Gospel Story Finder

“You’ve gotta crack a half a cuppa nuts!” is a very familiar phrase heard in my family. It is not unusual for our mother or dad to say it, and we’re all quite used to the strange and puzzled looks we get from those visitors who have no idea what it means.
It all started a couple of years ago when my dad was out of ideas to keep us under control. Being the father of ten active and quite rambunctious children, he needed a way to discipline our behavior. Consequently, he tried several methods of punishment that didn’t work particularly well.
One of the most boring discipline remedies that I can remember was “sitting on the chair.” When we were being punished for misbehavior, we had to sit on a hard chair in a corner of our dining room for a certain time which Mom would set on the oven buzzer. What made this punishment particularly unpleasant was that the chair was right by the piano. It never failed that a big sister would plop down on the piano bench and, seeing she had a captive audience, sing and play to her heart’s content. Talk about a fate worse than death!
That form of punishment failed because Mom and Dad had to worry about us sneaking off the chair and reducing the time on the buzzer, or simply disappearing. It proved a discipline dead end.
Another time Mom tried the “write an essay” form of punishment in which we had to write about what we did and how we would never do it again. None of us had much problem coming up with a lot to write about, but for some of us the punishment disintegrated into page-long poems that began with “Roses are red,” while others developed a unique writing style in which they could snugly fit about 17 huge words on a page. Another dead end.
Unfortunately for us, Dad came up with an idea that he thought was absolutely brilliant. Dreadful was a better word for it. We have a walnut tree in our backyard. Dad had been noticing how many walnuts go uncracked every year. He decided to mix that chore with our punishment. Every time we would break a family rule we would have to crack one half cup of nuts. Half a cup of nuts became the standard unit of punishment.
Cracking nuts may sound silly, but, believe me, it’s hard work. Picture a bunch of kids sitting on a hot sidewalk cracking each walnut one by one with a brick, then picking out the meat. Filling up one-half cup takes about 45 minutes, 35 if you’re a pro.
We children weren’t exactly thrilled with the idea, but we always had an abundance of cracked walnuts around to add to breads or cookies.
It takes forever to clean the slate when you get behind in your nut cracking. Once our family was planning a vacation. Dad decided that we weren’t going until everyone had his nuts cracked. Those who didn’t have nuts to crack were encouraged to help the others. We started out being grumpy, but by the end, we were all working together and actually enjoying it! Spending that time together, just talking while we were at our nut cracking, made us closer.
As for the days when the trees are bare and walnuts are scarce, we can work off our obligation by helping a parent or doing extra chores around the farm or house at the rate of one half cup of nuts per 15 minutes. As I have grown older, I have noticed one nice side effect. Working one-on-one with a parent gives us time to talk and learn how to work.
We’ve all grown and become better people because of our Dad’s nutty idea. Over the years even Mom and Dad have had to crack a few nuts themselves. It has proven an equitable way to discipline our family. Having nuts to crack was an unpleasant task but never a punishment that would damage our self-esteem.
I have just one word of warning to any kids out there who happen to have walnut trees in their backyards—obey your parents, don’t fight, and don’t call your little brother a “stupid nerd.” Or your parents might end up a little nutty over discipline.

The morning session was opened by the president with a polished and stirring address. Next we called on his second counselor. He was obviously flustered. … (We had previously indicated that both counselors would probably speak in the afternoon session. We were to go to his home for the noon meal. He had known there would be time to go over his notes, so he had left them at home.)

For want of his notes, he turned to testimony, giving an inspiring account of an administration he had performed during the week. A brother, given up by his doctors, had been called from the very shadows of death by the power of the priesthood. I do not know what was on his notes, but surely it could not have compared in inspiration to the testimony he bore.

They also enjoy playing music together. Naomi plays the drums, and Natascha plays the fife. They practice playing musical instruments with bands of children, or cliquen, all year long and then perform in February. That’s when Swiss people celebrate carnival for three days, symbolically scaring away winter and welcoming spring. Natascha and Naomi wear costumes and parade through the streets of Basel playing their music.

For Tino, missionary service took an unexpected turn. Deferment of their mandatory military obligation is not allowed for Portuguese missionaries, and Tino was called into his country’s air force. He still remembers the counsel of R. Perry Ficklin, then president of the Portugal Lisbon Mission, who explained that Elder Moreira’s missionary service wasn’t over, that he was only being “transferred to another area—more difficult.” Tino went on to teach and baptize a number of people in the air force.

One family story that means a lot to Harriet is the conversion story of her parents, John and Margaret. They were married and living in England, both working at the post office, when a coworker introduced them to the Church. Her mother was baptized then, and her father was later. They made a rather adventuresome decision to move to Australia. They found that the Church was strong in Melbourne, and there was plenty of room for a house that could accommodate so many children. That decision has made all the difference.

