Gospel Story Finder

One of my favorite stories is the story of Lambert the Sheepish Lion. It became famous in a cartoon some years ago.
Lambert was a lion cub that had lived with a flock of sheep from the time he was born. Because of that, he thought he was a sheep. One spring night Lambert and the flock were sleeping peacefully. Suddenly Lambert heard the scary howl of a wolf in the distance. Because Lambert thought he was a sheep, he began to tremble.
The howl grew louder, and the wolf came closer and began dragging one of the sheep away. Suddenly Lambert felt a strong feeling inside that he had never felt before. Like lightning, he ran toward the wolf to save the sheep!
Just then Lambert realized something. “I am not a sheep. I am not the son of a sheep. I am the son of a lion!” Lambert thought. When he chased off the wolf and protected the sheep, he knew his true nature.

When I returned home from my mission, my grandmother was dying of cancer. She wanted to know what would happen after this life, so I taught her the gospel. She didn’t join the Church, but I had faith that the testimony I shared with her about Heavenly Father’s love for her and about life after death would have an impact on her in the next life.
After she passed away, my family went to the temple for her. I know that because of the work we did for her in the temple, she and my grandfather can be together forever—and I can be with them! The differences that we had can be resolved by knowing the truth and having the gospel be a part of our lives.

I recently heard President Eric Shumway, president of BYU-Hawaii, relate this story. Last summer President Shumway's mother died in Utah. He traveled to Utah and then Arizona for her funeral. After returning to his home in Laie, Hawaii, he heard a knock at his door early one morning. Upon opening the door, he saw three humble Tongan brethren whom he had known for years. After inviting them into his home, one of the brethren spoke for the group: "President Shumway, we heard of the death of your dear mother and felt our need to mourn with you and your family. Please accept this gift as a token of our sorrow." They handed President Shumway an envelope. After they left his home, he opened the envelope to find a nice condolence card, and inside the card was $100. Now, President Shumway did not need $100; but he knew from living and associating with the Tongan people for years, that this $100 represented a great monetary sacrifice and a "heartfelt token" of their grief.

In April 2024, the project reached a significant milestone. Brother Sylvain Tshibaka, known for his self-reliance initiatives within the stake, kicked off the inaugural inspection of the harvest alongside brothers Jean-Claude Buzangu, Tshimanga Pisthou, and Charles Kayembe, the Kinshasa region welfare and self-reliance manager.
After months of meticulous planning, diligent cultivation, and unwavering dedication, the fields are starting to show what promises to be a bountiful future. With a sense of pride and determination, these brothers picked the farm’s first harvest of maize and peppers. Working together, they exemplified the spirit of unity and collaboration that defines Project Moroni and shows the power of collective effort in achieving common goals.

I grew up in California about 30 miles from the beach.

One of my first memories of the beach is when I was four or five years old. After spreading out our towels, setting up the picnic, and establishing base camp, I promised my parents to be careful as I ran down to the water to play. I played the "don't get caught by the wave" game. This is where you get as close to the water as possible; then, when a wave comes in, you run away to avoid getting wet. Then, as the water retreats back into the ocean, you follow it as closely as possible without getting wet. Then the next wave comes in, and you do the same thing. Up and down, down and up. Over and over again. Some other kids joined in the fun, and at one point one of them threw a ball into the water. We focused on it as it went up and back with the waves. I was enjoying myself and having lots of fun. I played for a long time before getting tired and noticing that my friends had all disappeared, so I decided to take a break.

I ran up to where my family was, but the towels, the picnic, and my family were gone. I ran through all the many people, looking for my family, but they were nowhere to be seen. I was confused.

Then I started to cry. I cried as I walked and ran aimlessly through the crowd in random directions.

A kind lady, a stranger, lifted me into her arms and began to comfort me. I, being an astute child, recognized that she was a stranger, and so I cried louder. But she was kind and gentle. She said not to worry and that we would find my parents, and then she started to walk up the beach in the wrong direction.

It was a fact that I was lost, but I knew she was even more lost. I kicked her and tried to get away, but she held me tight and continued to walk and talk softly for several minutes. Then, suddenly, I saw my dad walking quickly towards us.

The handoff was made, and my rescuer disappeared. I started to think, "Wow, she was really nice," and I wondered how she knew which way to walk. I was glad I hadn't succeeded in kicking her away. My dad took me back to our towels and family, and I was saved.

