Gospel Story Finder

The ambulance crew had gone, leaving the house quiet and still. Kierra’s mom and dad sat next to each other on the couch, crying. Six-year-old Kierra didn’t feel like playing, so she sat down next to her parents and cried with them.
“Where’s Baby?” Kierra’s two-year-old sister, Kaleah, asked. “Where’s Baby?”
“Jarom went back to live with Heavenly Father,” Mom replied.
“Where’s Baby?” Kaleah asked again.
“Jarom died, Kaleah,” Kierra said. “He’s not coming home.”
Kaleah didn’t seem to understand. She wandered from room to room, looking for her brother.
Later that evening, Dad sat at the computer typing as tears ran down his face.
“Dad, what are you doing?” Kierra asked as she hugged him.
“I’m writing down my feelings,” he replied. “I hurt so badly it is all I can do.”
“Will you write down my feelings?” Kierra asked.
“Sure,” he said.
Kierra thought for a moment and then spoke the words from her heart. “I love you, Jarom. I wish you were back on earth because I miss you. Sometimes I wish you were bigger—strong and healthy. You were a sweetheart. I loved to kiss and hug you. When I was at school I would always think of you. Sometimes I made Mommy happy by taking care of you. I love how you laughed. I liked your smiles. I want you to be alive again.”
Dad wiped his tears away with his sleeve as he typed Kierra’s words. After she had finished speaking, he continued to stare at the computer screen.
“Kierra,” he said, “Jarom will live again.”
“But he’s dead,” Kierra replied. “How can he live again?”
“Jesus Christ came to the earth, lived a perfect life, and then was killed by people who hated him,” Dad said. “Do you remember what happened three days after He died?”
“He was resurrected,” Kierra answered.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “And because He was resurrected, all of us will live again after we die.”
“But will Jarom be part of our family? I want him to still be my brother.”
“Kierra, because Mommy and Daddy were married for time and all eternity in the temple, our family can be together forever. If we are righteous, someday we will be reunited as a family.”
Kierra missed Jarom so much right now, but she smiled as she thought about being with her brother again.
“I can’t wait to be with him again,” she said.
“Me too,” Dad said. “Me too.”
A few days later, the family gathered at the cemetery as Jarom’s casket was placed in the ground.
“Good-bye, Jarom,” Kierra said. “I can’t wait to see you again.” The sun broke through the clouds, and Kierra smiled. “I thank Thee, Heavenly Father, that families can be forever.”

It was in March of 1878 that Aurelia first thought seriously of an organization for children, especially so little boys could be taught “everything good and how to behave.” She wanted desperately to help them and prayed that she might be shown a way. “A fire seemed to burn within me,” she wrote in her history.
A few weeks later Sister Eliza R. Snow went to Farmington to meet with the Relief Society. She and Sister Emmeline B. Wells, who accompanied her, stopped at Aurelia’s home for a brief visit on their way to the depot to board a train back to Salt Lake. Sister Rogers discussed with them her concern over many of the boys, who she felt were not being properly taught the gospel nor the manners that would help them become good men. She asked if an organization to help them would ever be possible. We are told that Sister Snow was “silent for a few moments, then said there might be such a thing and that she would speak to the First Presidency about it.”
At that time John Taylor was president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and the acting president of the Church, since a president had not yet been sustained by the Church membership after the death of Brigham Young. Sister Rogers talked with President Taylor who discussed the matter with other members of the Quorum of the Twelve, and they were inspired to write to Bishop John W. Hess of Farmington, asking him to call some women to be leaders. Sister Rogers was chosen to be the president. “Up to this period,” she said, “the girls had not been mentioned; but my idea was that the meeting would not be complete without them . …” And so it was agreed.
Louisa Haight and Helen M. Miller were selected as counselors of the new organization to be called “Primary,” a name suggested by Sister Eliza R. Snow. Bishop Hess urged these women to visit every home in the area to invite the children to attend and to obtain their parents’ permission. Sister Rogers reported that they enrolled 112 boys and 112 girls! The children, together with all members of the ward, were asked to attend a public meeting on Sunday, August 11, 1878, when these women, and others, were set apart by Bishop Hess and his counselors to preside over a Primary at Farmington.
Bishop Hess was most helpful, often attending Primary himself or delegating other priesthood holders to do so. In a letter written shortly after the organization of the first Primary, Sister Snow wrote encouragingly:
“I feel assured that the inspiration of heaven is directing you, and that a great and very important movement is being inaugurated for the future of Zion . … The angels and all holy beings, especially the leaders of Israel on the other side of the veil, will be deeply interested.”
Sister Rogers’ records that were so miraculously saved from the fire report that the children were called together for the very first Primary on August 25, 1878. This is how she described the Primaries that followed:
“When they [the children] came to understand the motives which prompted the calling of their little meetings, they seemed elated with what was being done for them. Obedience, faith in God, prayer, punctuality and good manners were subjects oft repeated. At these meetings, the whole association would generally take part in the exercises. The smaller children were seated on the front benches, the rest according to size. At the proper time the smallest would rise up and, perhaps, recite a verse or two in concert, then sit down and the next bench full take their turn in answering Bible questions. Another class would sing a song; another would repeat sentiments or verses, one at a time, and so on.
“… The next spring we rented a town lot and the Primary Association planted beans and popcorn to go with the Relief Society wheat in the time of famine which is to come.”

