Gospel Story Finder

Despite the rain on an October day, 1,601 Latter-day Saints from five stakes in Córdoba, Argentina, donated a combined 10,234 hours of service at a nursing home. Members delivered previously collected clothing, food, and hygiene kits. They also gardened, painted walls and benches, and performed talent shows. A number of sisters also volunteered hair, foot, and hand care services.
“I know that project was a help not only for them but for me too,” said 14-year-old Rocío B. after the project. “I knew I was doing the right thing and that Heavenly Father was pleased with me.”

High overhead a flock of ducks locked their wings and dropped down toward the reservoir. It was early morning, and it was duck hunting season. I was in the bulrushes on one side of the reservoir, and two of my friends, Rick and Kinnley, were on the opposite side. The ducks circled the pond several times and then whistled down directly in front of the place Rick and Kinnley were hiding.
I heard three shots. The ducks came up fast. I heard a fourth shot. I remember wondering about it because the ducks were out of range when I heard it. The ducks flew out across the valley and began circling over some small ponds.
Kinnley ran out of the place they’d been hiding and yelled, “Skip, come here.” I knew there would be more ducks coming, and I didn’t want to move. Before I could answer, Kinnley ran back into the bulrushes. He came out again in just a few seconds.
“Skip, hurry!” he yelled.
I ran over as fast as I could so that I would be in position if more ducks flew over. When I reached Kinnley I knew something was wrong. His face was white.
“My gun jammed,” he stammered. “Rick’s been hurt.”
We ran into the bulrushes, and there I saw one of the most gruesome sights in my life. Here was one of my best friends writhing in pain from a shotgun blast in the side. Rick Was moaning. “Help me, you guys, you’ve got to help me.”
I knew we had to stop the bleeding immediately and that then we’d have to get help. The nearest town was several miles away. We bound the wound up with Kinnley’s shirt. It didn’t help much. Rick was dying. Kinnley and I both knew there wasn’t much time left. Our truck was on a road about two miles away. We knew we couldn’t carry Rick to it, and getting help would take time, maybe too much time. While we were trying to decide what to do, Kinnley said, “Skip, let’s give him a blessing.”
We knelt by his side and placed our hands on his head.
“You go first,” Kinnley said.
With the power of the Aaronic Priesthood I blessed Rick. I asked that the bleeding would stop, that Rick would be relieved of pain, and that he would survive the accident. I also prayed that Kinnley and I would be able to think clearly in getting Rick to a hospital.
When we finished our prayers and took our hands off his head, a feeling of peace replaced the panic we’d felt before. I told Kinnley to run and get the truck. I took off my coat and overalls to keep Rick warm. I put a coat under his head and carefully laid him on the side opposite the wound. He was getting weaker. I tried to assure him that it wasn’t all that bad and that he was going to be all right.
Never in all of my life had I felt so totally helpless, my friend in so much pain, dying, pleading for me not to let him die, blood soaking through the shirt we’d bound the wound in. I pleaded with the Lord to please, please let him live.
Kinnley came back with the truck. His face was even whiter than it had been before. We decided we couldn’t risk moving Rick. I left in the truck to call an ambulance. The road was rough, and it seemed like it took me hours to reach the town. I knew that every second counted.
I went into a cafe and said there’d been an accident. I went to a pay phone, the closest telephone, and called the hospital. I told them to send the ambulance to the junction in the road that turned off the main highway to the reservoir.
Several men in the cafe offered to help. We drove to the junction and waited. I can’t remember waiting for anything in my life as long as I waited for that ambulance. It actually took only three minutes from the time I called until the ambulance reached the junction.
The ambulance started following me to the reservoir, but the road was too rough. The ambulance crew loaded equipment into the back of my truck and we started again. It seemed like hours since I’d left Rick and Kinnley, and I didn’t know what I would find.
When we reached them, Kinnley stood up.
“Skip, look at Rick.”
Rick was breathing easier, and it appeared that the pain had subsided. The ambulance crew went to work. They put a pair of pressurized pants on Rick and pumped them up. In just minutes his blood pressure was close to normal, and in about a half hour he had stabilized enough to be moved. The ambulance crew and several of the men from the cafe lifted Rick onto the back of the truck and started for the ambulance.
I stayed behind to get our coats and guns. I sat there by myself for a while and said a prayer thanking my Father in Heaven. A week later Kinnley and I visited Rick in the hospital. He was sitting up in bed playing an electric basketball game, smiling. The experience strengthened my testimony of the priesthood. I knew the blessing we gave to Rick had helped save his life and had helped Kinnley and me make the right decisions.