At the time, I felt it very important that I not be responsible for getting lost. I blamed my parents for not watching me close enough; I blamed my new friends for leaving me; I blamed the ball that kept me hyper occupied; I blamed the crowds on the beach; in the end, I blamed the whole beach. I didn't know the word at the time, but I made myself into a victim.

My dad taught me, however, that it was my responsibility to look up often to make sure I knew where our towels and family were. He promised that if I did that, I would not get lost again.

I played all the rest of the day, but I made sure to look up often and, as a result, never got lost again.

While studying geology in college, I learned that what I had experienced is called longshore drift. This is where waves hit the beach at an angle and wash up as far as they can go; then the water returns to the sea by the shortest possible route, which is straight downhill, not back along the same angle it came up in. The net effect of this continuous motion is to move the sand in a series of arcs along the beach face.

For example, it's estimated that one million cubic yards of sand per year are moved southward across the beach at Santa Monica, California.[2]

I was like a piece of sand. By following the waves up at an angle, then straight down, over and over again, I had made my way down the beach quite a distance without even knowing it. I thought I was just going up and down in the same spot, but I wasn't. I was unintentionally drifting, and in that process I got lost. My family hadn't moved; I had. My family wasn't lost; I was. I hadn't intended to get lost, but I did.

Mimi tried not to squirm, but it was hard for her to sit quietly in church. The bench wasn’t the right size for her little body. Mimi remembered Mom saying that reverent behavior in church shows love for Heavenly Father. Mimi loved Heavenly Father very much, but it still wasn’t easy to sit for so long. Mom also said that sitting quietly in church was less difficult if you paid attention to the meeting, so Mimi tried to listen closely.
This Sunday was fast and testimony meeting. Sister Richards said how grateful she was to work in the nursery. After she finished, Jason stood to bear his testimony. Jason was only a little older than Mimi, about her brother, Ben’s, age. Mimi listened as Jason said, “I know the Church is true. I know we have a prophet. I love my family. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Jason sat down. Then his little sister, Ava, stood up. Mimi was surprised; Ava was in Mimi’s Primary class. Wasn’t Ava scared to speak in front of so many people? But Ava walked right up to the pulpit and said, “I love my mom and dad and my grandma and grandpa and my brother, Jason. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
After a few more grown-ups spoke, Tyler, another Primary child, bore his testimony. Tyler said he loved his family, adding, “I try to be good. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
After church, Mimi said to her parents, “Next fast Sunday, I want to bear my testimony.”
“That would be nice,” Dad answered. “Have you thought about what you would like to say?”
“Oh, yes,” Mimi said. “It’s easy. I’m supposed to say, ‘I love my family. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.’”
“Well,” Dad explained, “those are very good things to say in a testimony, but they are not necessarily what you are supposed to say. Do you know what bearing your testimony means?”
Mimi nodded, then stopped. Maybe she wasn’t exactly sure what bearing testimony meant.
Dad noticed her puzzled face. “Bearing testimony,” he explained, “means telling people what you believe or know is true. It’s not just repeating words you’ve heard others say. It is saying what you have faith in or what spiritual things you have learned or what the Holy Ghost tells you in your mind and heart.”
“Was Ava wrong to stand up and say what the others said?” Mimi asked.
“No,” Mom answered. “She wasn’t wrong. She’s learning to bear her testimony, and that’s wonderful. She’s learning to speak in front of people, too. And she’s learning what things people have testimonies about. But as she grows, she will have spiritual experiences that will help her own testimony grow. Then when she bears her testimony, she will have some personal things to say.”
“Mimi, if you want to bear your testimony, that’s great,” Dad said. “But first, think about the things you feel deep inside. What do you really know or believe is true? And why do you feel that way?”
The next day started like any other Monday. But after school, Mimi’s neighbor, Mrs. Martin, greeted her at home. “Your mother isn’t here, dear. She took Ben to the hospital. I will stay with you and your little sister until she or your dad can come home.”
Mimi’s eyes widened, and a scared feeling filled her stomach. “What’s wrong with Ben?”
“The doctors at the hospital said his appendix ruptured,” Mrs. Martin explained. “It was all full of infection, and it burst.”
Mimi was frightened. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, it’s pretty serious, but the doctors operated quickly to take it out. And your dad and grandpa hurried to the hospital and gave Ben a blessing. He should be fine. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about now.”
But Mimi did worry. The scared feeling in her stomach became a sick feeling. She went to her room and sat on her bed, thinking about Ben. After a few minutes Mimi noticed a notecard her Primary teacher had given her on Sunday. She read the scripture on it: “Whatsoever thing ye shall ask the Father in my name, which is good, in faith believing that ye shall receive, behold, it shall be done unto you” (Moro. 7:26).
Mimi slipped off her bed onto her knees and prayed. “Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “please help Ben be all right. I know we argue sometimes, but I really love him. Please bless him to get better. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” As Mimi finished praying, she felt warm all over, and the sick feeling faded away.
Later, when Mom came home, her face looked tired, but she smiled at Mimi and her sister and hugged them tightly. “Everything is going to be all right,” Mom said. “Ben is very sick, but in his blessing he was promised he would heal quickly and without too much pain. He’ll have to be in the hospital for a while, and I’ll go back tonight to be with him.”
Before Mom left, she prayed with the girls. Again Mimi felt the warm, peaceful feeling all through her body.
After a few days, the doctor said Ben could leave the hospital. “I expected him to need to stay longer, but there’s no sign of infection now—I’ve never seen anyone heal so quickly.”
The doctor may have been surprised, but Ben wasn’t. “Wasn’t I promised in my blessing that I would get well fast and without too much pain?” he said.
Mimi just smiled.
Before long, life was back to normal. On fast Sunday, just as she had said she would, Mimi bore her testimony. When she stood up to speak, her knees trembled and her tummy felt funny. She never realized so many people could fit in the chapel, and they were all looking at her! She almost wanted to sit down again. Then she saw her family smiling at her.
She took a deep breath and began, “I know that Heavenly Father is really there and that He listens to our prayers. I know because when I prayed to Him about something really important, I felt warm and calm inside. And I believe in the priesthood and in blessings, because everything my dad promised in Ben’s blessing happened just the way he said it would.” Mimi looked at Ben. “And I believe in the scriptures because they promise that Heavenly Father will answer our prayers. I know that He answered mine. And I love Him. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Mimi felt an even greater love for Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ as she walked back to her seat. She saw tears in Mom’s eyes, but Mom was smiling. Daddy slipped his arm around Mimi and whispered, “Now that is what bearing testimony is all about.”