Ariel C. shares the story of a time when she was applying for an important summer academic program. “I prayed every morning and night for it,” she says. “I prayed before tests and every single day. I prayed that I would do well on the tests so that my GPA would be good and I might get accepted.” Six months later Ariel was accepted into the program, and she’s sure that because of her hard work and preparation, as well as her daily prayers, she received divine help and guidance from the Holy Ghost. The experience “reinforced to me that Heavenly Father really does answer our prayers and that He doesn’t forget us,” she adds.

Once I had a measuring tape that didn’t work. I decided to fix it. I began to remove the side cover plate to find what was wrong. In a few moments, I knew I was in trouble. Suddenly, the whole mechanism exploded in my hands. There were tape and spring flying in all directions. My efforts to put it all back together were frustrating and often painful. Irritated, I just about threw the whole thing away. Then I thought, “Someone designed this tape. If I can discover the principles that make it function, I can fix it.” With greater patience, I began to examine the mainspring and found that if coiled in a certain way, instead of resisting and complaining, it easily responded. Soon the spring was coiled, carefully placed in its housing, the tape joined, the cover replaced, and it worked perfectly.

So it is with you. When, through violation of God’s laws, you cease to function properly, force and compulsion will not restore you. You must search out the Designer’s plan. As you follow it, you will become more pliable. You can be “repaired” more easily, and you will function well again under His divine influence.