Throughout Arlene Quisias’ service during the Open House, she didn’t feel pain or swelling caused by an incurable illness affecting her veins.
She suffers from Chronic Venous Insufficiency, which causes unbearable pain in her hips down to her toes. It happens when she walks, sits, or stands for a long period. Despite her health condition, she volunteered, welcoming, and touring guests which required prolonged walking and standing. But she managed to do so for more than a week without pain.
“It was a miracle!” she said.
Before she got sick, she had promised the Lord that she’d help in His works. When the Urdaneta Temple was announced, her will to fulfill that promise greatly increased.
Sister Ana Marie Karganilla, Committee Coordinator, was worried because the shoe covers she ordered overseas well in advance were not delivered, a month into the open house.
Her anxiety increased when the items had not yet arrived a week before the event.
Then a day before the open house, the shoe covers miraculously came, all 200,000 of them!
Ana Marie learned to trust and rely on the Lord more and that He will not let anything hinder the progress of His Works.
Another hurdle the Committee Coordinators faced was regarding the chairs for the dedication.
“Where are we going to rent nice chairs?” Elder Gregorio Karganilla said. “But then in February, the Tabernacle Choir came to the country.”
The choir’s visit to the Philippines two months before the dedication was a miracle. The chairs they used were brought in for the dedication.
Truly, the Lord works in mysterious ways.

Oliver couldn’t wait for the week to go by. Next week was the big day he had been waiting for since he was four. He was going to be baptized.
Oliver was so excited about his baptism that he wanted to shout it from the rooftops for all of England to hear! He couldn’t wait to tell his friend Dylan at school.
“I can’t believe it. My baptism day is finally almost here,” Oliver said. “It’s going to be brilliant!”
“I thought only babies got baptized.” Dylan looked confused.
“Kids have to be at least eight to be baptized in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Oliver said. “That’s my Church.”
“Cool,” Dylan said.
Suddenly Oliver had a thought. “Would you like to come to my baptism?”
“Sure,” Dylan said. “But I need to ask my parents first.”
“OK!”
Oliver was excited that Dylan might come to his baptism. This gave him another idea. “I don’t want to share my baptism with just one friend. I want to invite as many people as I can!” Oliver rushed home and told Mum he had a plan.
On the fast Sunday before his baptism, Oliver started his plan. He shared his testimony at the pulpit; then he said, “I’m getting baptized next Saturday, and I want everyone to come! Will you please invite anyone you know who isn’t a member, or who doesn’t come to church, to my baptism?” He felt like a missionary. He really liked that feeling!
Over the next week, Oliver invited friends, family members, and teachers to his baptism.
“It would mean a lot to me if you could come!” he told them.
As Saturday got closer, Oliver started to wonder how many people would actually show up. What if they were all too busy or didn’t want to come?
He said a short prayer that at least a few people he invited would come. Then he stopped worrying about who might show up. He knew he had done a good thing just by inviting them. Besides, the most important thing about the day was getting baptized.
When he got to church on his baptism day, Oliver could hardly believe his eyes. A lot of his friends were there to support him. He even saw a bunch of people he didn’t know. He waved when Dylan walked in with his parents.
When it was time to be baptized, Oliver stepped into the warm water. His dad took his hand, as they had practiced. Then he said the short baptism prayer and lowered Oliver into the water. Before he knew it, Oliver was standing up again—dripping wet and grinning. He knew he was following Jesus’s example.
After Oliver changed into dry clothes, his dad and a few other men confirmed him a member of the Church and gave him a special blessing, where they invited him to receive the Holy Ghost. Afterward, Oliver asked if he could share his testimony.
“Thank you so much for coming to support me on my special day. It means so much to me,” Oliver said. “I’m grateful for my baptism, and I believe this is Christ’s Church on the earth.”
Afterward, people came up to congratulate Oliver.
“Thanks for inviting me!” Dylan said. “I had a good feeling inside.”
“Everyone has been so kind!” Dylan’s mum said. “We have felt very welcomed.”
That night, Dad sat down on the end of Oliver’s bed. “What a great day!” Dad said.
Oliver nodded. “I’m glad I could share it with my friends.”

