a change of pace, something where I don’t have to figure out structural stress coefficients. The fact that the female to male ratio is 7:1 has nothing to do with it.
Well, maybe a little.
The early indications are it is a wise choice. A blonde-haired girl with a trace of freckles across her nose just sat down a row in front of me. She looked around the class, smiled when she saw me, and said, “Hello.”
This is a most excellent sign. I sort of smile back at her and nod, trying to be very cool. I started to say something really original like “How ya’ doin’?” but decide not to rush things.
I am feeling good about this relationship. It is at least 20 seconds old and going well. Why not rush things a bit? What should I do next? Change seats? Ask her what her major is? Tell her she looks like she is from California? I’m feeling slightly euphoric.
But the enchantment vanishes seconds later when a woman in her early 50s briskly walks into the room and sits down beside me.
“I had no idea that we were is this class together,” she says pleasantly.
“Neither did I, Mom.”
I love my mother. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her. But I see my chances of getting to know the blonde-haired girl in the next row slipping through my grasp. Let’s face it. It’s very difficult to display your charm, wit, and intelligence to a woman when your mother—who knows what you’re really like—is only inches away.
“This will be a great experience for us,” Mom says enthusiastically. “Maybe we can study together for tests.”
I glance at the girl and think about what might have been as the professor clears her throat and begins to lecture.

When 250 Latter-day Saint young people from all across Sweden returned home from a four-day youth conference at the beginning of this year, they could say they literally “had a ball.” “Bolliaden 1977” was held in Falun, Sweden, and though the name means a sports event of many ball games, they also participated in spiritual and social activities that strengthened not only their muscles but their testimonies.
Sponsored by the Sundsvall District, the conference attracted people from both the Sweden Stockholm and Sweden Göteborg missions, pitting them against each other in several games of basketball and volleyball and joining them together for workshops, service projects, a dance festival, and a testimony meeting.
The conference began in a family home evening with the theme of love and marriage, during which discussions were held and a film, “For Time and All Eternity,” was shown. With 5,000 members in the well-populated country, the conversation often turned to the problems of dating in and out of the Church. The young Swedes reaffirmed their goals of temple marriage, and the evening ended with a dance.
Tuesday was spent mostly in competition and preparation for the next day’s championship games. Both boys and girls’ teams had cheering sections and a prize was awarded to the Sweden Stockholm Mission for the best cheering group. Even after an exhausting day, the youth found the energy to dance that night at the “Grand Ball,” which featured a live dance band.
After the championship tournament Wednesday, service projects included visits to hospitals and homes for the aged. The afternoon brought workshops in genealogy and food storage, which were “much appreciated,” according to program committee chairman Kristina Palm. Later they gathered for dinner and prepared for an eagerly anticipated festival of drama, music, and dancing. Like other youth in the Church, Swedish young people love to perform, and the program included tap-dancing, musical numbers, and skits from the various wards and branches. “The festival was so much fun and the performances were all good,” reported participant Signhild Arnegard.
But the best was yet to come. As the conference drew to a close, a testimony meeting was held and “there was a long line, because we all wanted to bear our testimonies,” said Kristina. “One could feel the strong spirit that was present,” added Signhild. “I am so thankful to my Heavenly Father that I may live in these days when the gospel has been restored to earth.”
Executive secretary in the Sundsvall District, Eric Martinsson, summed up the feelings of the organizers of “Bolliaden” when he said, “We are so deeply thankful to the Lord that everything went so well and that ‘Bolliaden’ was such a success for our district. Our reward came as we listened to grateful young people bearing their testimonies. These wonderful young people are the future of the Church.”

The train hurried on, and the cadence of the wheels on the tracks repeated: “Not expected of you, not expected of you,” with the emphasis on you.
I was very unhappy. I did not notice the sun nor the other 10 girls who were having fun and singing songs as we returned to our homes in the Netherlands from our week’s vacation in the woods. Not even 15 minutes earlier I was one of these girls. But now, I felt so ashamed. Never, no never, would I do something like that again, even if everybody else did it. I felt shut out and lonely as though I had nothing in common with the rest of the group.
All the girls had been disobedient. But even though I was the youngest of them all, I was the only one who had been scolded. My friend Trees was already 14, Ans was 13, and I was 11. I wanted to blame Trees for everything—she was the one who betrayed me. But in my heart I knew it was my own fault because I had been disobedient.
Nothing really serious had happened. When we arrived at our vacation spot a week earlier we received instructions as to what we were allowed to do and what we were not allowed to do while we were there. We could go into the village to buy postcards to send home, but we were not supposed to buy any candy while there. That’s where the trouble started.
It was incredible to see all the different kinds of candy sold in the village store. We were all too weak to resist. It must have seemed suspicious how often we had to go and buy a postcard in the village after dinner; but after a long, tiring day, the teachers were happy to let us go. And so our money disappeared in the store’s register, and the chocolates and candies disappeared into our stomachs.
At first I heard a little voice telling me I was not supposed to do that. But nobody else seemed to have a problem with it, and it was important to me to be accepted in the group, especially since I was the youngest. And so, on the day we were to go home, I had not a penny left.
On the way to the train, we all bragged about how much money we had received for the trip from our aunts and uncles. Then the teachers asked if we had any money left—they realized not all that money could have gone to buy postcards. We were found out.
I don’t know why one of the teachers singled me out and asked me personally what I had done with my money. But before I could answer, Trees answered for me that I had spent it all on candy. I’m sure the teacher would have guessed the truth since my face turned all red. The only excuse I had was that everybody had broken the rules. And then came those words from the teacher: “But I would not have expected it of you.” It wasn’t even her words that made me so unhappy. It was the disappointment I heard in her voice.
In a corner of the train, I promised myself that from then on I would always listen to the still, small voice in my heart and not be led by other people to do things that are wrong. It was a lesson I would always remember.
The train hurried on, the wheels still repeating, “Not expected of you, not expected of you, not expected of you.”