Sigifredo Verano probably didn’t seem like a very good contact when the missionaries first met him in California. He wore long hair and a beard, in the style of some of the rebels of the early 1970s. He worked full-time supporting his family, then studied for several more hours each day trying to educate himself for better employment. That left little time to listen to missionaries.
Most of his friends at work were atheists or agnostics, and Sigifredo himself hadn’t attended any church regularly for nearly twenty years.
When the missionaries first met his wife, Ana Lucia, she told them that they were welcome to come talk with him—if they could find him with time available. After several brief visits, he finally said, “Yes, go ahead and teach me. Let’s get it over with!”
It is a tribute to the love and dedication of several missionaries, and to the faith of the Verano children, that Sig and Ana Verano finally came into the Church. But it is their own diligent obedience that has helped build their strong testimonies.
Sig Verano had emigrated from his native Colombia, South America, to California, in 1963. Ana, the girl he was growing to love, was temporarily left behind while he began preparing to support himself, and possibly a family, in his new country.
He had received only three years of formal schooling in Colombia and spoke little English. In Los Angeles, California, his first job was making hats at the minimum legal wage, so he studied newspaper advertisements looking for something that would pay more. He spotted a training course for a “machinist.” The pay looked good, and in South America, a maquinista—train engineer—had regular employment, so he enrolled.
Sig did well in the course, but inquired after some time when they were going to get to the “big machines.” Be patient, he was told—that would come after the training. Toward the end of the training, he still had not seen a train engine. One day, he asked a co-worker how much they would travel in their future jobs. “What does travel have to do with this work?” the co-worker replied. After some confusing discussion, Sig finally asked, exasperated, “Will you please tell me exactly what we are learning?”
But Sig’s new job as a machinist was enough to provide the support he and Ana would need. They had continued their courtship by mail and were married by proxy in 1964. She emigrated to the United States in 1965. Edison, the first of their children, was born in 1966, followed by Julie in 1968 and Marbell in 1972.
Sigifredo was constantly studying to better himself educationally and economically. “He would finish one course and start another,” Ana says. He became a skilled automotive mechanic who was much in demand.
Though Sig had never denied the existence of God or committed grave sins, religion was not a significant part of his life. But he couldn’t accept the philosophies of his atheistic and agnostic friends. Once, Sig had pressed one of the agnostics with the question, “If you were to join any church, which one would it be?” The man answered, “I would become a Mormon,” and cited the goodness of the Latter-day Saints as his reason.
In fact, it was the good example of the only Latter-day Saint he had ever known—“an example of a good man”—that persuaded Sig Verano to listen to the Latter-day Saint missionaries for the first time. What they taught sounded like the truth to him. The Word of Wisdom made enough of an impression that the young mechanic gave up his cigarettes and liquor and began to pray on his own. Nevertheless, it wasn’t easy for him to go to church because he had long since broken the habit of attendance. Soon, he stopped listening to the missionary lessons.
But the Verano children enjoyed Primary, which then was held one afternoon a week. Sig or Ana would drive them to the chapel for the meeting. One afternoon, the car wouldn’t start. “Well, it isn’t my fault,” Sig told them. “I guess you won’t be able to go.”
Back in the house, six-year-old Edison wouldn’t give up. “Let’s pray,” he pleaded. So they knelt in prayer, then went back out to the car. To Sig Verano’s surprise, it started immediately.
After this experience, the Veranos attended Church meetings for a time, but quit after a few weeks. During this period there were several “coincidences” that helped to keep the Church in their thoughts. Sig’s mother-in-law, visiting from Colombia, spoke favorably of the clean-cut young American missionaries whose meetinghouse was near her home. An old friend from Colombia, now a sailor in the merchant marine, came for a visit. At dinnertime, he asked if he could say a blessing on the food—and Sig Verano recognized from his prayer that he was a Latter-day Saint. The friend, a convert who studied the scriptures ardently during his long voyages, bore his testimony to the Veranos, not knowing they had been investigating the Church.
Earlier, Sig Verano had told one pair of missionaries that they could come to visit as friends, but not as teachers. Before one of them went home at the end of his mission, he and his companion stopped by to visit and to invite the Veranos to meet his parents at a small farewell gathering hosted by friends. The Veranos were so impressed with the loving Latter-day Saints they met that they began taking the missionary lessons again.
But Ana Verano, faithful to the traditions of her forefathers’ church, became stubborn when she realized her husband was serious about joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She felt she didn’t need to be baptized again. So they reached an agreement: since the children liked the Church, he would take them there after his baptism. She would continue to go to her church.
But repeatedly during the week preceding Sig’s baptism, Ana dreamed of the Savior’s baptism by John in the River Jordan. She concluded that it was an indication, meant just for her, of the right thing to do.
Sigifredo and Ana were baptized in January of 1974. Their son Edison was baptized later that year, after his eighth birthday.
The Veranos’ struggles with faithfulness were not yet over, however, and neither was the loving work of others in fellowshipping them.
A fine home teacher, George Baker, helped keep them active in the Church, Brother Verano recalls. Unused to attending church meetings three times a day, beginning with priesthood at seven A.M., Brother Verano was ready to quit. The early meetings were difficult because he was working from midnight to six A.M. But Brother Baker, who could not go himself, arranged for someone to drive the Veranos to ward meetings, and kept them coming.
The Veranos’ spirituality grew as they faithfully attended meetings and obeyed gospel principles.
He was called as president of his stake’s Spanish-speaking branch, created in 1978, and was made bishop when, after five years, it became a ward.
The creation of that branch was a blessing also for Ana Verano. What little English she knew had made it difficult for her to participate in an English-speaking ward. In the Spanish-speaking branch, she could hold callings and grow in service as her husband had.
“My real testimony has come through working in the Church,” Brother Verano says. “Constant service is one of the things that strengthens one’s testimony.”
The first Spanish-speaking ward in their stake was divided shortly after its creation, and Sig was called to the high council. He now serves as stake executive secretary for the three Spanish-speaking wards in the Los Angeles California North Hollywood Stake. Ana serves in the stake’s English-language name extraction program.
Among the vocational courses Sig Verano completed in his wide-ranging studies was one in real estate sales. It led to a profitable new career—and to further strengthening of his testimony.
His sales career didn’t begin well. He was fired after only one week when the owner of the real estate agency learned the new salesman’s religion following Brother Verano’s refusal to work on Sunday.
“The gospel is so important in our lives that Sunday is empty if we can’t go to Church meetings,” he explains. But the owner of the real estate company said that the Mormons put too much time into Church service to be successful. Go work for a small agency where the owner will not care so much about sales success, he told Sig Verano.
Brother Verano took the dismissal as a challenge. He found a job with a larger agency, and, working only part-time in 1979, was its top salesman. He has consistently refused to work on Sundays; as branch president and bishop, he also devoted part of his Saturdays to Church service. Yet for several years he has been among the company’s top five salespeople.
In Church service, Brother Verano says humbly, he has gained knowledge that the Lord lives, that through him we can be redeemed, and that he has placed prophets on earth to help guide us. Those who only tentatively believe that the gospel is true can come to know of its truth with certainty as he has—by testing it in obedience and in service to others.
“When I was baptized into the Church,” he reflects, “I believed. But now I know.”

One particular conversation has been a great blessing to me in my spiritual progress and will continue to be forever. When I finished my mission, I had an exit interview with my mission president. He talked about the changes that would come into my life when I went home. He told me that if I wanted to stay active, I needed to always have a calling, and if I didn’t have one, I should talk to my bishop. The other piece of counsel he gave me was even more emphatic. He said that if I wasn’t going to marry in the temple, I should not get married at all.
I followed his advice to the letter, and every time I was tempted to marry out of the temple, I remembered his words. They gave me the strength I needed to hold to my decision to marry in the temple.
Generally speaking, returned missionaries struggle because we want to get married soon. It is even more difficult when members of our wards and branches ask us why we’re not married yet. Time goes by, and if we aren’t married, we often hear conversations that are hurtful and may make us bitter.
But I’m grateful to my mission president, who gave me the wise counsel to marry only in the temple, because now I’m reaping the fruit of it. Ten years went by after my mission before I met my eternal companion. We were married in the Caracas Venezuela Temple in 2000, and it was a beautiful experience. While I waited, nothing could stop me from trusting the words of the Lord’s servant.
I now have the good fortune to be the mother of a little girl, and I’m glad I was able to give her the blessing of being born in the covenant. When I look at her, I see the impact of the conversation I had with my mission president.