As I finished my shopping, I did not consciously choose the cashier farthest from the long lines of noisy shoppers. Perhaps it was just because I felt so exhausted that I was drawn to this quieter area.
Whatever the reason, it was somehow comforting to stand quietly without making decisions for a few moments. As soon as the two customers in front of me finished with the cashier, I could pay for my items and go. My teenage daughter stood behind me in line. Wearily I allowed my mind to wander in thought, not totally aware of what was happening around me. Not until the middle-aged man ahead of me began to get restless did I realize that our line was not moving. Glancing to the far end of the counter, I saw four brown bags full of groceries loaded in a shopping cart. A humbly dressed, white-haired woman was counting her cash onto the checkout counter. Futilely she search her purse for additional change, opening one compartment after another with trembling hands.
As the tension mounted, I wished I were nearer to her. Yet this was a special group of strangers—all unusually patient, with no disgust or mockery on anyone’s face. I felt the flooding warmth of the Spirit as I almost heard the words that flowed into my mind: “Help her.”
“That’s all I have,” the elderly woman quietly said, giving up on her search.
Apologetically, the cashier removed a small sack of fruit or vegetables from the top of one brown bag and weighed it on the scales. Its value was insufficient. Her face registered embarrassment as he took a second bag of produce from her sack and weighed it.
“No, I need …” There was urgency in the woman’s voice as that second bag was removed.
Knowing that helping in the wrong way might create more awkwardness, I prayed silently. “Oh, Father, how should I help?”
I could wait no longer. Better to try and be wrong than to wait.
Leaning across the customer ahead of me, I asked the cashier, “How much does she need?”
“Ninety-five cents,” he said, grateful that someone else was getting involved.
“Add it to my bill,” I replied. But the Spirit prompted, “Pay now.”
“Better yet, here is a dollar,” I said, and reached across my groceries and the man in front of me to lay it on the counter. Relief showed in his face. Apparently he had wanted to help but had not known how. “I’ll divide the cost with you,” he said and immediately laid some coins on my dollar. I resisted the impulse to decline his offer and thanked him instead. Suddenly, I felt as though the heavens had opened, bathing our group in an unexpected warmth. We had all wanted to help.
Quickly the young cashier completed the transaction and replaced the things in the woman’s sack. Then, calmly, self-reliantly, the woman turned and faced us. Standing more erect, she began, “To whom do I owe …”
Tears blurred my vision as I pleaded for help. “Oh, Father, give me the right words to say. Please don’t let us hurt her or wound her self-esteem.”
A reply came effortlessly. “Someone who loves you, and who loves the Lord,” I heard myself saying. “Besides, you’d have done it for me.”
The white-haired woman began to relax. Her trembling stopped. A smile came slowly, thoughtfully to her face.
“You know, I would have,” she said, as if she were surprised that I would know. Then, smiling broadly, she reaffirmed, “I really would have!”
With dignity she turned and pushed her grocery cart out the open door.
A sort of reverence lingered in our line to pay. Suddenly, I didn’t feel tired anymore. The customer in front of me began to whistle a tune.
On the way home, my daughter broke the silence. “Mother, that was really nice the way you helped that lady. It made everyone happy.”
“You know,” I said, “I really didn’t know how to do it by myself. The Spirit had to teach me. All I did was pray for help.”

I had a similar experience in Idaho some years later. I was attending a stake conference. After the Sunday morning session one of the bishops brought his aged mother up to see me. I had been referring to the Book of Mormon during my sermon and was still holding it in my hand.
She took the book from me, opened it, read a paragraph at random, and then returned the book. I wondered why. Then she said that at the previous stake conference the visitor had been Elder Thomas E. McKay, one of the Assistants to the Council of the Twelve.
She asked me if I knew Elder McKay and of course, I responded that I did. Then she said, “Will you please tell him that I read a paragraph in your book? When he was here at our last conference, my son brought him to my home and had him administer to me. I was blind. Please tell him that I read from your book.”