A powerful experience in my own life involved an impressive Maori lady in New Zealand when I served a mission there. Seriously ill, she was taken to the hospital to have an operation. It was doubtful that she would survive, because of her heavy weight and her advanced age.

She requested that I bless her, saying: “I know I’ll be all right if you’ll give me a blessing, Elder!” I sensed deeply the responsibility, and prayed at her bedside before assuming it. Then a blessing came to her through me that surprised both my companion and me by its positive nature—and I worried, fearing that I had been carried away by my own desire for her recovery. She held my hand and said, “Thank you. I’ll see you at church next Sunday.”

I did not believe her. Yet the operation was successful and her recovery complete—and she did attend testimony meeting the following Sunday. Though physically weak, she stood to eloquently thank the Lord for helping her at a critical hour. In this instance, her faith was a central factor in the blessing.

Hung Hseng Chr sat on the grass by the edge of the river and watched the water lapping on the rocks. The sun felt hot against his skin, and the air was thick and humid. A tear ran down his cheek, and he brushed it quickly away with the back of his hand.
Hseng Chr’s ancestors had lived in Taiwan for many years. He was proud of his people, for they had once been great warriors, and he wanted to be strong and brave, as they had been.
But it was hard to be brave when his sister, Hung Mei Lin, was so sick. She was in the hospital in Tai Tung, and the doctors didn’t know what was wrong with her except that she had a terrible fever. They had said that there was nothing more that they could do. The last time Hseng Chr had seen her, she had looked as still and frail as a bundle of old rice straw.
“Hello,” said a voice.
Hseng Chr looked up and saw the dark eyes and smiling face of Aunt Hung. She was his father’s sister, and she had recently joined a new church. Hseng Chr remembered that she had been taught by two young men who were called Mormon missionaries. Since that time, his aunt hadn’t visited them so often; every time she did, she and his father got into an argument about religion.
“Hello,” Hseng Chr answered her now in a listless voice.
His aunt sat on the grass beside him and gave him a big hug. He suddenly felt better, as he always did when she came to visit. “I was thinking about Mei Lin,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “So was I.”
“I don’t want her to die.”
His aunt gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to ask your father to let my friends give Mei Lin a blessing.”
Hseng Chr stared at his aunt in surprise. “A blessing?” he asked. “What is a blessing?”
“Well,” said his aunt slowly, as if she was trying to explain something very difficult. “A blessing is a special prayer given by men who hold the priesthood.”
Hseng Chr was even more confused. “What is the priesthood?”
“It is the power and authority to act in the name of God. These men—these friends of mine—will pray for Mei Lin, and if God wants her to live and if we believe that God can save her, she will live.”
A strange feeling came over the boy. It was as though something frightened him and exhilarated him at the same time. He knew that he wanted Mei Lin to have a priesthood blessing so that she would get well.
He waited on the grass as Aunt Hung walked toward the house. He watched as she opened the door and called Father’s name. He saw the stern face and stooped shoulders of his father as the door swung open, but he was too far away to hear the words that his aunt spoke. Father shook his head and turned away.
Aunt Hung talked some more, her hand on Father’s arm, her face turned up to his. Father shrugged his shoulders and went back inside the house. Aunt Hung came partway back and waved for Hseng Chr to follow. “He gave his permission,” she called. “Let’s hurry!”
A little while later he stood at his sister’s bedside while two young missionaries laid their hands on her head. As they spoke, a warm feeling came into his chest. When the blessing was over, he and his aunt walked home silently, the hot sun beating down upon their backs.
At suppertime Hseng Chr’s whole family went to visit Mei Lin, as they had at every suppertime for the past week. The boy had grown used to his stomach growling at him all the way to the hospital and back. He didn’t mind the hunger anymore, for lately when he ate, the food seemed to get stuck partway down.
Hseng Chr couldn’t keep from hurrying. The closer his family got to the hospital, the faster his feet moved. Finally he just couldn’t hold them back. He left Father and Mother behind with the younger children and ran the last block by himself. He dashed up the steps and into the hospital. He ran down the hallway and burst into Mei Lin’s room. He stopped. The bed was empty.
He stood for a long moment and stared, not believing his eyes: Mei Lin was sitting in a chair beside her bed, looking at pictures in a book. Her dark eyes were clear, her skin was back to its normal healthy color, and her arms no longer hung limply at her sides. Suddenly he realized that Aunt Hung had been right. There really was such a thing as power from God. He would see his aunt again soon and ask her to explain more about the priesthood.
Mei Lin looked up at him and smiled. Hseng Chr ran forward, his hands reaching for hers.

I loved your article on the Idaho School for the Deaf and Blind (Jan. 1995). When I was in middle school, a class of mine learned some sign language and then we visited ISDB. It was a great experience to communicate with the deaf kids there and try to understand one another. I learned they are just like us, despite their disability. Thanks for your great, inspiring stories.
Merissa WilsonAlta, Wyoming