Late one night, we sat with our family doctor in constant vigil over our little boy who lay silently struggling for breath. The hours were long, but rewarding. Not only did the professional assistance of this great individual help to save the life of a precious child, but from him, we came to recognize the kind of human understanding that causes one to give his life in selfless service to others.
It was my wife who broke the silence by asking: “Tell us, Doctor, why is it that you have never sent a bill for any of the help you have given to our family?”
It was evident, by the contemplative pause, that his mind was returning to earlier days. Then, as a tender sadness came over his face, he told the following story:
“Before I was born, my parents migrated from Germany to America. Life was challenging and they had to work hard to provide for us little ones as we came along
“During a diphtheria epidemic, my little sister and I both became very ill. The doctor who came told my parents that he had only enough medicine for one, and that a decision would have to be made.
“For some reason, I received the medication and lived. A couple of days later, my little sister died.
“I still remember my father placing her in the little wooden coffin. The neighbors could only come and look through the window, because we were quarantined and everyone was terribly afraid of the contagion.
“I was so small that father had to lift me up to see over that crude little coffin and look upon the face of my childhood playmate for the last time in this mortal existence. Then father went out, got up on the wagon seat, tenderly lifted the coffin onto his lap, and rode away, all alone, to the nearby cemetery.
“Years later, after completing my first month of medical practice, my nurse prepared bills for all my patients. As I saw them sitting there on the desk, that childhood memory passed before me. I remembered also how my parents had later paid the doctor with potatoes and other produce. I asked myself, as I had often asked before: ‘Why was my life preserved instead of hers?’ With that question still on my lips, I swept the stack of bills into the wastebasket and told my nurse that we would keep good records on the books and if people wished to pay me, they would do so; but we would not follow the usual practice of billing patients.”
When the doctor had finished, there was silence as we pondered. How refreshing it was to be in the presence of one who had truly succeeded in placing service ahead of self!
The Savior was willing, not only to lay down his life for his friends, but also to give himself in service to them while he lived. We sat that night with one who served even as the Master. We were healed physically. Spiritually, we were loved, understood, taught, encouraged, and fed by this wonderful teacher and friend.

A true story from the USA.
Kimber pointed to the cups on the counter. She stomped, groaned, and pointed again.
Mom turned around. “Do you need something?”
Kimber pointed to the cups again. Making a fist with her pinky finger out, she made a curved line by her mouth, the sign for juice in American Sign Language.
“Oh. You’d like juice,” Mom said.
Kimber nodded, waiting while Mom poured her a cup.
Kimber’s speech delay made it hard for her to speak out loud. She didn’t like the way her voice sounded when she made mistakes. It hurt her ears! When other people corrected her, it hurt her feelings. She used sign language with Mom at home, but things were getting harder at school and at church because most people didn’t know sign language.
She saw a speech therapist every few days to help her practice talking. But it was still hard. She felt so frustrated.
A few days later in Primary, Kimber sat and listened to the lesson. They were learning about prayer. “You can talk to Heavenly Father about anything,” Sister Dees said. “He will always answer.”
Kimber liked to think that Heavenly Father answered prayers. But how was she supposed to talk to Him? It was hard to use that many words.
At family scripture time that night, Kimber and her little brothers listened while Mom and Dad took turns reading. Kimber liked to listen to Dad’s soft voice while Mom pointed to the words on the page so Kimber could follow along.
“Call upon his holy name, that he would have mercy upon you,” Dad read. “Yea, cry unto him for mercy; for he is mighty to save.”
“Cry unto him?” her brother Hunter asked. “What does that mean?”
“It means to pray,” said Dad. “If you were in trouble, you would cry out for help. Asking in prayer is crying to Heavenly Father for help.”
Kimber nodded. She often felt like she needed help. But how could she cry to Heavenly Father without talking out loud?
“These next verses are all about prayer,” Mom said. “We can pray about anything—our family, our food, and anything we might need.” Then she kept reading. “‘When you do not cry unto the Lord, let your hearts be full, drawn out in prayer unto him continually.’”
Mom paused and looked at Kimber. “That means if you pray in your heart and mind, Heavenly Father hears you.”
Kimber felt a hopeful, happy feeling. Maybe Heavenly Father really could hear her prayers, even if she didn’t use words out loud. She could pray in her heart.
That night, Kimber knelt by her bed with Mom for bedtime prayers. Usually Mom said the prayer while Kimber listened. But this time, Kimber wanted to try praying in her heart.
My turn, she signed, pointing to herself and folding her arms. She closed her eyes and thought about all the things she wanted Heavenly Father to know. In her mind, she told Him what she was grateful for. She told Him how hard it was to talk. And she asked for His help.
Soon she felt a feeling of peace from her head to her toes.
When she was done, Kimber opened her eyes.
Mom gave her a hug. “Good praying, Kimber.”
Kimber smiled. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her. And she knew the peaceful feeling in her heart was His answer.

