Gospel Story Finder

In another case, a young brother was reactivated as the result of the establishment of the outreach initiative to bring into activity young single adults ages 18 to 30. On the first night of activities in one of our Church buildings, this brother was the only nonmissionary attending, but within a few weeks, he had brought about 30 people to family home evening and other activities.
This brother is a Web site designer—he and a partner started their own Web design business. He currently lives with two nonmembers, both of whom work at his Web design company. He is very bold about sharing his testimony. One of his coworkers previously had studied Christian theology, and this brother referred him to the missionaries working in the young single adult program. Now his coworker is a regular attendee of the activities, and this reactivated brother assists the missionaries as they teach him, by adding his testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel to theirs.

Christ has rescued me so many times in my life. This last year we experienced the death of a beloved niece, Nona. I am sure that I will experience more difficult things, but I have had no more painful moment in my life than watching my sister bury her only child, a princess she and her husband had so fervently wanted.

I remember one day while I was working in my office that I was so sad that I couldn’t seem to work. I remember shutting down my computer, crawling under my desk, curling up in a little ball, and just sobbing. I felt like nothing could ever be right in the world again.

I began to pray for comfort and understanding. The Spirit filled the room and penetrated my heart so that I could barely breathe. I realized that Heavenly Father had also lost a child, and I imagined the pain He must have felt as He watched His Beloved Son on the cross. I was given an assurance that my niece, our little princess, was destined for royalty and that the bands of death were nothing compared to the “happily ever after” that she was currently experiencing.

The words God, Heavenly Father, and Jesus Christ were almost never mentioned in my home when I was growing up. My father didn’t really believe in God, and my mother didn’t attend the Christian church in which she had been baptized. When I was six, I wanted to go to church, but my parents decided not to allow me. To remedy my disappointment, I decided to hold my own church services on Sundays.
My knowledge of church and prayer was limited to what I knew from television and stories my friends had told me. The first thing I thought I needed was a Bible. I knew the Bible was a large book with a lot of important words and stories in it. We didn’t have a Bible, so I used the thing we had that fit the description best—the Encyclopaedia Britannica Junior. My congregation consisted of my stuffed animals and dolls. However, my church eventually dissolved, as reading from an encyclopedia can be very frustrating for a six-year-old. Though my church was over, my prayers to God continued.
When I was 13, my mother decided to return to her church. I went with her every Sunday for several months and soon joined the church’s youth group. I loved many things about this church, but I always felt like there was something missing. I continued to go until one day at a youth activity the other youth found out I was not a member of the church. The teenagers in the group began shunning me, and I eventually stopped going to church altogether.
Later, in high school, I took a comparative religions course. I learned a lot about many religions and realized there are a lot of good people with the best of intentions. But no religion ever seemed quite right.
I had convinced myself that no church was right and decided to live by my conscience, read the Bible (by this time I had bought my own), and do my best to live in accordance with the teachings of Jesus Christ. After all, no one in my family went to church, and they were all honest, good people.
In May of 2000, after seeing a movie about the life of Jesus Christ, I was so deeply touched that I earnestly prayed to God. I knew if I was patient, while continuing to do my best to follow Christ, I would receive answers to my prayers. I faced many tests in the months that followed. Through these tests, I became better at receiving the Spirit’s promptings.
Later that year I felt I should go to the visitors’ center at the Washington D.C. Temple to see the Christmas lights. I had been to the visitors’ center to see the lights before but had never inquired about the Church or its beliefs.
As I strolled through the visitors’ center, looking at the many displays, I thought of my cousin and another friend who were planning to serve missions for this church. I had studied about many religions but never this one. I was a little curious.
In my head I asked, expecting no answer, “Why in the world would those two men, or anyone for that matter, give up two years to serve missions—and at their own expense?” Much to my surprise, I received a humbling response. The soft whispers of the Spirit pierced my heart as my eyes fell upon a replica of gold plates. I was drawn to them. As I looked at them, I felt a powerful feeling of love, safety, and comfort, and in my mind I heard the words, “These are important. Learn about them.”
Immediately, I found a missionary and asked her about the plates. She told me about Joseph Smith translating the Book of Mormon. She also suggested I meet with the missionaries, but I declined.
The next day I went to the library to read all I could about the plates and the Church. I bought a copy of the Book of Mormon from a used-book store and began reading. I also read about the Church, but I wanted to learn more, so I decided to attend a church meeting.
I knew if I studied and prayed, God would confirm to me that this is the right church. So that’s what I did. I watched and waited patiently. And sure enough, my prayers were answered. On March 25, 2001, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
This is the Church of Jesus Christ. There are many good churches with many good people, but The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the church of our Lord and Savior, and it is the church with which our Heavenly Father is well pleased (see D&C 1:30). Our Heavenly Father loves us, has a plan for us, and will guide us back to Him if we earnestly seek Him.