Then in late June he parked his wagon in the Joseph W. Young train’s campground about two miles northwest of Florence, Nebraska. For the next two weeks Zeb was a taxi driver, taking his wagon into Florence, picking up passengers for the Young train, and shuttling them to the campground. July 5 was a typical taxi day for him: “I left camp and went to Florence, after a load of Saints. The day was very warm, and I was very tired after my day’s work.” Missouri River steamers unloaded company after company of Saints at the giant LDS campground in Florence, congesting it; “emigrants stowed away in every nook and corner,” is how Zeb described it.
On July 11 Zeb and his train pulled out and started the “back” part of the trip, 1,000 miles to Utah.
Some immigrants were troubled by the rough-looking, rough-talking Utah Boys. According to Englishman William Yates, another diarist on the trail that year, the boys looked and acted like poorly educated frontiersmen. Brother Yates, however, was fooled by appearances, for his own diary is notches below the quality of the one kept by Utah Boy Zeb Jacobs.
The immigrants learned quickly to appreciate the boys’ abilities with oxen and wagons. And they liked to see the Utah Boys do much of the wagon trains’ dirty work. Zeb and the others had to hunt for firewood and buffalo chips, build fires, track down missing cattle, set up and break camps, haul water, and spend hours in rivers helping wagons to cross. At Loup Fork crossing, for example, Zeb “had the pleasure of getting a dunking several times, helping the wagons over.” Near Fort Laramie he wrote: “I was in the water most of the afternoon helping the teams across. The weather was cold.” The boys seemed to enjoy showing off their expertise and strength, however, especially when teenage girls were watching.
The boys’ main assignment was caring for cattle and wagons—hitching, unhitching, feeding, shoeing, corralling, guarding, and mending harnesses. This work provided Zeb with some unexpected adventures. One day, according to his diary, “I was helping to shoe an ox, and witnessed the mosquitoes and horse flies driving off the horses and cattle, and in gathering the animals we kept what is called the dog-trot for about a mile. I finally caught a horse and jumped on him, and with considerable difficulty I succeeded in getting the animals back to camp.”
One night the “mules and horses took a notion they would go and accordingly they went.” The boys started in pursuit “but the night was so dark that we had to take the advantage of the lightning to tell us which way we were going.” When Zeb saw something move in the distance he tried to run to it. “At last I got lost in a swamp but managed, after much trouble, to get back to camp without finding the animals.” Next morning, on foot, the boys found the animals more than nine miles from the camp.
One night Zeb let the terrain keep the cattle from wandering: “Being on guard, I took the mules up a large ravine and stayed until midnight, then Bro. Henry Parker relieved me.”
For teenagers life can never be all hard work. The Utah Boys had fun on the trail too. One day they “caught a string of fish.” Another time they “had a family swim in the Platte.” One morning Zeb and one of the men “crossed the river and found plenty of chokecherries and currants. After satisfying our own appetites we filled our hats and pockets.” In recrossing the river “we got ducked several times, but we hung on to the fruit.” Back at camp they shared the berries and “finding breakfast ready, we ate heartily.”
On July 24, Pioneer Day, the Utah Boys decided to help the campers celebrate. With good-humored exaggeration Zeb wrote of their fun:
“We were up at daylight and called out the ‘National Guard’ [the boys] which fired a volley of musketry, and any kind of guns that were handy. Then the ‘Martial Band’ struck up ‘Hail Columbia’ (the band was composed of tin pails, pans, bake-kettle lids, bells, and various instruments of music); then there was another volley by the Guard; and at sunrise, the firing of cannon (which was about 3 inches in length), and concluded the morning performance with an Indian jig.”
That night the boys held a “grand ball” at the “Bachelors Hall,” meaning a square dance in front of their tents.
August 17 provided one of the highlights of the boys’ fun on the trail. According to Zeb: “As we woke up in the morning all hands began laughing at each other, as our faces were besmeared with tar and wagon grease. Some of the boys from the other camp had paid us a visit and left their compliments upon our faces.”
Humor also helped Zeb describe how the mosquitoes plagued them at swampy stretches of the trail. “Some of us went in the river to bathe,” he wrote once, “but we found the mosquitoes there ahead of us. They very soon got rid of us.” Another evening he said the boys were “entertained with a large and renowned band of minstrels (mosquitoes); they kept us dancing all night.”
On August 30, in the middle of Wyoming, the teenage driver received a special honor. Captain Joseph W. Young needed to rush ahead of his train to catch up with another wagon company, so he selected Zeb to drive him in a wagon pulled by mules. (Mules travel much faster than oxen.) Zeb drove as fast as he could for three days and then Captain Young, needing to travel even faster, hailed a passing stagecoach, boarded it, and left Zeb to travel alone.
Zeb liked the fast mule team which moved him 20 to 45 miles a day, double what wagon trains could cover. But driving alone on the hot, dusty trail and camping by himself at night had its lonely moments. So he enjoyed catching up to other travelers and visiting with them. Late on September 3 he overtook the Joseph Horne train “where I joined the people in that camp in a dance.” An injured man in the camp needed to be hurried to Salt Lake, so Richard Horne joined Zeb as a traveling companion, “and I was very glad of his company,” Zeb confessed.
Zeb, the teenage driver, put his mule-pulled wagon and injured passenger into Salt Lake City in near record time, arriving on September 7 at breakfast time. He beat his Joseph W. Young wagon train there by 16 days. In total, down and back, Zeb had been on the trail for 18 weeks.
It is not known if Zeb kept any diaries after 1861. He made down-and-back trips again in 1862 and 1863. In 1866, at age 24, he married. He served in the Blackhawk War as a sergeant in the cavalry. By career he became a railroad man, working as a popular conductor on the Utah Central Railroad. Late in life he became a guard at the state penitentiary. He remained a lifelong faithful Latter-day Saint.

I well remember a young couple who started farming in Idaho years ago. They had modest means, but they paid a down payment on 40 acres of raw land. They were going into the raising of fruit—peaches particularly. They had leveled the land, brought out the laterals, planted the trees, and then weeded and irrigated and watched until the time had come when they’d have a harvest. This particular spring the orchard was a sea of blossoms, and it looked as though they were going to have a bounteous harvest. Then one night without warning, there came a frost that wiped out practically the entire crop overnight. Well, young John didn’t go to church the next Sunday, nor the next Sunday, nor the next Sunday. Finally his good old bishop came out to see what was wrong. He found John out in the field, and he said, “John, we haven’t seen you in church for several weeks. What’s the matter? Is anything wrong?” John said, “No, bishop, I’m not coming anymore. Do you think I can worship a God who would let this happen to me?” And then he explained to the bishop what had happened. Of course, the bishop felt sorrowful, too, and he expressed it to John. And as he looked down at the ground for a moment, he said, “John, I’m sure the Lord knows that you can’t produce the best peaches with frost. But I’m also sure he knows that you can’t produce the best men without frost, and the Lord is interested in producing men, not peaches.” Well, John went to church the next Sunday, and another year a harvest came. He later became a bishop in the Church.