One Sunday night about three months after I had moved from my native Mexico to the United States to attend school, I flipped through several radio stations trying to find some good Sunday music. As I listened to several local stations, I heard a familiar voice and stopped.
I suspected that the voice was that of President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910?2008), who was President of the Church at the time. I realized that it was odd for me to be able to distinguish his voice. I was accustomed to listening to general conference, Church Educational System firesides, and other Church broadcasts through the voice of a Spanish interpreter speaking over the speaker’s voice. Yet somehow I knew the voice on the radio was that of President Hinckley.
I wasn’t yet fluent enough in English to understand what he was saying, but I listened to the talk on the radio anyway. His voice brought a feeling of peace. When the talk ended, the radio announcer said, “We have just heard President Gordon B. Hinckley.”
I knew that the Lord speaks through His servants and that whether the message comes by His voice or that of His prophets, it is the same (see D&C 1:38).
I thought about how unusual it was that I had recognized President Hinckley’s voice. Having done so made me realize that I always want to be able to recognize the voice the Lord uses to communicate with His children—regardless of the source.
“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me,” the Savior said (John 10:27).
In a world filled with many voices—many “stations”—to flip through, I hope I can always be attuned to recognize the voice of my Shepherd and His servants and to be willing to follow their counsel.

I sat at the table in my new apartment and glared at my noodles. It was raining, and it was Monday. I had just gotten the results back from a biology test and was not very pleased with myself. Furthermore, I had tripped in the crowded library as I was running to my next class. Now I was eating the last thing I had in the cupboard—bland noodles.
This is not the college experience I had imagined, I thought. I had pictured myself as a triumphant Joan of Arc figure, out to rid the world of injustice. At the end of my first month away from home, I was feeling like the noodles in my bowl of soup, tangled and limp. I was just one in a sea of thousands of college students, and I could not help but feel a little alone.
“Package!” my roommate yelled as she came in with the mail. I looked up to see a brown box flying across the kitchen.
Someone is sending me a package? It wasn’t my birthday. I curiously opened the package and found a note and a small rectangular object wrapped in one layer of colorful paper and then wrapped with a solid layer of tape. I read the note first. Written in 10-year-old cursive, the note read, “I hope you will enjoy your present. This is a short letter, but I miss you. Love, Maria.” As if on second thought, “Maria” had been crossed out several times and the “anonymous” sender instead had carefully drawn a heart with a question mark inside. I unwrapped the colorful rectangle and found a candy bar—my favorite kind.
I sat at the table and studied the note, realizing that I wasn’t just another face. Far away from my college dorm room, I had a sister who knew who I was, who missed me, and who loved me. She cared how I was feeling and sent me a reminder that I was important.
She now became a reminder to me of the power of service. This simple, thoughtful act had changed my entire attitude that afternoon and had a tremendous impact on my week. As I sat at the table, her example spoke of the blessings that come to both the doers and the receivers of service. I felt loved, and my sister was coming to know the Savior.

Audrey felt wiggly. It seemed to her that sacrament meeting would never end. She twisted and knelt backwards on the bench. Mom made her turn around. She slid to the floor and sat under the bench. Dad picked her up and set her back in her seat. She made a face at Rebekah, her older sister. Rebekah put a finger to her lips and whispered, “Shh!”
Audrey frowned. She leaned forward and looked down the long row. Except for Audrey’s family, the only person on the bench was an old man. A cane rested against his leg. Audrey looked at the old man’s cane. It was smooth and shiny. She looked at his hands, resting quietly in his lap. Then she looked at his face. He seemed to be listening to the speaker, but when the other people laughed, his mouth did not even smile. Audrey thought his eyes looked sad.
She wanted to help. Slowly and quietly, Audrey slid off the bench. Softly and reverently, she tiptoed over to the old man. Mom and Dad watched her go. She put her finger to her lips and smiled at them. Then she climbed onto the bench next to the old man.
He looked down. Audrey scooted closer to him and patted his wrinkled fingers. He opened his fingers and wrapped her little hand in his. Audrey leaned her head on the old man’s arm and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Be happy,” she wanted to tell him. She tipped her head to look up at his face. The old man smiled down at her and winked.
During the closing hymn, Audrey heard him singing. His voice was low and scratchy, but Audrey thought he didn’t sound sad. After the meeting, Audrey’s mom and dad came to shake hands with him.
“We’re Brother and Sister Noe,” Dad said, “and this is our daughter Audrey.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I am Brother Campbell,” he said.
After that Sunday, Audrey’s parents invited Brother Campbell to sit with their family during sacrament meeting every week. Audrey always felt less wiggly sitting next to Brother Campbell. And even better, Brother Campbell always smiled.

Brother Yefi told us how he was introduced to the Church.
“Since I was a child,” he said, “I had suffered from nosebleeds. One time, after I was married, I suffered a nosebleed so severe that I fainted and had hallucinations. When I recovered, I thought I had gone on to the next life. But I was glad to see my wife by my side taking care of me.
“I decided to go to see a doctor in Puerto Varas. While I was at a friend’s house, he told me that two young men lived nearby who ‘cured’ people in the name of the Lord. Since I have always been a faithful man, I went to see them and asked them how much they charged for a blessing. The young men, who stood out because of their white shirts, told me, ‘We don’t charge money to bless one of our brothers. If you have faith that you will be healed with the blessing we give you, it will be the Lord who will really cure you.’
“They then invited me to sit down, but I told them, ‘I don’t feel comfortable when I’m sitting down. I would feel better kneeling.’ The missionaries put their hands on my head and gave me a blessing. The experience was marvelous. I felt warm all over my body, and I had no doubt that it was God’s power curing me. Never again did I have a nosebleed.
“After this experience, I asked the missionaries what I had to do to become a member of their Church. They asked me if I was married. I told them yes, and we made an appointment to meet together with my wife the following Sunday. The missionaries presented the first discussion, and then they asked us to return the next week for the second discussion. But I told them that because of the distance involved, I wanted them to baptize us then. So we received all the discussions and were baptized the same day, 28 September 1979.
“It’s a long distance between our home and the church, but we attended Sunday meetings as often as possible. On one of our visits, I was interviewed by the branch president to be ordained to the Aaronic priesthood.”