Josh had only a few toys. But his friend, Joe, had a bedroom full of them! There were balls and trucks and games and books. But of all Joe’s toys, Josh liked the cement mixer best. It was a bright green truck with a yellow mixing drum on top. And whenever Josh went over to Joe’s after school, he chose to play with the green and yellow cement mixer.
“Do you want to play with my race cars?” Joe asked one afternoon when they had finished eating some gingersnaps and milk.
“No, thanks,” replied Josh, who was busily running the cement mixer around Joe’s bedroom carpet.
“Then how about a game of checkers, Josh?” his friend asked, getting the checker set out of his big toy box.
Josh only shook his head as he watched the mixer slowly spin on top of the truck.
“Let’s go outside and toss my new football,” suggested Joe.
“Maybe later,” Josh answered.
Finally, Joe chose a soda water truck and began to play beside Josh on the floor, until they could both smell roast beef and knew it was time for dinner.
Joe’s mother came in and said, “Dinner’s ready, Joe. If you clean up your toys now, Josh may call his mother and ask if he may stay for dinner.”
Joe and Josh began grabbing the toys on the floor and putting them in Joe’s toy box. Before they were finished, Josh noticed that the green and yellow cement mixer had fallen over the side of the toy box and was laying on the floor. He started to tell Joe, who was closing the box, but for some reason the words wouldn’t come. Joe closed the toy box and ran to wash his hands. “Call your mom while I’m washing up!” Joe called from the bathroom.
Josh was still sitting on the rug in Joe’s room. Almost before he knew it, he put on his coat and slipped the cement mixer inside of it.
Joe came back in, drying his hands on a towel. “Did you call your mom?” he asked, smiling at Josh.
Josh wiggled around on the floor. “Um, no, I didn’t because I remember that my mom told me to go straight home.”
“OK,” said Joe. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When he arrived home, Josh didn’t stop and talk to his mother while she fixed dinner like he usually did. Instead, he ran up the stairs to his room.
Josh took the cement mixer truck out from under his coat and ran it along the floor by his bed. It still fascinated him to see the mixer going around and around on top. After he had run the truck around his room once more, Josh stopped. He didn’t seem to enjoy playing with the truck as he did before, and he had an unhappy feeling. In fact, Josh didn’t feel good at all. He wished he could go hide somewhere. He was feeling so bad by this time he didn’t notice his mother when she came into his room with some clean laundry.
“Why, Josh, I didn’t know you were here! I must have been downstairs when you came into the kitchen to talk to me. Did Joe give you that cement mixer? Isn’t it shiny!”
Josh swallowed hard. For a second, he almost said, “Yes, Joe gave me this cement mixer.” But somehow he knew that would only make him feel worse. So he looked down at the carpet and said very softly, “No, Mom, Joe didn’t give it to me. I saw it fall out of his toy box. And when he went into the other room, I put it under my coat and brought it home.”
Josh held his breath and waited for his mother to scold him. Imagine his surprise when she hugged him instead and said very quietly, “Josh, you know you did wrong by taking the cement mixer because it doesn’t belong to you. But you surely did the right thing to tell me the truth. You don’t feel very happy right now, do you, son?”
“No,” replied Josh, past a big lump in his throat.
“Well, I’ll tell you what we can do. After dinner, I’ll go over to Joe’s with you and you can give the cement mixer back and tell him you’re sorry. How would that be?”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” declared Josh. But then he looked into his mother’s eyes and heard himself say, “Maybe that would make me feel better.”
So, after dinner, Josh and his mother walked over to Joe’s house. Josh thought about not going in, but deep down inside he really wanted to talk to Joe, even though he felt scared. Josh made himself walk up to the door and ring the bell. When Joe answered, he said, “Here’s your cement mixer, Joe.”
“But I thought you were playing with it here this afternoon,” Joe said with a puzzled look on his face.
Josh swallowed hard. “I was, but when you were washing your hands, I put it under my coat and took it home. Now I want to tell you I’m sorry, and I’ll never do such a thing again.”
Joe looked at Josh for a long time. Then he took the cement mixer from Josh’s hand and said, “Well, that’s OK. I’m glad you brought it back.” He smiled and said, “We’re still friends. How about coming over tomorrow after school to play with my new football?”
Josh felt good again as he nodded his head and thought about how much fun that would be. After all, when you had a friend as great as Joe, who needed a green and yellow cement mixer!

A number of years ago we attended a regional conference of combined BYU stakes. President James E. Faust was one of the speakers. His wife, Ruth, was accompanying him, so he brought her to the pulpit by his side as he began. He told how she was the love of his life and how he had to work at winning her over. Then he said, “Our first kiss was at the marriage altar – but we’ve been making up for it ever since.”

That may sound like a very old-fashioned story to many of you, but in being cautious about expressing physical intimacy too soon in a relationship, we need to be a little old-fashioned. In our current times there seems to be no check on physical intimacy before marriage – or at any other time for that matter.

I am one of those converts. I was converted at 17, when I was a high school student. The missionary who performed my baptism was an Elder Rupp from Idaho. He was recently released as a stake president in Idaho. I have not seen him since I was newly baptized, but I have exchanged e-mails with him and talked to him by telephone. I have never forgotten him. His kind, smiling face is etched into my memory. He was so happy when he learned that I was doing well.
When I was 17, I didn’t really have a good understanding of the messages that the missionaries had been teaching me. However, I had a special feeling about the missionaries, and I wanted to become like them. And I felt their deep and abiding love.
Let me tell you about the day I was baptized. It was July 15, and it was a very hot day. A woman was also baptized that day. The baptismal font had been handmade by the missionaries, and it wasn’t much to look at.
We were confirmed right after we were baptized. First, the sister was confirmed by Elder Lloyd. I sat down with the other members, closed my eyes, and quietly listened. Elder Lloyd confirmed her and then began to pronounce a blessing on her. However, Elder Lloyd stopped talking, so I opened my eyes and looked at him with an intent gaze.
Even today I can clearly remember that scene. Elder Lloyd’s eyes were overflowing with tears. And for the first time in my life, I experienced being enveloped in the Holy Spirit. And through the Holy Spirit I gained a sure knowledge that Elder Lloyd loved us and that God loved us.
Then it was my turn to be confirmed. Again it was Elder Lloyd. He placed his hands on top of my head and confirmed me a member of the Church, bestowed the gift of the Holy Ghost, and then began pronouncing a blessing. And again he stopped talking. However, I now understood what was happening. I truly knew through the Holy Ghost that the missionaries loved me and that God loved me.