The Dating Dilemma is universal—many young men want to date when they turn 16, but are terrified by the thought of actually asking a girl out. Here’s how one high school student overcame his fears and embarrassments and learned that dating can be fun and free of pressure.
In my high school there was a sort of formal-dance mania that affected the minds of people in the student government, resulting in annoyingly frequent events such as the Halloween Prom, the Christmas Prom, the Welcome Back from Christmas Vacation Prom, the First Day of Trout Season Prom, the Bud Mulby Memorial Prom (Bud Mulby was our janitor who didn’t die, but was fired for taking part in a food fight in the school cafeteria after he was hit in the head with a burrito).
About eight weeks before each prom I would develop what medical experts call “promitis”—a condition that carries symptoms such as loss of appetite, insomnia, acne, hair loss, hyperventilation, halitosis, runny nose, mumbling, temporary insanity, and generally stupid behavior (such as absentmindedly wearing your pants backwards or using your deodorant as a breath spray).
Asking a girl to a prom when you’ve got some of the more severe symptoms of promitis significantly decreases your chances of getting a yes answer. Fortunately, about 98 percent of the guys in my school got promitis, greatly lowering the quality of the competition.
But, as petrified of females as we all were, few forgot the golden rule of preprom etiquette—never look any girl in the eye for fear she might think you want to ask her to the prom. The net result of all of this was a school filled with guys wandering the halls like a bunch of zombies, afraid to look anyone in the eye, wearing their pants backwards, with breath that smelled like Right Guard.
It was not surprising that most of the girls in our school asked their parents if they could move to another state.
But still, a distant voice in the back of my mind said, “Don’t be a loser. Go to the prom. It’ll be fun.” I was caught in the dating dilemma.
So, with only three weeks to go until the Twenty-Ninth Anniversary of the Invention of Clearasil Prom, I began the process of selecting a girl who might possibly agree to go with me. I immediately ruled out the cheerleaders, or any girl who looked like she could be a cheerleader, or looked like she was thinking of becoming a cheerleader, or knew someone who was a cheerleader. The thought of getting up the nerve to ask a cheerleader to the prom caused me to lose control of basic motor skills.
I also ruled out girls who were older than me, girls who were taller than me, girls who were smarter than me, and any girls who were in the cafeteria the day I had the coughing spell and sent raspberry Jello all over Lisa McKeever’s new blouse.
After three days of intensive research and coin tossing I decided that Donna Spirlozzi was the perfect girl for me to ask. I didn’t really know Donna Spirlozzi, but she rode my bus and I had sat across the aisle from her once about two months earlier, creating an important social bond that would greatly help my chances. More important than this, however,was the fact that not only was she absent the day of my coughing spell in the cafeteria, she was also out for a week after that and didn’t read about it in the school newspaper. A definite plus!
But now the real work began. Girls really have no idea what kind of agony guys to through when faced with having to ask one of them out on a date. They seem to think it’s merely a matter of walking up to them and saying something like, “Would you like to go to the prom with me?” Ha! Are they ever wrong. There are many important considerations to be made before taking such a drastic step. Did I slosh on enough quarts of cologne? Am I wearing my pants backwards? Answering one of these questions incorrectly could have ruined my social life for the next 40 or 50 years.
But, the time had come. I had sloshed on enough of my dad’s cologne to give the impression that an Old Spice factory had blown up nearby, my pants were not on backwards, and there was no trace of deodorant on my breath. Spotting Donna Spirlozzi by her locker, I walked up to her and became … a babbling idiot. As near as I can recall I said, “You, you, you wanna prom prom?” Fortunately she thought I was some sort of foreign exchange student. She smiled, I smiled back, and then I escaped quickly down the hall. It became obvious that I could not handle this momentous task face-to-face. I would have to rely on the telephone.
You would think it was simply a matter of looking up the number, dialing it, and asking Donna to the prom. This was not the case. Instead, I would dial two numbers, hang up, and watch TV. Then dial three numbers, hang up, and watch TV. It took me six hours to dial all seven numbers, only to discover that I had dialed the wrong number and had asked a woman named Blanche Lerchfeld to the prom. Blanche thanked me but said she had her bridge club that night. I watched more TV.
When I finally did get a hold of Donna things actually went quite well. She said she’d go to the prom with me, and we had a great time. It would be nice to say that Donna and I eventually got married and lived happily ever after, but that was not to be. But asking her out was a big step on the way to overcoming my fear of girls. In fact we even went to the Elvis Birthday Commemorative Prom when we were seniors. And that time I even had the nerve to ask her in person.

The second statement came from a student at BYU when he offered an explanation as to why he alone among his high school friends had remained active in the Church. He said it was because of a cow. He went on to explain that while his friends had nothing to do after school and began to get into trouble, he had to go home every day to milk the cow. Although he resented it at the time, he since has been very grateful to wise parents and the cow.