With that kind of tradition, it was no wonder that Dene had soccer (or football, as the British usually call it) in his blood. The first gift he received from his father was a soccer ball. When he began walking at 11 months, that ball was an old and treasured possession and he began kicking it immediately. By the time he was a year and a half old, he was handling it better than most Americans his age ever would. But at that point he suffered his first setback. One day while he was out kicking his ball, he slipped and broke his leg. He was in a hospital six weeks with his leg in a sling, and he wore a cast for another six weeks. He had to learn to walk all over again, but he began kicking the ball long before his cast came off.

“Mom,” Anna said, “could we please stop at the next rest area? I need to get out and stretch.”
“Sure,” Mom replied. “There’s one coming up in just a few miles. I guess you haven’t had much chance to stretch since I picked you up after kindergarten.”
As soon as Mom stopped the car, Anna jumped out. There were no other cars, so she ran back and forth along the sidewalk for a few minutes. Then she went into the rest room. The first thing she saw was a shiny blue belt lying on the counter. She picked it up and looked at it. It was almost new. She rubbed it against her cheek. It felt good.
Blue is my favorite color, she thought. This even matches my pants. She tried it on. It fit just right.
When her mother came into the rest room, Anna held up the belt. “Look what I found.”
“That’s really pretty,” Mom said.
“Would it be OK if I kept it? There’s no one here for it to belong to.”
Mom thought a minute. “I think it’s your choice, Anna.”
Anna left the belt in the rest room and went out and sat on the lawn. She thought about what a great belt it was. Then she remembered a story Dad had told them in family home evening about finding a pocketknife when he was a boy. He had left it where he found it because it wasn’t his.
But I bet he didn’t want the knife nearly as much as I want this belt, Anna thought. Anyway, who would it hurt? The owner is long gone.
She thought how impressed the girls at school would be when she wore it. Maybe even her teacher would tell her what a pretty belt it was. Then she remembered the story her Primary teacher had told last week about a little boy who had returned a ball he’d found and how good he had felt about his decision.
Anna went back into the rest room. She picked up the belt and tried it on again. She remembered that she had a skirt it would go with perfectly. She even had shoes that were the same color of blue. She started to leave the rest room wearing the belt, then stopped and looked at herself in the mirror. The belt looked awesome with her pants. But did she like the girl who was wearing it? She took it off and rubbed the buckle with her thumb. She put it back on the counter and left, looking back at the belt one last time.
As she walked out the door, another car pulled into the parking lot. A girl about Anna’s age jumped out and raced into the rest room. A moment later, the girl ran back out, waving the belt in the air. “Mom, Mom, it was still there!”
Anna smiled.