Illustration by Don Seegmiller
I still remember the first time I saw the two men standing on our doorstep in Peru. They were wearing white shirts and ties, and they were so tall! I thought they had warm smiles.
“They must be nice,” I thought. My parents must have thought so too because soon the missionaries were coming to our home often.
I loved listening to the missionaries and always felt they were telling the truth.
“Don’t you want to be baptized, Mamá?” I asked my mother one day.
She smiled. “I do. But I want to be baptized with your father.”
I nodded. I was nine years old—old enough to be baptized. But I wanted to be baptized with my father as well, and he wasn’t sure if he believed what the missionaries taught.
“Keep praying, and the time will come,” Mamá said, as if she could read my thoughts.
I knew that the missionaries had challenged my father to follow the invitation at the end of the Book of Mormon to ask God with a sincere heart if the gospel is true. So one evening I decided to help my father with that challenge. I asked if we could pray together the way the missionaries had asked. We went into my room and knelt down. He asked me who was going to say the prayer.
“You say it, please,” I said.
My father started praying to Heavenly Father. When he asked if we should be baptized, a feeling of love and peace wrapped itself around us. It was so strong that my father stopped speaking for a minute. We knew we needed to be baptized.
I’ll never forget the look in my father’s eyes after he ended that prayer.
“We have our answer,” he whispered, giving me a hug.
I smiled as I buried my head in his shoulder. The Holy Ghost had made it possible for us to know the truth (see Moroni 10:5).

My second point is, the Holy Spirit has the power to guide. A 15-year-old girl felt that she needed to find new friends. Have you ever felt that way? She writes, “Now, I don’t know if you have ever had to change friends, but it honestly was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.” She decided to put her problem in the hands of the Lord, and she also counseled with her parents. She says that after several months “she wanted to just give up.” One afternoon she was casually talking to her seminary teacher, and she confided her problem to him. Then he said, “I really don’t know why I am asking you this, but do you happen to know these girls?” This girl answered with a yes. And then he said, “Have you ever thought about being friends with them?”
“I told him that there was no way that I could fit in with them. He then asked me if he could talk to one of the girls. I decided I would let him, if he promised not to embarrass me.
“Well, that next day I received a phone call from one of the girls. Now, you have to understand that this girl was on student council, and I hate to use the term, but she was ‘extremely popular.’ She asked if I would like to go to the basketball game with her that night. That night was one of the funnest, most peaceful nights of my life. The next day at school, she introduced me to two other girls. We all instantly became friends. This event has changed me.”
She concludes by saying, “I don’t know about you, but I would much rather have the Lord, who knows the outcome of everything, direct my life than me, who just sees things as they are at the time. He is right by our side, walking us through life, even when we feel so alone” (letter on file in the Young Women office).

In the life of Florence Chukwurah, the miracle of change has been gloriously visible. She was born into a life of poverty in Onitsha, Nigeria. Her father, who worked at sea on a ship, was rarely at home. Florence’s mother was not educated and worked hard to feed the family.

As Florence approached young womanhood, she began to realize just how poor her family was. By the time she was about 11 years old, a steadfast resolution had formed in her mind: She would escape from poverty. What made this more than a childish wish was that she also made several powerful commitments. These, she felt, would help her find a better life. First, she recalls, “I determined to break from poverty by seeking God earnestly.” Besides this fundamental decision, she made three practical resolutions. “I decided to be obedient to my parents and to older people. I decided to be serious with my schoolwork. And I made up my mind to work hard with my hands.”

Hard work had long been a constant fact of Florence’s life. She hauled water for the family from the public taps or from a stream. She fetched firewood from the countryside and cut it up for cooking fuel. And she helped her mother with the laborious preparation of the cassava root—the family’s staple food.

After school, there were younger children to tend and feed and schoolwork to do. On Saturdays, there was laundry to wash at the public taps. Even on holidays, Florence bought and sold vegetables to help pay her school fees.

All this Florence could do with a willing heart because of the decisions she had made as an 11-year-old girl. “I was happy doing these things as a way to demonstrate my love for my family and also to honor my father and mother,” she explains.

Florence Chukwurah has a special understanding for children from poor backgrounds—especially those who feel shy because of poverty or lack of education. Visiting the branches of the Ghana Accra Mission as the mission president’s wife, Sister Chukwurah carried a special message to such young people. “We were visiting a small branch,” Sister Chukwurah recalls. Many of the young people could not read, and many were not coming to church. “The Spirit said, ‘Tell them the story of your life.’ So I told them that I grew up in similar circumstances. I told them that I was able to overcome my shyness by studying and by obeying my parents and teachers.”

As a young girl, Florence deepened her commitment to schoolwork when she noticed neighbors who were educated. The parents of several of her girlhood friends were teachers and headmasters.

Florence became interested in nursing partly because she liked the way nurses dressed. Taking care of her brothers and sisters had also developed her natural interest in helping others. Her father had borrowed money from a moneylender to pay for her secondary schooling, a debt which Florence later repaid. But she could not afford to attend a university or teacher’s college. The government would subsidize her in nursing school, however. So at age 16, Florence traveled six hours away from her home to begin her training as a nurse.

The year Florence graduated from her training at Queen Elizabeth Hospital, she was given the Florence Nightingale Award for best nurse of the year. She continued her education, finishing her training as a midwife five years later, in 1970.