Monica May wasn’t exactly active in the Church during high school, but the summer before she went to college she decided to make church a regular part of her life. She missed the gospel.
Once at college she wasn’t perfect with her goal, but by the end of her first semester, she looked forward to church as well as her institute class.
Monica had always known the gospel principles. But “I didn’t see the importance of them until I came to institute,” she says. “It’s really opened my eyes. My testimony has grown, and institute has increased my desire to work at living the gospel.”
It was during this realization that Monica’s blossoming testimony was put to the test. It seemed she had found the perfect man. He was a handsome engineering student; he wanted to marry her; her parents thought he was great. But there was one major drawback—he was not a member of the Church.
During this same time, Monica had also developed a strong friendship with Chad May, who had returned from his mission in Taiwan and seemed quite serious about her.
Confused about what she should do, Monica turned to prayer and what she was learning in institute for answers.
One evening, the answer finally came. After watching part of a rec league basketball game Chad was playing in, Monica slipped out of the gym to go on a date with the other guy. But on the way, she says, “I got this terrible feeling in my stomach. I’d had this kind of prompting before, not acted on it, and regretted it. So this time I listened.” She never dated the engineering student again. And less than a year later, Monica and Chad were married in the Dallas Temple.
“Institute provided a constant reminder of my standards,” Monica says. “Without it I wouldn’t have known which way I should be going.”

Growing up in Brazil, my father always told me stories about my grandfather—how he immigrated from Germany to Brazil at a very early age and did not have the opportunity to study. My grandfather worked as a painter in the local community. He took a lot of pride in his work and would always do his best to exceed his customers’ expectations. As a result, he always had a lot of work available to him. Through his work, he was able to provide a good living for his wife and their five children. They were not rich. Life was still challenging, but they had their own house and covered the basic needs of life. They were happy.

Benjamin Juarez, 12, faces different challenges in Brooklyn. He was born in California, lived briefly in Mexico, and now, while his father is studying to be a doctor, Benjamin and his three younger brothers do what every successful Brooklyn child does: adapt.
“You can’t live here the same as you do other places,” Benjamin says. “For your own safety, you have to keep your eyes wide open.” Once, at school, some bigger boys jumped him. He’s never let that happen again. “You have to be a little tough, just for safety.”
That’s another lesson of city life: everyone takes care of himself, and that extends to the gospel. “My friends in the ward live a long way from me,” Benjamin says. “We only see each other on Mutual nights, Sundays, and for Scout activities. So everybody has to have his own testimony. He just can’t depend on anyone else for it.”

While visiting a sacrament meeting on Okinawa, I was so impressed with the manner in which the Aaronic Priesthood prepared and passed the sacrament that, when my turn came to speak, I invited two of the deacons to join me at the pulpit. Of one I asked, “What are your goals in life?” His prompt reply: “To become like my Savior!” Of the other I asked, “What does it mean to you to know that you hold the Aaronic priesthood?” He drew himself to his full height and looked out over that pulpit, and proudly said, “It is the greatest honor in my life!”