In Alaska, LDS teenagers who live in the towns of Wasilla, Palmer, and Eagle River look at the Anchorage Alaska Temple and know that something of theirs is safe inside. They were fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time to make a promise, sign their names to it, then have those pledges sealed inside the cornerstone of the temple at the dedication.
The promise they signed was quite short. It said simply: “As I prepare for marriage and a mission, I will live the standards of worthiness for entrance into the house of the Lord.” It was a promise that many of them were willing to make, but now that the promise is literally encased in stone in the temple and sealed with mortar, these young people have taken it very seriously.
“This was a goal I had previously made,” says Katie Green of the Eagle River Second Ward, “but had never put on paper. When I was given the opportunity to do so, I jumped at it. I didn’t just sign it; I pondered it. To me a promise is a promise and cannot be broken, especially with our Father in Heaven. Living the standards of worthiness doesn’t mean just not crossing the line. It means that we must live as far away from that line as possible.”
For Amie Uscola of the Wasilla First Ward, making a promise like this one is very personal. “Having my name in the cornerstone of the temple is like an agreement on a personal basis with the Lord. It is like a possession of His, and if you broke it, it is more personal. I actually do think about it every time I come here.”
These teens are thrilled to have a temple so close to their hometowns. Before the Anchorage Alaska Temple was built, these teens only rarely, if ever, had the opportunity to travel to a temple. The trips were expensive and often a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Now they have many more opportunities to do baptisms and to go through the temple for their own endowments before leaving on missions or being married. Ryan Rampton of the Eagle River Second Ward said, “With something as sacred as doing temple ordinances, now I won’t have to go to another state. I can do it in the place I grew up. That actually means a lot to me.”
Having signed a pledge that is now permanently in the temple’s cornerstone makes coming to the temple even better. “The feelings I get whenever I enter the temple,” says ShaLene Grover of the Palmer First Ward, “make the desires of my heart stronger to be a better person. This makes a difference in my life, to always be worthy to go to the temple, so I can always feel the peace I feel when going there.”

Fifth: "I was sick, and ye visited me." I'm sure we have all been sick at some point in our lives. And when you're feeling under the weather, who doesn't appreciate a reassuring visit from family or friends? I think of loneliness in this same category of need.

When I was in graduate school in Illinois, I was home teacher to a dear elderly sister in our ward, Zada Purrington. She lived alone in an assisted living center but made great efforts to come to church. We lived far from our own families and grandparents, so Zada became a kind of adopted grandparent for our young children. We loved to visit and spend time with her, even though she could barely hear us.

I know she was lonely and was often sick, but she was always happy to see us. I'm sure (I hope!) she appreciated our visits with three young girls in tow, and I know we certainly were greatly blessed by our association with her. This kind of service brings blessings in abundance to all involved.

Benard excitedly invited us to visit his home and teach his wife, Megan. As we met with Megan, we were struck by her great faith. When she prayed to know if our message was true, God answered her prayer.
We invited Megan to be baptized the next Sunday. That week, however, the city of Nairobi announced that water would be cut for 10 days! After Megan’s baptismal interview on Saturday, my companion and I prayed that her baptism could go forward the next day.
We fasted, counseled with our leaders, and tried different ways to get water—all to no avail. That evening we prepared for the baptism anyway. Then we knelt and prayed again. We felt prompted to hook one end of a hose to the dry meetinghouse kitchen tap and put the other end in the baptismal font. We said another prayer, locked up, and left for home.
The next morning when we went to the meetinghouse, to our amazement the font was full of water! We checked the kitchen tap, but still no water came out. No one from the branch had a clue as to how the font was filled.
Megan was baptized that day. The whole ward came to witness her baptism and welcome her to the Church. The tap remained dry, but everyone’s eyes were wet with gratitude.