On December 26, 2004, a powerful earthquake struck off the coast of Indonesia, creating a deadly tsunami that killed more than 200,000 people. It was a terrible tragedy. In one day, millions of lives were forever changed.
But there was one group of people who, although their village was destroyed, did not suffer a single casualty.
The reason?
They knew a tsunami was coming.
The Moken people live in villages on islands off the coast of Thailand and Burma (Myanmar). A society of fishermen, their lives depend on the sea. For hundreds and perhaps thousands of years, their ancestors have studied the ocean, and they have passed their knowledge down from father to son.
One thing in particular they were careful to teach was what to do when the ocean receded. According to their traditions, when that happened, the “Laboon”—a wave that eats people—would arrive soon after.
When the elders of the village saw the dreaded signs, they shouted to everyone to run to high ground.
Not everyone listened.
One elderly fisherman said, “None of the kids believed me.” In fact, his own daughter called him a liar. But the old fisherman would not relent until all had left the village and climbed to higher ground.
The Moken people were fortunate in that they had someone with conviction who warned them of what would follow. The villagers were fortunate because they listened. Had they not, they may have perished.

I sat alone at the edge of my bed, balancing my thick biology book as I attempted to study for the next day’s test. I slowly turned through the complicated chapter on cellular respiration, my jaw tight as I tried to concentrate. But it was useless.
I looked up at the glow-in-the-dark stars clustered above my bed, dull in the light of my lamp, the sharp edges blurring as my eyes filled with tears. I had done a horrible job that evening trying out for the play. It had been my first attempt at high school theater. Although untrained in the arts of dancing, acting, and singing, I had undertaken the challenging musical tryouts at the urging of my friends. I hadn’t done well. My dancing on the first night and my singing audition seemed about average. But tonight had been the final test, the portion I had counted on for success—a memorized humorous monologue, performed in under a minute, before the critical eyes of the director and audition board. I had prepared for my monologue days in advance, writing and memorizing the script carefully until I was certain I could perform it even in my sleep. But when I had reached the school, I couldn’t think clearly. I was not only nervous but also tired and worried about my two difficult tests scheduled for the next day. I tried to remember my lines, those words that I knew so well, but they slipped from me in fragments and spilled out shaky and uncertain.
A hot tear brushed my lips, and I tried to muffle a sob. Nothing seemed to be going right the past few weeks. Between the recent cold distance of one of my closest friends, the stress of my difficult schedule, and the nagging doubts of applying to college, I was finding my senior year to be nearly impossible. And now, after the embarrassment of tonight’s audition, I didn’t know how I could study or even sleep. I shut my biology book and placed it on the floor, emotions roiling as I buried my head in my pillow.
Then I heard my door open and the concerned voice of my mother. “Do you need a blessing?” she asked softly. I looked up, tempted to send her away. My puffy red face, streaked by wetness, held the imprint of my pillow’s seams. But I knew, even as I pulled myself into a sitting position so that I could see both my parents in my doorway, that tonight a blessing was what I needed most of all. I nodded wordlessly, sniffing a bit as I stood and followed my parents across the hall into their room.
I’ve heard of blessings given by pioneers. And even in modern times I’ve heard of blessings for fire victims, children in comas, and people who are not expected to survive. I had a testimony of the priesthood before that night. I had been given my patriarchal blessing two years prior and knew of the unique truthfulness and love it contained. But as my father placed his hands on my head that evening, I could feel divine power in his phrases, in the gentle pressure of his hands. His blessing swept past my superficial wants into what I needed to hear most. And as he concluded, my heart sang at the power in those words, those simple, healing words that I knew were not his. My father couldn’t remember what he had said, but I could, and my dark tangle of stress and fears had loosened into a soft and gentle peace.
I smiled at my mother, grateful for her inspired suggestion. As I turned around and hugged my father, I could feel in the warmth of his arms an echo of the love of my Heavenly Father and His Son, both watching and caring for me more than anyone else ever could. I felt so grateful for that single modest blessing, those quietly powerful, comforting words. That night I slept deeply for the first time in weeks, unworried and sure of my future as a beloved daughter of God.