In fleeing with Joseph from a mob, a young man reported, “sickness and fright had robbed me of my strength. Joseph had to decide whether to leave me to be captured by the mob, or endanger himself by rendering aid. Choosing the latter course, he lifted me upon his broad shoulders and bore me with occasional rest through the swamp and darkness. Several hours later we emerged upon the only road and soon reached safety. Joseph’s herculean strength permitted him to [save] my life.” (New Era, Dec. 1973, p. 19.)

Illustration by Greg Newbold
After my classes finished in the late afternoon, I stopped by a tiny antique store just before I made my way home—an errand I wanted to finish despite the increased intensity of the rain. I was the only person in the store, and the woman working there helped me with the lamp I’d had my eye on.
As she opened a shopping bag, I noticed a display of brightly colored bracelets on the counter. I reached for one just as she placed the lamp into the bag. She brushed the display, and about half the bracelets clattered to the floor. She looked a little flustered but finished ringing up my purchase. I left the store, umbrella in one hand, bag with a lamp in it in the other.
I walked home, took off my wet boots, and put on some music. As I took the lamp out, I noticed something at the bottom of the bag. It was a red bracelet. It must have fallen from the display into my bag. I smiled, thinking how much this moment was beginning to resemble a story from the old Young Women manual: “Then Valerie thought of the lesson they’d just had in Laurels class.”
I tossed the bracelet on my bed and plugged in my lamp. It created a warm glow in the gray afternoon. I looked out the window. It was raining even harder, and the snow on the ground was turning to dirty slush.
I looked at the bracelet. It was cherry red. I slipped it on my wrist. The price tag swung—$20. Of course I would return it. It never entered my mind not to. I pulled it off and put it on top of a pile of books I’d been meaning to put away. I walked into the other room to make a cup of hot chocolate.
Then I walked back in.
How long had I put off dealing with those books anyway? A while. How long would that bracelet be there if I put off taking it back?
My intention was to return it. But when would that be? Would I wait so long that I would feel awkward returning it? Would I forget about it?
I hesitated a little more. I looked out the window again. I thought about how my feet had just warmed up. I thought about my delicious hot chocolate.
Then I grabbed the bracelet, pulled my boots back on, and headed back out.
When I arrived at the store, the woman was helping someone else. I stood and waited. When she finished, I pulled the bracelet out of my coat pocket, explaining how it had come to be there. She looked sort of surprised, a little confused, said thank you, and that was it. She didn’t offer me a reward for my honesty. She wasn’t excessive in her thanks. And no one else was around to see it.
As I walked home, I thought about how I’d always considered myself an honest person. It is a quality I value and look for in others. But real honesty, like real love and real charity, is an active attribute. However honorable and true my intentions, I only became an honest person when I put those rain boots back on and acted on my intentions.
I felt my bare wrist inside my coat and smiled a little.

Uncertainty can be frustrating and scary. Some of the people I talked with in my job couldn’t stand uncertainty. They wouldn’t allow themselves to even contemplate the possibility of the existence of God or life after death. They’d made up their minds before they even asked me questions, and they only heard what they wanted to hear.
I remember one man who said, “You can’t show me the golden plates, so I can’t believe they ever existed.” To which I responded, “Suppose I could show you the plates—would that be enough for you?” And he replied, “No, because I would be looking at forgery.”
No matter what I said, he had already made up his mind that “no” was the right answer—because “no” could eliminate his uncertainty.