Twelve-year-old Will hurried through the stony fields of the English countryside, driving his sheep against the bitter wind. But when a crippled ewe slowed down again, he stopped and lugged her, puffing and panting, down to the fold where Cyr the shepherd waited.
Will had dallied too long with Brother Gregory again today, and he wondered what excuse he could give the master shepherd this time. Still, he had learned three new letters today! He could hardly wait for another meeting with the shepherd-monk. Brother Gregory seemed eager to hear what Will could tell him about life at the castle—where the great hall and the count’s chambers were and about the rich fur-trimmed robes the count wore. All these splendors impressed the monk, for in the monastery the brothers knew poverty and lived simply. Will didn’t think of Brother Gregory as he did the solemn monks he had seen before. He was witty and wise and a good friend.
“Late again, lad,” Cyr grumbled as Will eased the animal to the ground.
“The ewe has a bad leg, and I can’t leave her alone tomorrow. It looks like I’ll not be sharing in the Christmastide feasting.”
The older shepherd smiled, “I’ll tend the ewe, lad,” he offered. “I’ve seen many a Christmas feast, and if I’m lucky, I’ll see one or two yet. Besides, I’m waiting to hear more news of the Duke of Wormsley from the castle guard,” the older man added with a sly grin, as though he were keeping a great secret.
“What news?” asked Will, curious.
“He’s burned two outlying huts as a warning to Count Hector. You mark my words, there’ll be battle between the two lords over their inheritance.”
The following evening Will glanced about the great hall. Surrounding Count Hector, Lady Ursula, and other nobles at the large raised table were tables for lesser folks—wandering priests and lute-playing minstrels and traveling merchants and adventuring knights. Beneath these the peasants were gathered, Will among them. Attendants carried salvers heaped with food, and children scurried about underfoot. Dogs growled and snarled under the long trestle tables, waiting for choice scraps. Huge meat pies were served and peacocks and fragrant new bread, washed down by tankards of mead.
Suddenly, Will stared in disbelief. In his black hood and cassock, Brother Gregory sat gaily chatting with the guests around his table. But when he rose slightly to scoop up a second helping of meat pie, Will glimpsed a sharp glinting beneath the folds of the monk’s robes.
Beads of sweat broke out on the boy’s upper lip when he realized that Brother Gregory was carrying a dagger! Will knew that true monks did not go to Christmas festivals, nor did they carry daggers. The monk is an imposter!
Anxious about what might happen, Will slipped from his place into the kitchen. Attendants were hurrying in and out, and the place smelled hot and steamy. A cook motioned to a huge meat pastry and said gruffly, “You, boy. Take this in to the count.”
Will obediently grabbed the pie and hefted it to a corner of the busy kitchen. Then grasping a butcher knife, he quickly scratched into the crust the words BLACK HOOD in the same large block letters that the false monk had taught him. His eyes blurred from the steam and he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He wondered if Brother Gregory had seen him too.
Holding the huge pastry high to shield his face, Will bore it in to the great hall and set it directly before the count. The lord and his group were laughing and talking, but when Count Hector leaned forward to grasp his goblet, he spied the words. Peering at Will, and then around the tables, he spotted the only black hood in the hall. Before Will could blink, Brother Gregory had whipped the dagger from the folds of his black robe. It zinged past Will’s ear just as the count ducked to one side. As the imposter raced for the door, an alert guard grabbed him around the neck and forced him down.
The week after the Christmas holiday was over, Will was silently packing a poultice on the ewe’s bad leg. Cyr watched admiringly with weary eyes. “I think you’ll do well as a shepherd, lad. It would be wise to be content in your place.” He shook his head. “I know that idea is painful to you now, Will, since your friend Brother Gregory disappointed you. It’s too bad he turned out to be a spy of the wicked Duke of Wormsley.”
Will shrank from the words and stared at the sheep’s festered leg, his eyes burning. Now that it was known that he had been used by the imposter-monk to gain information about the castle and its lord, he felt he would be shamed forever.
As Cyr went out of the fold for a moment, a page beckoned Will from the doorway. “The count wants to see you, lad,” he rasped.
A few minutes later Will sat on a stool in the count’s chambers, afraid to look at the man who had summoned him. After what seemed a terribly long silence, the count finally spoke, “The whole castle knows of your association with the Duke of Wormsley’s spy, lad, but I believe you meant no harm.” He paused. “Did he teach you to make those letters?”
“Yes, my lord,” Will whispered.
The count leaned forward and his bright eyes pierced through the boy like a knife. “Those letters you wrote saved my life!”
At the fervor in the count’s voice, Will looked up. Count Hector settled back in his chair and continued, “The monastery is without a shepherd these past days, and the abbot tells me that if I consent to let you tend their sheep, they’ll teach you more letters and such that the imposter began. He tells me that if this arrangement is made, in a few years I would have a new scribe to copy books,” Count Hector concluded. Will sat in stunned silence, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. The count snapped his fingers impatiently. “Well, boy?” he demanded.
“I—I think the plan is excellent, my lord!” breathed Will, his eyes bright. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you!”

The following object lesson helped some missionaries teach an investigator about the Apostasy and the Restoration.
“My companion and I used plastic cups labeled with parts of the true Church, building a pyramid with them while explaining how Jesus Christ established His Church.
“Then we explained the Apostasy as we removed cups representing the Apostles and watched the whole structure topple over. As we explained the Restoration of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith, we rebuilt the tower, showing that the Church today is organized in the same way that Christ originally organized it.
“For the first time, this man understood. The Restoration finally gained meaning for him when he understood why it was needed.”

During a lesson in the Laurel class of the Pickering Ward, Toronto East Stake, the girls were talking about how to help others, particularly those in the Young Women program in their own ward. They proposed a “big sister” program.
Each Laurel was assigned two or three girls in the Beehive or Mia Maid classes. They were to keep the names of their “little sisters” secret but were to offer acts of service and help their girls to feel accepted.
The program was successful in that it resulted in some new friendships and an increase of love among the Young Women.