“What are you doing, Grandpa?”
At first, I didn’t think he heard me. He was lying under the great elm in our backyard, his head resting on his arms, his eyes closed. Then he blinked.
“What are you doing?” I tried again.
Grandpa didn’t answer right away. Grandpa was like that. He seemed to think a lot about what he was going to say before he actually got around to saying it. “Taking pictures,” he finally drawled.
That was something else that Grandpa did a lot, too—say things that didn’t seem to make sense, except to him.
“You don’t have a camera,” I observed.
“Do too.”
“Where?”
Grandpa tapped his forehead with a long, crooked finger.
I sprawled on my back next to Grandpa. It was a hot day, but the shade of the elm and a cool breeze made me forget that.
“The camera’s in here,” Grandpa said again, pointing at his forehead.
“Well, I don’t have a camera in my head, Grandpa.”
“Sure you do. The trick is knowing how to take pictures with it. Close your eyes.”
I obeyed, certain that at any minute Grandpa would start laughing and tell me it was all a joke.
“Now, breathe in,” he instructed. “Like this.” Grandpa closed his eyes and sucked an enormous amount of air into his lungs, like a thirsty man guzzles water.
I copied him as best as I could. “That makes me kind of dizzy, Grandpa.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll clean out that dusty attic in your head. Now smell.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“Well, don’t expect it to come up and bite you on the nose. Do it like this.” Again Grandpa closed his eyes and began sipping in air, slower this time, and through his nose, tilting his head this way, then that. A smile crept across his face.
I followed Grandpa’s lead. This time, I detected the faint smell of freshly cut hay. “Hay,” I pronounced, feeling as if I had accomplished a great feat. “But when do we get to the picture-taking part?”
“Now don’t let the pigs out of the pen until you have the slop ready, lad. We’ll get to that in a minute.”
We had never owned pigs, and I didn’t have the slightest idea what slop was, but Grandpa’s message was clear enough.
“Now,” Grandpa continued, “listen.”
“To what, Grandpa?”
“Just listen.”
I tried. I really did. But there wasn’t anything to hear—at least in my mind. “No one’s talking, Grandpa. There’s nothing to listen to.”
“Son,” Grandpa said softly, “most of what’s worth hearing in this world has little to do with talking. Now, try again.”
I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated. No voices. No words. Nothing. Then I started to hear things. A breeze gently shook the tree, and the leaves above me whistled softly. A robin cheerfully called a greeting. A cricket strummed its one-note song in the woodpile. Sounds tumbled through the grass to me. “Now I see what you mean!” I exclaimed. “There are lots of things to hear, aren’t there, Grandpa?”
“If a man has the ears to hear with, there’s plenty,” he agreed. “Ready for the next part?”
I pulled my shoulders back and wriggled deeper into the grass. “Ready.”
“Feel,” Grandpa whispered.
This time I didn’t ask what Grandpa meant; I just got down to the business of feeling. I soon discovered there was plenty to feel too. The grass—like tiny, green feathers, it gently tickled my bare feet and arms. The wind—it laughed and danced over my face, kissing my cheeks and spinning away. The sun—tiny flecks of heat dribbled through the leaves, leaving warm prints on me like footsteps on a sandy beach.
I revealed these wonders to Grandpa, who listened and nodded with a shadow of a smile etched on his face.
“Ready for the most important part?”
I quietly nodded.
“Good. Now I want you to see.”
“There’s too much to look at, Grandpa,” I protested.
“I didn’t say anything about looking,” Grandpa replied. “I’m talking about seeing. Some people spend their whole lives looking at this and that, and never really see anything. Once you take your first picture with that camera inside your head, you’ll know what I mean.”
For the next few minutes I squinted at the elm overhead. At first, I didn’t see anything—at least, not anything I hadn’t seen a hundred times before. Then, very slowly, colors and shapes started appearing. It was just like those pictures in children’s magazines, with animals hidden in the drawings. You stare and stare, then wham! there’s a turkey hidden in someone’s shoe, or an upside-down pig in the chimney.
At that moment I understood what Grandpa meant by seeing. The edges of the leaves sliced pieces from the sky like tiny cookie cutters; the brown, wrinkled arms of the elm reached toward heaven in silent prayer; the blur of brown sparrows hopscotched like daredevils through the tree.
“Now put it all together,” Grandpa whispered in my ear. “The smelling, the hearing, the feeling, the seeing. Roll it together into one big picture.”
I took a deep breath, smelled the air, heard the leaves gently rustle like giggling children, felt the breeze tickling my skin, and saw the whole picture come together in one big splash of color.
“Click!” said Grandpa. “You just took a picture. A mighty fine one too! Anytime you want it, it’ll be there. Ten years, twenty years—it doesn’t matter. When you want that picture, it’ll be there for you. And you will want it. Someday when you’re feeling down, all you’ll have to do is remember it and it’ll pop right back into your head just the way it is now—the elm, the leaves, the smell of the hay, the feel of the grass prickling at your neck, the whole thing.”
I lay quietly, listening to Grandpa’s words until they faded away on the wind, wondering where they went and if anyone else would ever hear them. “Grandpa?” I finally asked, “do you have any pictures of Grandma? I don’t remember her so well.”
“Lots,” he replied simply. “A man can never have too many pictures of the ones he loves.”
The wind began to blow stronger, spinning around the tree as if confused about where it was heading. The elm, bending ever so slightly, guided the swirling air through its branches.
“I believe it might rain this afternoon,” Grandpa observed.
A distant rumble of thunder rolled over the cornfields in confirmation.
“And if I’m not mistaken,” Grandpa continued, sitting up, “when we were doing all that smelling, I smelled fresh-baked apple pie coming from the general direction of your mom’s kitchen. Interested?”
As Grandpa and I headed inside, it felt good knowing that there was a picture of all this inside my head, a picture I could remember any time I wanted.
And I did remember it, just as Grandpa said I would: the huge, solid elm, the canopy of leaves overhead, the pillow of grass beneath me, the sounds and smells—and one more thing. Something Grandpa had not mentioned was in the picture as well—the best thing in it: Grandpa himself. He was there, too, whenever I wanted to remember him: solid, kind, patient, knowing everything about everything, and taking the time on a warm afternoon to show a young boy how to take pictures with the camera inside his head.

My grandma was the best giver. Her gifts were thoughtful, and every gift she wrapped was covered in beautiful paper with a coordinating bow tied perfectly with ribbon. Going to her home on Christmas morning was like walking into Santa’s workshop. Her gift was the gift you couldn’t wait to receive on Christmas and on every birthday as well. Even so, I don’t remember all the gifts she gave me. What was special was the way she gave them.
Late in 2016, Grandma was diagnosed with cancer. This woman who gave so well at Christmas would be in the hospital for her favorite holiday of the year. I started to worry about how that would affect Grandma, so I felt that I should call my mom and ask her how I could help Grandma with her gifts. Knowing Grandma, she would have made her Christmas plans ages ago and would be so disappointed not to carry them out. And indeed, Mom said Grandma had already bought the presents.
My grandpa gave us the task of wrapping and preparing the gifts for each of the thirteen grandkids and spouses, along with the gifts for more than twenty-seven great-grandkids. I carefully chose the gift bags, tissue paper, and envelopes.
I scanned a card from a previous year to remember their annual message: “Love Eternally, Grandma and Grandpa.” With Grandpa and Grandma’s permission, I did my best to re-create their message. I tried to wrap like Grandma did. I wanted everything to be perfect—to do it as she would have done.
When I was about halfway through the bags, glitter, and cards, the Spirit whispered to me, “This is part of what it means to take someone’s name upon you. This is part of what it means to do things in someone’s name.” In trying to give like Grandma, I was drawing closer to her. I started to think more about what it means to take Jesus Christ’s name upon us.
At baptism, I covenanted to take Jesus’s name upon me and to “always remember [H]im” (Moroni 4:3). Each week during the sacrament, I renew that covenant and begin again. I take that invitation more personally now. I understand better how taking Christ’s name upon us involves living as He would.
I knew how Grandma gave because I had been the recipient of her love and thoughtfulness so many times. I know how Heavenly Father and Jesus love and give because I constantly witness Their blessings in my life.
I am a recipient of Christ’s grace. I want to do what He would do. I want the life I live, the service I give, and the love I share to bear a resemblance to His—to feel as though it came from Him. I am grateful I had the opportunity to serve Grandma and, in doing so, to come to understand more deeply the gifts the Savior has given me.