Emmeline and Newel had two daughters, Isabel and Melvina, before Newel died suddenly in Salt Lake City, Utah Territory, in September 1850. Emmeline was only 22 and again needed to support herself as a teacher. Though feeling lost, she cherished a prophecy Newel made about her life: “He said I should have nothing to do but to devote my whole time to writing and to literary pursuits, and that I should sit and eat and drink and converse with the nobles of the earth and tell them of the Gospel.”4

In our little Finnish town, the ski race was the biggest event of the year.
It’s part of Russia now, the village in Karelia where I spent my childhood. The Russians annexed it, along with the rest of the Karelian region, after the two countries fought a war in 1939–40. But when I was young, the land of lakes, marshes, streams, cold weather, and hills was part of Finland. And that meant it was a land of skiing and of ski races.
Each February, when the worst of the winter chill was over, the townsfolk would come out of hibernation and gather at a large sand pit on the outskirts of the village. The sand pit was the site for the finish line of the cross-country ski competition, and for good reasons. For one thing, the hole torn from the side of the hill by summertime construction workers was large enough not only for the finish line, but for a food stand as well. One race day, the air was full of the aroma of gooey, steaming meat pies and sausages. For another thing, the snow-covered sides of the sand pit formed a natural amphitheater. Standing around its sides and rim, spectators could clearly see the final stretch of the course, and the entire town knew who the winner was the moment he crossed the line.
There were many preparations for the contest. Race officials tied blue paper armbands on some of the older children, authorizing them to monitor the crowds of people and keep competition lanes uncluttered. Trails were marked for the different events—short courses for younger children, longer courses for older children; separate trails for male and female teenagers and for men and women; and even a grandpa trail for the older folks, who always performed well in their own special race. Each group followed its own path, clearly marked by colored paper streamers. But the biggest event of all was the men’s 30-kilometer race. The winner was the hero of the village for a year, the man who had proved what he was made of. Many a quiet farmer, shoemaker, or storekeeper imagined himself gliding past his neighbors and on to victory.
As children, though we had a hero of our own. We called him Tappi-Eiska. He was the smallest and shortest possible full-grown man without being a midget. He was also the nicest, fun person we knew outside our family circles. Maybe his shortness helped us relate to him, because we could look at him eye-to-eye. Maybe we understood the struggles he’d been through because of his size. “Eiska” is probably a shortened form of Einari, which could have been his true first name. But “Tappie,” in Finnish, means “stump” or “shortie,” and it might well be that originally the nickname was intended as an insult. It didn’t matter to us children. He was the one we felt should be the best skier of the year.
The problem was, Tappi-Eiska wasn’t a very good skier. The first year he raced in the men’s division was a complete failure. The men had to go around a ten-kilometer course three times, and when the winner came in, Tappi-Eiska was just finishing his first time around the course. By the time Tappi did finish, the other skiers were all in the bath house or on the way home. Only a few disappointed children waited for their tired friend at the finish line.
The rest of that winter and all of the next one, Tappi-Eiska spent every spare minute skiing on that trail. In the summer he swam and rowed a big army boat around in the Vuoksi River. He didn’t grow taller, but he did grow muscular. We children were excited, certain that all those muscles and all that practice would make him a winner at last. We thought a man should win just because he was nice. It always happened that way in the movies.
But Tappi-Eiska didn’t win that year, either. This time, he crossed the line with the last group of skiers. At least he wasn’t hours behind, and some other people besides us saw him complete the race. We figured his legs were just too short to compete with the big men. Maybe he’d even stop trying now.
But during the next year, Tappi-Eiska showed us what the Finish word sisu means. It means determination or courage. And that’s what this man had. He went on training and training and training. By the time of the next ski contest, we knew Tappi would win. Of course, we had felt that way every year, but this time it seemed possible all over again.
The striding skiers kicked up snow as they raced into the forest. Through one lap, through two, and back into the forest again. When we knew they would be coming into sight, some of us, on skis ourselves, moved out from the sand hole to meet the winner, sure that it would be our hero, Tappi-Eiska.
We waited in the cold. The trees were white with frost. Smoke from the few visible chimneys stretched straight up in gray ribbons. Our cheeks were red. But then, suddenly, we were warm all over! Emerging from the edge of the forest was the shortest man in town, now the biggest man in town—Tappi-Eiska! He was ahead of everyone! Even the adults rose to their feet to cheer him on.
He came to the hill. We could see his short legs pumping so fast we could hardly focus on them. Then behind him came another man, a huge, lumbering giant! I’m sure many of us wished inside that somehow this long-legged pest would trip or break a ski, anything to keep him from passing. But as the two neared the top of the sand hole, the larger skier slipped past and crossed the line first.
How often in the years since then have I felt sorry for the man who came in first. Few of us cheered the winner. But when Tappi-Eiska crossed that line, there was much noise and confusion. We followed him on our skis down into the pit, and no older children with blue armbands could have stopped us. We gathered around Tappi-Eiska, then threw him into the air, skis and all. Many townspeople, who knew of Tappi’s struggles, joined us. Some were weeping without shame. We completely forgot that he had come in second, not first. This stubbornly determined little man had shown us the value of not giving up and had become the hero of my childhood.
That was 1938. World War II came the next year and took many things away. There were no ski contests. I never got my chance to be one of the older children wearing a blue armband and monitoring the crowd. And Tappi-Eiska never got another chance to prove he could cross the finish line first. But for me, and for the others, he would never have to. He had already proved he was a true winner in every sense of the word.