One morning my wife said to me, “Hans, I dreamed something very strange last night. Two young men told us about a different church, and we joined it. What do you think about that?” she asked hesitantly. We agreed that the dream didn’t seem to have any meaning because we would never want to leave our own church.
The dream had long been forgotten when, nearly a year later, my wife greeted me after work with the news that “two young men were here today to tell me about their church.” I saw a trace of worry in her face. “But we are going to stay with our church,” I responded confidently. “Well,” she said, “they want to come back to talk with you.” I was not happy with the prospect.
A few days later, I opened the door to see two fine-looking young men. They introduced themselves as missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In the conversation that followed, they asked, “Do you believe that the church of Jesus Christ is on the earth today?” My wife and I had already considered this question while studying the Bible. We concluded that if there were a true church, it would have to have all the doctrines Jesus taught. The churches we knew, including our own, were not complete. “If it exists,” I said, “it must have all the things Jesus taught. But it does not exist.”
The missionaries said that the church they represented was organized in the same way as the church at Christ’s time. They added that this church had continuing revelation from Jesus Christ.
I felt sorry for them; they had been so misled. I told them, “I’m sure that just as our church has errors in its doctrine, so does yours. Someone has added, changed, or taken something away.” Again they testified that their church was Christ’s own church, organized with his authority and directed by him.
Soon after, I told my mother about the missionaries. She smiled and went into her bedroom, then returned with a copy of the Book of Mormon. She told me I could have it.
I began reading the Book of Mormon with a curious, but negative attitude. As I read the first page, I thought angrily, this was written by a man with a vivid imagination who knew the Bible well. I read two more pages, slammed the book shut, threw it on the table, and exclaimed, “What a fake!” During the missionaries’ next visit, I told them that I thought the Book of Mormon was a hoax. It was like the Bible, I said, except it referred to the American continent. But, undeterred, the missionaries easily handled the questions my wife and I had then, and in subsequent visits. I could find nothing wrong with what they taught us, but I could not accept the Book of Mormon.
However, the missionaries testified that I could know that the Book of Mormon was true if I followed the admonition of Moroni and sincerely sought for divine guidance. (See Moro. 10:4.) Having prayed, and while reading the words of Moroni, I received a spiritual witness that I have never been able to describe. A realization that the Book of Mormon and the Church were true penetrated every fiber of my being. Happily I exclaimed to my wife, “Margrit, Margrit, I know that it is true!”
Margrit continued to seek her own witness, and within a few weeks she also knew the truth. We set our baptismal date.
On the day of our baptism, just as I was about to go into the water, I experienced the power of Satan stronger than I had ever imagined possible. I wanted to run away and escape. For a moment my breathing stopped, and I thought my heart would also. I was tempted to give in, but I realized that I could never look at myself in the mirror again if I denied the truth that I now knew. I fought against the evil influence with all my strength and it left me as quickly as it came. Knowing my decision was the right one, I entered the water with a calm assurance and a happy feeling in my heart.
A few days later, as I was sitting with my wife, she asked, “Hans, can you still remember my dream?”
“What dream?” I wondered.
“The one I had about the two young men who visited us. They told us about their church and we joined it. Remember?”
Memory of the forgotten dream came back. Joyfully we realized that the dream was a revelation of what was to come, and its memory a confirmation of our testimonies. It was a dream that had come true.

Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge Wilfrid lived next door to an old people’s home. He liked all the people there for different reasons, but he liked Miss Nancy Alison Delacourt Cooper best because she had four names too. One day Wilfrid learned that she had lost her memory. He didn’t quite understand what a memory was, but he helped her find it again. This delightful story is from Australia.Mem Fox5–8 years

Another priesthood calling that I have been thinking about came to me many years later, when I had my own family. We had moved back to Frankfurt, Germany, and I had just received a promotion at work that would require a great deal of my time and attention. During this busy season of my life, Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin extended a call to me to serve as stake president.
During my interview with him, many thoughts raced through my mind, not the least of which was the unsettling worry that I might not have the time this calling would require. Although I felt humbled and honored by the call, I briefly wondered if I could accept it. But it was only a fleeting thought because I knew that Elder Wirthlin was called of God and that he was doing the Lord’s work. What could I do but accept?
There are times when we have to step into the darkness in faith, confident that God will place solid ground beneath our feet once we do. And so I accepted gladly, knowing that God would provide.
In the early days of this assignment, we were privileged as a stake to receive training from some of the greatest teachers and leaders in the Church—men like Elder Russell M. Nelson and President Thomas S. Monson came to our area. Their teaching was like the dew from heaven and an inspiration for us. I still have the notes I took during these training sessions. These Brethren gave us the vision of what it means to establish the kingdom of God by building personal testimonies and strengthening families. They helped us see how to apply gospel truth and principles to our specific circumstances and for our specific time. To put it another way, inspired leaders helped us to see the why of the gospel, and then we had to roll up our sleeves and go to work.
It wasn’t long before we realized that there were a lot of things a stake presidency could do—so many, in fact, that if we didn’t set inspired priorities, we might miss doing the important ones. Competing priorities began to arise, deflecting our focus from the vision shared by the Brethren. There were many “good” things to do, but not all of them mattered most.
We learned an important lesson: the fact that something is good is not always reason enough to require our time and resources. Our activities, initiatives, and plans should be inspired by and grounded upon the why of our priesthood service and not by any flashy trend or interest of the moment. Otherwise, they can distract our efforts, dilute our energy, and get us caught up in our own hobbies, spiritual or temporal, that are not at the center of discipleship.