Jane Johnson
Although I have been a member of The Church all my life, I have never felt as close to the Saviour as I do now. I was brought up in a home with faithful parents who served the Lord to the fullest.
I had bad epilepsy for most of my life, which in turn caused me to have depression, a skin graft on my arm, and two unsuccessful brain surgeries. Losing my memory and losing our family home were also among things that happened while my husband was Stake President.
Fasting and praying during these times comforted us.
However, it wasn‘t until I had cancer that things seemed to change about the way I felt. As a result, I had to have my full leg amputated. My sister passed away while I was in hospital.
A year later I started to feel angry. A good friend, who is paralysed from the waist down, said it might be because I was mourning the loss of my leg. I was feeling sorry for myself. I had to pray for help to get over how I was feeling. I had a blessing which said I‘d been given this to help others. Since that blessing, four members of my Ward were diagnosed with cancer and others around the country have called to speak to me. I was able to be there for them.
In 2020, my cancer unexpectedly returned! After the initial crying from us all, I felt calm. I had another wonderful blessing and could feel peace. I play the piano, and playing songs helped me get through it.
I love the April 2020 General Conference talk from President Nelson called Hear Him.1 Playing and listening to music is a way I Hear Him. I prayed to Heavenly Father and said I didn‘t mind having chemo as long as I suited being bald.
The cancer went, which was a surprise, and a nurse who was an atheist said, “You know I don‘t believe in God, but someone is watching over you”. I‘d spoken to them all during my treatment about members fasting and praying.
In June 2022, the cancer had returned for the third time in 4 places! I‘ve never been an anxious person but waiting for the result was horrible. My husband and I hugged and cried yet again. We said a prayer to ask Heavenly Father to help us get through it. Another talk from President Nelson came to mind. It was Let God Prevail.2
This time the monthly chemotherapy has affected me psychologically. I‘m a strong-willed person and I‘ve never said, “Why me?”. Instead, I ask the Lord what I need to learn. My prayers have never been as heartfelt. Yes, sometimes I cry out during the night when I‘m so fatigued with my chemo. We have a picture of Christ on our bedroom wall, and when I‘m awake during the night I ask for His help. I have the words ‘Let God Prevail‘ in my mind every day. Whenever my husband is stressed about his business, he knows I‘m going to smile and he says, “Let God Prevail.”
Although we‘re going through these trials, and I still have down days where I cry and feel hopeless, most days I Let God Prevail and feel at peace. I‘m still serving as our Ward Relief Society President, and blessed to be able to help the members with their trials in their lives.
Let us not put off praying and asking for help getting through challenges in our lives. The Lord is there, waiting for us to ask for help- “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

One day in my office at seminary I was speaking with a student when I started to go numb down one side of my body and then the other. For some time I was in a semiconscious state. When I finally regained full consciousness, one of the aftereffects was persistent headaches that nothing seemed to help. I was the bishop of our ward at the time, and the headaches were so intense that I decided to sit down and have a talk with my stake president, William A. Cox.
I explained to him that I was experiencing extreme headaches, and even though I did not ask to be released, he knew why I was there. Finally he leaned over the desk and said, “I’m not going to release you, Bishop.” He then continued, “A loaded train doesn’t jump the track.”
Well, that certainly made no sense to me! Fortunately, President Cox explained what he meant. He had long worked at Geneva Steel, controlling the trains that transported the steel. He said that when a train is loaded down with freight, it will not jump the track. Only when the boxcars are empty is the train liable to leave the track. He then reinforced his statement that he would not release me. I did not fully understand the principle until later. As I went to Church to conduct interviews—still with headaches—I found myself so involved in the work that I soon didn’t even notice them. It wasn’t long before they lessened in intensity, and I have now all but forgotten about them.
The principle in this for me is that serving others brings the Spirit into our lives and helps us to remain on the straight and narrow way, especially during times of challenge and stress.

My missionary companion and I were eating a quick dinner at a member’s house one Sunday evening in December when we heard a knock on the door. There were the youth from the branch singing. We were serving in the Joliet Illinois Second (Spanish) Branch. It was nice to see the youth serving and to hear them singing familiar Christmas carols.
Later that evening we were visiting with one of our investigator families when we heard a knock on the door. To our surprise, there stood the same group of youth singing Christmas carols for our investigators.
I was impressed that they would think not only to visit people they knew from the branch, but also to visit the people the missionaries were teaching. I thought it was a wonderful way for the youth to get involved in missionary work.
Our investigators were impressed for a very different reason, however. After the youth left, they told us how amazed they were that a group of teenagers would give up their Sunday evening to bring others some Christmas cheer. They commented on how many youth today seem selfish and would not do such a thing but that the youth in our Church were different. They wanted their children to be like these young men and women.
Soon after Christmas this wonderful family decided to be baptized, and I know one of the influences on their decision to join the Church was the members’ testimonies and examples. They could also see the light in the members’ faces. I know they saw it that night when those youth gave of their time to spread the spirit of Christmas.