Aurelia stood on the bank of the Mississippi River and looked back across it. Never before in her eleven-and-a-half years had she been west of the wide river, and now here she was in Iowa.
She shivered in the February cold and tucked one hand into her coat. With the other, she held George’s hand. He was only six and was her responsibility. Ellen, thirteen, and nine-year-old Catherine walked ahead with seven-year-old Howard; little Lucy rode in the wagon with Mama, who was still very sick. But Aurelia and George stood and looked back across the river to Nauvoo.
Nauvoo! How could they bear to leave their beautiful home? All was cold and gray across the river, but Aurelia remembered how the city had looked when she first saw it.
It was already a bustling, growing city when the Spencer family arrived. Thousands of people lived there, and more were coming every day. There were hundreds of log cabins and many brick homes. People were building, buying and selling, planting, working everywhere! Aurelia had never seen so many people—and most of them were Latter-day Saints.
Her family had rented a room until Papa could build a house for them. He had chosen a lot on a hill above the town, a little northeast of where the temple was being built.
Their lot, like most in Nauvoo, was big enough to plant a large garden and some fruit trees. Ellen and Aurelia had helped Papa plant the trees that first spring—peach and apple trees, Papa said, although they looked like twigs to Aurelia. She had asked Papa why he planted the tiny trees so far apart.
“They are small now,” he had said, “but if we want them to grow large and give fruit, they will need space to grow.” Aurelia had watched them grow until last year they had finally blossomed and borne fruit!
All of Nauvoo blossomed in the spring. The mud in the streets was deep enough to suck the boots right off your feet, but flowers and fruit trees bloomed in every yard. Aurelia wished she could see spring come to Nauvoo again. But the Prophet Joseph was dead, and soon his beautiful city would be deserted.
George had been too young to remember the first time he and Aurelia met the Prophet. Aurelia remembered it clearly. She had met a real, living prophet! He had come to their home to visit, and he limped very slightly when he walked, just like Papa! Papa told her later it was caused by the same illness that had caused his limp—typhus fever, which had settled in his leg.
Lucy was born there, and when Joseph saw her, he exclaimed, “Oh, what a little black head!” Even as a baby, Lucy’s hair was thick and dark. Joseph had laid his hand on Lucy’s head and blessed her. Aurelia had loved the Prophet from that moment. He was God’s own prophet and the most important man in Nauvoo, yet he loved little children and liked to be with them.
Aurelia shivered as she remembered the terrible day two years later, when Joseph and his brother Hyrum were killed by a mob in the nearby town of Carthage. Aurelia could scarcely believe that anyone could be so wicked as to kill a kind man like the Prophet.
Aurelia’s Papa had taken her to the Mansion House to see Joseph’s body. A great crowd was there, all crying and crowding to look. Aurelia couldn’t see, so Papa had lifted her up to the window from where she could see Brother Joseph one last time. That had been nearly two years ago.

Fishing and hunting are big in Alabama. That’s how it happened that a group of young people from Dothan, Alabama, recently descended on Lake Eufala, which calls itself “the bass capitol of the world.” They hadn’t been there long when a boatload of youths from the local Eufala branch came lazying by, propelled by one paddle and one landing net. A little earlier a couple of young people had been out in the same boat with their dad, checking troutlines baited with chunks of soap.
The Dothan group wasn’t destined to take home many fish that day, but they got some good Alabama sunshine and proved once again that participating in Church activities is a lot of fun wherever you live.