“Prairie gum!” exclaimed Roxanna. “Would you like to go out and get some prairie gum?” “Oh, yes,” Rachel said. She had just walked the few kilometers between her soddy—a home built of grass, or sod—and Roxanna’s, but her six-year-old legs were eager to go on if the reward was prairie gum, a sticky substance that gathered on the broken tops of the tall rosinweeds dotting the land.
In the spring, the weed blossomed like a little yellow sunflower, but today it was fall, and the rosinweed, like everything on the prairie, was brown and dry. The little wildflowers, which had once added splashes of red, orange, and purple to the sea of grass, were all gone.
The girls walked hand in hand through the dry grass. They felt lucky to live so close to each other; most families on the prairie did not have neighbors nearby. The golden land was vast, and homes were spread out. As Rachel and Roxanna walked, they could not even see another soddy.
They trotted from weed to weed, their long braids dancing behind them. Picking off a bit of the colorless gum here and a bit there, they tried to gather enough of it to make a chewy lump. They were so focused on spotting the next rosinweed and scraping off its gum they didn’t realize they had walked another kilometer. When a faint cry rang out, the two best friends froze.
“Listen! What is that?” Rachel’s brown eyes widened with fear. Both girls strained to make out the sound. Then in the distance they saw Roxanna’s father running toward them. “It’s your father! He wants us to do something. What is it, Roxanna? Can you hear?” Rachel asked, frightened.
“Run! Run! Run!” Roxanna’s father was yelling frantically. “Run to the breaking!” Roxanna quickly spotted the place where her father had turned over the prairie sod with the breaking-up plow. Land on the prairie could not be cultivated the first year; it had to be broken up, then left to lie and rot. During the fall and winter, the tough grass roots rotted away so a common plow could get through them. Roxanna grabbed Rachel’s hand and began running the half kilometer to the breaking. They stumbled through the tall, dry prairie grass.
“Run to the breaking! Run! Run!” Roxanna and Rachel could see the blur of a blue shirt as Roxanna’s father waved his arms desperately. “Run! Run!” His frantic voice was still faint, but the words were distinct.
“Roxanna, what is it? What’s the matter?” Rachel asked between frenzied breaths.
“I don’t know,” Roxanna gasped. Neither girl stopped running. Their parents had taught them to obey immediately, so they stumbled on as fast as their little legs could carry them.
The prairie grass felt like claws snatching at them again and again, trying to trip them. Roxanna stepped into a gopher hole, but Rachel pulled her up. Rachel’s lungs ached, and she felt she did not have another breath in her, but she kept going.
At last they reached the edge of the breaking. Roxanna’s father came running up from the opposite direction. Seizing both girls in his arms, he dragged them into the middle of the bare black clearing.
“Get down!” he gasped, throwing his body over theirs as protection. The black soil was hard and scratched the girls’ faces.
“What is it?” Rachel panted.
A crisp, crackling sound was her answer. She turned her head to see large flames sweeping across the prairie. The orange fire swiftly swallowed up the dry grass and weeds in its path, including where Rachel and Roxanna had stood just minutes before! The flames shot high into the sky, sizzling like wicked laughter. The air over them grew thick with gray smoke and flying red cinders. Roxanna’s eyes and lungs burned from the smoke. Rachel thought her skin would melt from the intense heat that enveloped them.
“Hold on, girls,” Roxanna’s father urged.
And then the danger was over. The fire moved swiftly down the prairie, leaving Rachel, Roxanna, and Roxanna’s father untouched because there was no grass around them to burn. They sat up and stared at the moving fire. Rachel wiped the sweat and dirt from her face with the back of her hand. Roxanna let out a big sigh of relief.
“That was close,” Roxanna’s father gasped, “but we made it!” He looked back to see a stretch of black extending down the prairie, marking the fire’s path. The ground around the breaking was black and still sizzling. He inhaled deeply. “We made it because you quickly obeyed my shouts.” Then he bowed his head and gave thanks to Heavenly Father that the girls had been obedient and that none of them had been hurt by the fire.

The month of December found me in the mission field, living my childhood dream. I had been serving in Siberia for six months, and though I wasn’t fluent in the language and had not baptized thousands, my time in Russia had been the happiest of my life.
Christmas had always been my favorite time of the year because of the chance to be with family, visit Temple Square, decorate the tree, and enjoy all of the other traditions that had developed over time. But this year all those memories I treasured were in the past, and my family was literally on the other side of the world. I tried to be positive, realizing I had the opportunity to make this the best Christmas ever. I thought and prayed about how I could make the most of this holiday season. I wanted to draw closer to Christ and serve those around me. But day after day, as I pondered how to make Christmas special, the inspiration I sought wouldn’t come.
I was frustrated with my failure to make the holiday unique. I finally decided to continue serving the Lord as I had since the beginning of my mission, knowing that simply serving Him with all my heart, might, mind, and strength would be the best way to observe Christmas.
On Christmas Eve we went with the branch president to give an older woman a blessing. I remember feeling that I was ministering in behalf of the Savior for one of Heavenly Father’s children in need. After coming home we read the account of the Savior’s birth in the Bible and reverently sang “Silent Night.”
Unlike my childhood years, I had no problem falling asleep. In the morning we arose, turned on Christmas music, and took turns opening the packages we had received from family at home and from our friends in Russia. After a while, torn wrapping paper covered the floor, and we only had a few presents left. I decided to open the nicely wrapped gift that Ella had given me two days earlier. She had been an investigator for the last few months and was slowly progressing toward baptism. Her circumstances led us to hope she would be baptized in February or March.
Ella was an English teacher with a wonderful family, and every week we looked forward to our discussions with her. We had become good friends, and I wanted her to have the blessings of the gospel in her life.
As I opened the package, I found a book of sonnets of a famous writer that I’d told her I wanted to buy. Opening the book I found a small note that read, “I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.” In the postscript, she had written, “I want you to baptize me in January.”
I screamed for joy loud enough to wake the neighbors. But following the initial excitement I started crying. The joy I felt is impossible to describe. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. This Christmas was a special one. I had been a part in helping someone else come unto Christ.
Two weeks later, Ella was baptized, and now she is working on bringing the rest of her family into the Church.
Christmas that year was unique, and the joy I felt was unmistakable.