It was 3:00 P.M. on 30 May 1996 when my friend Lorna and I began our journey to Cebu—an island in the Philippines. President Gordon B. Hinckley would be speaking at a fireside there the next evening. A tricycle—a motorcycle with an attached sidecar—took us to the port where we and many other members of the Iloilo Philippines Stake would board a vessel bound for Cebu. My friend and I both knew that seeing the prophet would be worth any difficulties we might encounter on our trip.
As we reached the port, heavy rains began to fall. Would a typhoon spoil our voyage and ruin our opportunity to see the prophet? “First trial,” Lorna whispered to me. But later that day we forgot the cloudy skies. The other members’ excitement was contagious, and it seemed almost unbelievable that we would soon hear the mouthpiece of the Lord.
But our journey was not without inconvenience. Lorna and I were dismayed to discover there was no water for bathing aboard the ship. “Second trial,” I thought. Later we received more bad news: Because of the crowded conditions, our luggage would have to be left piled in the hall. Still, we remained positive.
After our boat came into dock the next day, we got in line to board one of the buses that was to take us to the coliseum where President Hinckley would speak. We watched in disbelief as we saw that the last bus was completely full. Lorna looked at me with a look that said, “Another trial?” But we did not give up. We hailed a taxi and were soon on our way.
By the time we arrived at the coliseum, its entrance was overflowing with people. “Will we ever get in?” I wondered. Discouragement set in. “Maybe we should just go back to the ship and wait for the others,” Lorna suggested.
Despite my doubts, I answered her in a determined voice: “Unless we get in now, we may never see the prophet.” With that, we moved resolutely through the crowd. The air in the large hall was so hot and oppressive I felt I would choke. But finally we found two seats together in the upper box of the coliseum, and we sat down to wait in the terrible heat.
Then at last I saw President and Sister Hinckley walking into the hall with Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and his wife, Elisa. Suddenly, my worries and frustrations—even my awareness of the heat—vanished. The entire congregation stood and began to sing, “We thank thee, O God, for a prophet to guide us in these latter days” (Hymns, number 19). Tears rolled down my cheeks. Until this moment I had only read the prophet’s words in Church magazines and books. Now I was seeing him with my own eyes.
As I looked around I could tell that everyone was touched by the same spirit. All around me, men and women were wiping tear-filled eyes.
As I heard President Hinckley speak, a warm assurance touched my whole being that he is indeed the Lord’s prophet today. A scripture came into my mind: “What I the Lord have spoken, I have spoken, and I excuse not myself; and though the heavens and the earth pass away, my word shall not pass away, but shall all be fulfilled, whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same” (D&C 1:38).
At that moment my testimony of the Church, of the Lord Jesus Christ, and of His prophet was strengthened by the Spirit. I am grateful I was given the chance to see the Lord’s prophet and to feel the power of his testimony. Indeed, it was the greatest opportunity and the most priceless experience of my life.

Two young elders were beginning to feel desperate for a place to stay. They had knocked at many doors in the little English village and they had talked with members of the Church and non-members. No one was interested in giving “digs” (a room with meals provided) to two Mormon missionaries.
The elders felt that they had checked every possibility and that they had wasted days in following leads. But their efforts met with failure after failure. They had prayed for help but no help came.
Then the elders decided that there was just one last thing to do—add fasting to their prayers. One of them was so discouraged that he said he was a little doubtful whether even this would bring results, but he was willing to try anything.
Whenever the missionaries had a problem, they usually fasted for only twenty-four hours, but when these two young men had not found a place to live after that period of time, they decided to fast for another day and night. After forty-eight hours of fasting and prayer, the young men still had not been successful. By this time they had returned to the same tracting area for the second time.
Hardly knowing whether they were being guided by inspiration or desperation, one of them was impressed to knock on a door from which they had been rather rudely turned away the first time they had called. There was no answer but a neighbor saw the elders and recognized them. She remembered their request and called out, “You’re still looking for a place to live, aren’t you?”
When they told her they were, she said, “Well, I happen to know of a lady who is looking for some people to live with her.” And as it turned out, this was a perfect place for the elders to stay.
Said one of the elders in telling this experience later, “We gratefully recognized that the Lord had accepted our fast and answered our prayers. I gained more of an understanding of the ways of my Heavenly Father. We should have fasted at first, for He directed us only after we started fasting and had put forth considerable effort and after there was sufficient sacrifice.”

When I was growing up and would have frustrating times, my Dad would always say: “Well, just remember this will pass, it won’t continue forever.”
I found myself in the midst of one of those times recently, wishing that some of my problems would go away and some of my dreams would come true. But neither seemed to be happening. I began to wonder if sometimes things did continue forever. I wondered why some prayers seemed to go unanswered and why some blessings were withheld.
While visiting my parents I found some answers in the corn patch.
It was Saturday and the vegetable garden needed to be irrigated. Since I was home, I volunteered for the assignment.
“Water everything but the corn,” Dad had said as I headed for the ditch with my shovel. I wondered what Dad had against corn.
“Are you sure it doesn’t need any water?” I asked. He decided to come and check. We walked out to the garden together and looked at the corn, which was about 60 centimeters high. The leaves were wilting and had begun to droop from the heat.
As usual, we had planted the garden at our family home evening in the last week in May. A frost had come a few days before the end of the month, and then summer weather had begun.
This year Dad had planted peas, beans, corn, potatoes, and squash. Our garden was growing according to the usual schedule this year. Everything had been watered two or three times since it had been planted, except for the corn. It was getting close to July, and still Dad hadn’t watered it.
“I guess now it’s time to water it,” Dad said as he inspected the droopy leaves. Then he explained to me why he had waited so long.
“If you water corn when it first starts to grow, it’ll shoot right up. But it won’t develop a root system to support its height, so it won’t be good for much of anything.”
As he left me, I began thinking about what he had said. He was disciplining the corn so it would be well developed and there would be a balance between the roots and the stalk.
I looked at my own life and thought how much I was like the corn. Crying for water before I’d developed my roots.
I remembered a talk Elder Neal A. Maxwell gave at Ricks College. He talked about being “grounded, rooted, and established.” Maybe the Lord was allowing me to go a little while without water so I would become grounded and well rooted in the gospel. Perhaps there were roots of patience that I had not established. I could work on tolerance and love. I thought of many areas of my life where my roots were shallow.
I have learned not to mind so much the dry spells in my life because I know the Master Gardener will send water in His own due time. And when it comes it will be, as Elder Maxwell calls it, the Malachi measure: “there shall not be room enough to receive it.” (Mal. 3:10.)