I had seen a picture of President Kimball hanging on the wall of the barbershop, and so I said: “I assume that you cut his hair.” The barber, Ross Pyper, replied: “Yes, I do.” I said: “Does he have to make an appointment also?” He replied: “No, not any more, but he used to. Often when Brother Arthur Haycock, his personal secretary, calls, the person who had an appointment has either called and cancelled the appointment or is late. So I tell Brother Haycock to tell President Kimball to come right over and I will arrange to cut his hair immediately upon his arrival.”
In a few minutes, the telephone rang, and I heard the barber say: “Yes, Brother Haycock, I can take him right now. Send him right over.”
The barber completed my haircut and I stepped out of the barber chair and sat down. I was determined that Melissa and I would not leave until President Kimball came and we could meet him. Melissa, my little daughter, who was spending the day with me, was so excited at the thought of meeting the prophet that she could hardly contain herself.
Soon President Kimball walked in, accompanied by a security man. The president shook hands with the barber, and then walked over and shook hands with us and was very congenial. He then got in the barber chair and the barber proceeded to cut his hair. During this time he conversed very warmly with those in the room. Melissa was so excited and spiritually touched that tears came to her eyes on several occasions. As I looked into his countenance, I knew that he truly is a prophet of God.
“Daddy, do you think we could get a picture of President Kimball?” Melissa whispered to me. I said, “I think it would be all right. Why don’t you rush out to our car and get your camera before he leaves.” I could see that the president was almost ready. In what seemed like five seconds, Melissa rushed in the front door with her camera at the same time President Kimball stepped down from the barber chair.
“President Kimball, I hope you don’t mind, but would you allow me to take a picture of you and my little daughter, Melissa?” I asked. “Not at all,” he said. I then adjusted the camera as President Kimball, with his arm around Melissa, and Melissa, with her arm around President Kimball, posed for the picture. He was then very gracious in allowing her to take a picture of him and me together, with my arm around him and his arm around me.
After this President Kimball bid all of us good-bye and shook our hands again. When he shook Melissa’s hand, she reached up and kissed him on the cheek and he responded by kissing her on the cheek. He then left, and Melissa and I were left marveling at the experience we had been so fortunate to have.

My own testimony is a good example of this. Just over 38 years in an apartment on Kentucky Ave. in Evansville, Indiana, I learned something that I already knew.

I grew up in a home with good, honest, loving, and hard working parents. I never doubted how much they loved me and my three sisters. However the church was not an important component of our lives. I attended on my own almost every Sunday, but through a lot of hard work and practice, I got pretty good at finding ways on occasion to not attend. But I always wanted to serve a mission. I had cousins who served in Iowa, Brazil, and France, but still I wasn't as ready to serve a mission as I should have been and my testimony wasn't as strong as I wanted it to be, or so I thought. And so feeling a need to know the truth, and after praying and fasting in an attempt to get an answer, I finished my prayers at my bedside that night in Evansville, and the answer came in a very clear and concise way. The words were simply, "You have always known the church is true." And then my own realization that maybe I had wasted time questioning, and that it was time to go and do the work.

I knew what I knew, but I didn't know how to know it. Thankfully I turned to God who reminded me of what I already knew.

I will share another personal story that completely changed my life. It is an example of how I was again specifically tutored by the Lord and learned to accept his will.

My first wife, Melanie, was diagnosed with lung cancer in June of 2010. She was 45 years old, an active runner, a non-smoker, and seemingly healthy in every way. She loved her family and was devoted to the Lord.

We first began to investigate her condition when she started experiencing pain in her side and had difficulty breathing. We did not know how serious it was since the various tests and consultations provided no clear indications about her health. One doctor prescribed an antibiotic for pneumonia—another recommended gall bladder surgery. But no explanation, procedure, or medication brought the relief or understanding we sought.

It reached a point where we needed to go to the emergency room one night because her inability to take a full breath was growing more severe. It was then that a CT scan discovered a mass in her right lung. This mass had been causing a large amount of fluid to accumulate around her lung, making it harder and harder to breathe. A subsequent biopsy found the tumor to be malignant.

At the first appointment with the oncologist, we were informed that the cancer had already spread to her liver, brain, lymph glands, and bones. It was considered Stage IV, and the prospects of long-term survival were very low. Treatment options were outlined that could hopefully contain, if not eliminate, the cancer. At the time, we did not fully understand the relentless nature of the disease and how it would eventually assert itself despite the best that medical science could offer.