When I was 11 years old, I lived with my family in the attic of a farmhouse near Frankfurt, Germany. We were refugees in a new place, far away from our previous home. We were very poor.
Because I was a refugee, and because I spoke with an East German accent, other children often made fun of me and called me names that deeply hurt. Of all the times of my youth, I believe this may have been the most discouraging.
Even though I still remember the hurt I felt, I can see now that this was a time of great personal growth. During this time, our family bonded together. I watched and learned from my parents. I admired their determination and optimism. From them I learned that we can overcome adversity when we have faith and courage.
refugees—people who have to flee from their home because of danger
adversity—something that happens that is very hard or challenging
I think back on that 11-year-old boy in Frankfurt, Germany, who worried about his future and felt the lasting sting of unkind remarks. While I would not be eager to relive those days of trial and trouble, the lessons I learned then were a necessary preparation for future opportunity. Now, many years later, I know this for certain: it is often in adversity that we learn those most important lessons that form our character and shape our destiny.

Several years ago I heard a story that I shall not soon forget:
A young man, climbing in some rugged, high mountain peaks, came across an eagle’s nest. The nest contained several eggs. He took one and gently carried it back to his home. He then put it with several eggs an old hen was setting over. In due time all of the eggs were hatched, and there came forth the eaglet with the baby chicks. During the next several months the baby eagle grew along with the chicks. He scratched in the barnyard for his food like chickens do. Although he grew to full size, he still never flew. The young man watched the process with great interest. He wanted the eagle to fly. So one day he took the eagle up on top of his house and said, “Thou art an eagle, fly.” But the eagle just flew down to the barnyard and commenced scratching like the chickens. A few days later, long before sunlight, the young lad took the eagle to a lofty crag high among the mountain peaks. Then, as the first streaks of sunlight burst over the mountain range, he said, “Thou art an eagle, fly.” The eagle began to stretch its wings; its eye caught a shaft of sunlight; a sensation swept through it from wing tip to wing tip. The fresh, cool air, the smell of pine trees, and an exhilaration it had never known coursed through the great bird. Its wings spread wider; power swept through its entire frame. It began to lift off the arm of the young man. Soon it was lifting and soaring hundreds of feet above the high peaks. It lifted higher and higher and soared farther and farther into the endless sky. It saw more in an instant than its earthbound chicken companions saw in a lifetime. From that time forth the eagle was never more content to be a barnyard fowl.

I guess everybody at some time longs to feel important and to do something that will be remembered by the people of the world—something that will change the course of history and become legendary because of its momentous impact on society. At least that’s the way I felt when I was a teenager.
Of course, I could dream of being rich and famous, or of making a major scientific discovery, or of being the first woman on the moon, or of being president of the United States. But somehow I knew those things were not within the realm of probability—at least not for me.
I was not exactly what you might call an outstanding person. I was a great follower, but never a leader. I knew I’d never be class valedictorian or win any contests or talent shows, and I was too uncoordinated in sports to excel. It’s not that I didn’t try or didn’t care. I was just shy and lacked self-confidence. So how could a person like me possibly make a difference?
I asked my mother what she thought I could do to make a difference in the world. She said getting through the school year without getting any low grades on my report card would certainly make a difference when it came time for me to go to college. I knew she was right, but that wasn’t the kind of thing I had in mind.
When I finally started to run out of ideas and hope, I turned to the Lord. I asked him to help me find something that wouldn’t take any special talents or qualifications, but would help me feel I was making a worthwhile contribution. Nothing earth-shattering—just something suited to my capabilities.
It wasn’t long afterwards that I got this genius idea. It was so right for me that I knew it had to be inspired—I never would have thought of it myself. The idea was that I should get to know the names of all the people that I came in contact with regularly—and greet them by name whenever I saw them.
I started with my own neighborhood and learned the names of everyone—even the children and pets. Then I went on to memorize the names of all my ward members. When I had successfully completed that, I started on my high school.
It was a big school in a large city, and it took me quite a while, but I did it. I didn’t pay any attention to racial or social boundaries. At first I felt a little strange saying hello and calling people by name who I didn’t even know, and I embarrassed myself quite a few times by accidentally calling people by the wrong name. But I got better at it as time went on.
It became a game to see how many new names I could learn in a day. Once in a while, I got some puzzled looks and some questions like, “Are you trying to win an election or something?” But for the most part, everyone acted like they really appreciated it.
Did it make a difference? I think so. Once Brother Barton, the oldest man in the ward, said to me, “Young lady, I think you are the only young person in this ward who knows my name. It sure is nice when you speak to me and remember who I am.”
Then one day at school I found an anonymous note stuck into my locker that said, “Thanks for saying hi to me today. I’m new at school, and I didn’t think anyone even knew my name. Thanks for making me feel welcome.”
I even got to like some of the people I’d previously thought were unfriendly or snobbish. When I started being nice to them and calling them by name, they were usually very nice in return.
The greatest difference it made, though, was in me. My whole attitude changed. I didn’t feel average or ordinary anymore. I felt that I was a special person who was doing something worthwhile because I was helping others. I could see them light up inside whenever I said their name and greeted them with a smile. It may have made only a small difference to them, but with the Lord’s help, it made a big difference to me.