The day I arrived in Mexico City as a General Authority with my family, I received a telephone call from a former missionary companion who wanted to talk to me that night. His oldest son, who was just starting his first semester of college, had died in a tragic accident. He was only seventeen years old and full of enthusiasm for life. He was faithful in the Church, and a seminary graduate. Just two weeks before, he had talked to his parents about desires and goals in life. Now he was gone. They understand the plan of salvation well and are sealed for eternity, but the physical separation affects them.
Those who have gone through this kind of trial recognize that there are tragedies that are so difficult we cannot understand them. We do not have an answer in this life for every adversity. When trials come, it is time to turn our souls to God, who is the author of life and the only source of comfort. “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you.” (John 14:27.)
Some months ago I heard that the wife of a friend was again threatening miscarriage. I hurried, along with others who were concerned about the baby, to make sure that things would be well. While arrangements were still being made, we were told that it was too late. This was the third time she had gone through this painful experience. I asked myself: What can I say to comfort them? How will the Lord help them overcome this new blow?
The day she left the hospital she heard about another sister from her stake who was going through the same experience. Full of trust in the Lord, she went to visit the sister and give her support. She changed her own tragedy into a blessing of comfort for others.
Thinking about her attitude, I remembered a lesson I learned many years ago when my father died. He died suddenly, leaving my mother a widow with fifteen children, ten of whom were dependent on her. This was a great tragedy in her life. Of course, the gospel, the fellowship of the Church, and our own testimonies gave us a solid base which comforted us and helped us to accept this loss with dignity. In spite of the fact that we never left her alone, it affected her deeply. Although she accepted the will of God, her soul did not find inner peace.
One morning as we were traveling downtown on a bus, she began to feel her loneliness. I noticed it, but also knew that I couldn’t give her the comfort she needed. She cried in silence, but with dignity. A lady passenger came up and said: “You seem to be very sad.” My mother answered, “I have just lost my husband.” Then the lady asked, “Do you have children?” and my mother answered, “I have fifteen children, and each one of them has some trait that reminds me of their father. So I am constantly reminded of him.”
When she heard this, the woman said: “You are truly blessed, because you only lost your husband. I lost my husband, too, and my two daughters in an automobile accident, and I am living alone. So I do understand your pain and sorrow.” Then she added, “Only God can help us overcome trials like this.”
Those who suffer great adversity and sorrow and go on to serve their fellowmen develop a great capacity to understand others. Like the prophets, they have acquired a higher understanding of the mind and will of Christ. To me, this woman was like an angel. She gave comfort and raised my mother’s thoughts toward God in a time of great trial. From that day on, each time my mother felt lonely or abandoned, she would say to me: “Son, pity the woman who lost all. I am grateful that the Lord has blessed me with fifteen children to be my companions in life.”
This personal experience has helped me understand the importance of what God revealed to Joseph Smith in the Doctrine and Covenants:
“Which suffering caused myself, even God, the greatest of all, to tremble because of pain, and to bleed at every pore, and to suffer both body and spirit—and would that I might not drink the bitter cup, and shrink—
“Nevertheless, glory be to the Father, and I partook and finished my preparations unto the children of men.” (D&C 19:18–19.)
Christ has suffered more than any of us, and He knows the intensity of our afflictions. There is no suffering we have that He did not undergo in Gethsemane and on Calvary. That is why He understands and can help us.
Christ stated: “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” (John 11:25.) The greatest tragedy that can happen to a person is not the loss of his possessions, or his intellect, or his mortal life, but rather to lose eternal life, which is the free gift of God.
The scriptures are a witness of the various prophets—ordinary people, with extraordinary callings—who faced great tribulation and opposition. Father Lehi was commanded to abandon his gold, his silver, and his country. The sons of Mosiah had to renounce the throne. Job lost his lands, his cattle, and even his children, while Abinadi, Stephen, and Christ’s Apostles were killed in His service.
For some, the true trial of our faith is to remain faithful, without murmuring against the Lord, when we lose earthly position, family members, or even when we are required to give our very lives.
There is evidence in the scriptures that these great men trusted fully in the Savior, even without a full understanding of His purposes. The Prophet Joseph Smith learned, as he established the kingdom of God in this last dispensation, that the more he struggled to bless the lives of others, the greater was his opposition. He went to the Lord seeking justice. Christ did understand Joseph and suggested to him that he might have to suffer more. The Lord told him: “The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?” (D&C 122:8.)
Later, Joseph, with more understanding of the will and purposes of his Savior, accepted his glorious destiny by offering his life. It is not important to know the trials we may be required to go through in this mortal life. What is essential is our attitude in facing these trials and the lessons and experiences that we learn from them. These will help to refine our understanding and increase our spirituality.
Basically, we limit our vision to the events that happen in this life with the greatest emphasis placed on the present. Only when we fix our gaze on the heavenly things do we begin to understand the eternities. Only with the help of Christ can we fully overcome tragedy. It is necessary to develop our faith in Him as the Redeemer of the world. He taught us: “In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33.) It is my prayer that when we have afflictions we will follow the pattern that He taught during His bitter experience in Gethsemane. He said: “If thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.” (Luke 22:42.) This I testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.