I can still remember sitting in the living room, trying to explain the devastating news to our children. I shared their fears and questions about how this could be happening. Our lives were not supposed to be like this. How is it possible that someone in the prime of life would be consigned to such a trial? How is it possible that this was not diagnosed earlier before it spread? How is it possible for Heavenly Father to allow such afflictions to happen to his children? The list of anguished and confused questions continued to grow, just like the cancer itself.

The months passed through a gauntlet of different treatments and side effects, good days and bad, doctor visits, and hospital stays. The main constants were Melanie’s perseverance, powerful prayers and priesthood blessings, and innumerable gifts of kindness, charity, and service.

During a scheduled visit with the oncologist in December 2011, we were informed that although the cancer in the lungs and bones had remained stable, aggressive new cancer had developed on her liver. It was, therefore, unlikely that further treatment would be able to resolve the spread of the disease. It was then advised that she transition to hospice care to attend to her final needs and comfort.

Two weeks later, Melanie passed away, free from the pain, nausea, and impairment that could never take away from her courageous example. While her health had declined over the previous 18 months, our family’s faith had increased. As the side-effects of radiation and medications took their toll on her physically, the love, support, prayers, and fasting, truly strengthened our family spiritually. Medical science had been unable to provide a cure. But through the power of priesthood blessings and the Atonement of Jesus Christ, we received healing.

My purpose in sharing this account is to show how our perspective is elevated when we turn our hearts to God. It would have been easy to dwell on the “how is it possible?” questions that came after the first appointment and just be angry and feel like life was unfair. Instead, I learned how it was possible to obtain peace by trusting in the Lord, his timing, and his will. I am grateful that through this adversity, we never felt distanced from the Lord by doubt, nor did we lose sight of his tender mercies.

Three Christmas trees stand out in the memory of Elder Gary B. Sabin.
The first was a beautiful Christmas tree of his youth. When Gary scaled the tree trying to reach a candy cane, the entire tree crashed to the ground.
The second was an evergreen branch he found as a missionary while serving in Belgium and the Netherlands from 1973 to 1975. Elder Sabin and his companion took the branch home to their apartment and propped it up around the Christmas cards they had received from home.
The third was a tree made of Christmas lights strung on the IV stand next to his daughter’s hospital bed. One of three Sabin children to suffer from cystic fibrosis, his daughter had received a double-lung transplant one year after the death of her brother from the same disease.
“We have learned a lot more from our children than they have learned from us,” says Elder Sabin.
As a General Authority he will remember the Christmas trees and the lessons he learned from them. Each tree highlights portions of his journey—from a young boy wanting a candy cane to a missionary teaching the plan of salvation to a father who relied on the plan and the Savior’s love to sustain his family through mortal trials.
Gary Byron Sabin was born in Provo, Utah, USA, on April 7, 1954, to Marvin E. and Sylvia W. Sabin. He married Valerie Purdy in August 1976. They are the parents of five children; a sixth child was stillborn.
After graduating from Brigham Young University in Provo, Elder Sabin earned a master’s degree in management from Stanford University.
Elder Sabin has served in numerous Church callings, including as bishop, stake president, and Area Seventy. He has worked as a founder, chairman, and CEO of several companies, including Excel Realty Trust, Price Legacy, Excel Realty Holdings, and Excel Trust.
In 1993, Elder and Sister Sabin formed Sabin Children’s Foundation, an organization dedicated to addressing the medical needs of children.

How these two religious leaders came to agreement to work together organizing such an unfamiliar church is linked to a miraculous event.
Six months before meeting with Johnson, Mensah had a dream that someone named Johnson would be able to help establish the Church. Mensah became aware of Johnson through his brother, Isaac Mensah, after Johnson had given him financial assistance through his position of captain. After Mensah’s dream, he invited Johnson to meet with him in his home.
According to Johnson, Mensah “asked me to pray with him so that the Lord might sustain the LDS Mission in Ghana because he had been facing trials since he started the work.”3 While praying, Johnson had a vision in which he saw an unfamiliar book—the Book of Mormon. When he asked about the book, Mensah pulled out a Book of Mormon from under the bed in the room where they had prayed.
As Johnson recognized the book in his vision, they both experienced a rich outpouring of the Spirit of God. Johnson accepted a gift of a Book of Mormon and the invitation to help build the Church while receiving continuing revelation that what he was doing was truly the Lord’s will.