I’ll never forget the day I met Diego. I was serving my mission in Chile when he approached my companion and me. He was so excited to see us because he wanted to learn about the gospel and knew he needed to be baptized. Diego amazed me because he was so pure—he didn’t want to do one worldly thing. He introduced us to his mother, and we set up an appointment to teach them at his grandmother’s house.
No sooner had we arrived to teach them than Diego’s grandmother came into the room in a panic. “The goats are missing!” she cried.
“Can you help me search for them?” Diego asked my companion and me, so we did.
The area was covered in rolling hills, which were rockier than I had thought. Diego explained that he was worried because the goats could hurt themselves on the treacherous terrain or be stolen by thieves. We had searched for a while when Diego finally yelled, “I see them!”
I turned my head and could not see anything. I asked, “Diego, where are they?”
He replied, “They are on top of that hill.”
As I tried to focus my eyes, I could see dots moving around on the hilltop. I couldn’t believe Diego had spotted the flock of goats from that far away. He told us to wait at the bottom while he went up to get them.
I then witnessed something I had never seen before. As Diego climbed the steep hill, he began a distinct combination of clapping and yelling. The goats, recognizing the signal, perked up. Within five minutes, they grouped together and came galloping down the hill.
“This is too easy!” I thought.
I was right. As we turned to herd the flock back home, I heard the distant cry of another goat. We looked back and saw one little goat bleating on top of the hill. Realizing it was alone, it started trotting toward us. I was feeling relieved to see that this goat was coming toward us when Diego began to race up the hill.
“What are you doing?” I called.
“It’s a baby goat,” he replied. “It could easily fall and get injured.”
My companion and I quickly followed him.
As Diego bent to pick up the baby goat, it dodged and ran away. For a long time the three of us tried to catch the goat, but it refused to come. I was getting frustrated. Couldn’t the goat see that we were trying to help?
At last Diego’s herding dog, Bo Bo, came out of nowhere and pinned the goat to the ground. Diego picked up the goat, unharmed, and handed it to me. He asked me to carry it home while he attended to the rest of the flock.
As I lifted the little goat onto my shoulders, I felt its heart racing. I realized how frightened it must have been. Exhausted, the goat now laid limp, its head dangling over my shoulder and resting on my arm. It was as if the goat knew we were taking it home, because it did not fight anymore.
When I placed the baby goat back in the pen, safe with its family, it seemed happy and relieved. My heart filled with gladness. I was so grateful I’d played a part in rescuing it.
In that moment, a scripture came to life in my mind: “What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?
“And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. …
“… Likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth” (Luke 15:4–5, 7).
Diego taught me something about the Savior that day. Diego loved each member of his flock individually. He could see the dangers they faced and wanted to save each one. How much more the Savior loves each of us.
The little goat taught me a lot too. How often had I run away from the Savior’s help? How many lost souls were shutting Him out of their lives because they were afraid?
As a missionary, I was privileged to serve others the way the Savior would if He were here. At first I had agreed to help Diego because I cared about him, but as I carried that goat, I came to feel I cared for it too. How much more I loved the Savior and wanted to seek for His children. As I did, love grew in my heart for the Chilean people. I could not always carry them safely on my shoulders, but I could teach them and the Holy Ghost could guide them to the One who can. I know I’ll feel joy seeing them safely at home with their eternal families someday.

About one month ago, I got injured quite badly during a sports game. At times this injury prevented me from attending church. I would be lying at home, not being able to sit up for long. One Sunday I picked up the New Era. After I had read it, I picked up another and then another. After about two Sundays at home I had read all the copies of the New Era that we have in our living room. Even though I missed going to Young Women (and sometimes to Mutual activities), I felt as though I was still learning the Church’s principles.Jessica Evans, Lake Rotoroa Ward, Hamilton New Zealand Glenview Stake

The day Alma Elizabeth turned eight years old she saw some elders baptizing people in a nearby creek. Her folks did not know about the baptismal service, so she ran home to tell them. With their permission she, too, was baptized in the creek. Afterward she walked to the meetinghouse to be confirmed. But after the confirmation, she felt very tired and fell sound asleep on a seldom-used church bench where people could not see her. When the meeting ended everyone went home. Alma Elizabeth’s family became concerned about her long absence, and they sent her big sister Helen to search for her. She found Alma Elizabeth still asleep in the now empty meetinghouse.

I had many responsibilities on our farm at a young age. When I was nine years old, one of my summer jobs was to keep a herd of twelve cows and twelve calves in the pasture. Unfortunately, they loved to push over our fence and gorge on the sweet alfalfa in an adjoining field. On one of their escapes, they got into an empty canal some twelve to fourteen feet deep. I knew that the canal would soon fill with water, drowning the trapped cattle.
I couldn’t move twenty-four cattle up the canal’s steep banks, and I didn’t know how else to save them, so I knelt and prayed for help. I was impressed to drive the cattle down the canal to another man’s property. I questioned the wisdom of this, because I didn’t know the property or its owner and I didn’t want to get stuck between even steeper banks. I obeyed the Spirit, however, and soon found a section of the canal where the cattle could climb out easily. And our neighbor didn’t mind. When I told my mother, she said that I had been inspired by Heavenly Father.

Pres. Shumway extended an invitation for me to sculpt the sculpture of George Q. Cannon and Napela. I felt that it was an inspiration and I was moved to sculpt it.
On the day we unveiled the sculpture, a short Hawaiian lady came over to hug and congratulate me. She whispered a statement which inspired my new dream.

"Thank you for doing this for my people; I feel closer to them."

Ever since that day, I dreamed of doing the same thing for the Tongans. I went to the library and I found that the history of the Pacific Islands was well documented: the Samoans, Maori, Hawaiians, and the Tahitians, but nothing for Tonga.
I took this dream to the Lord and I have been in the heat since. I have been sweating for the past five years, navigating this dream. I have been searching the history of my roots, from mission records and journals of those American missionaries who have served in Tonga since Elder Brigham Smoot and Alva John Butler in 1891.
I titled this project "Seek the roots for the health of the shoots".

Brother Matthew O. Richardson, BYU Advancement Vice President, spoke in a BYU-Idaho devotional on February 21, 2017, and related the following experience which I have condensed:
Of all the hundreds of papers, quizzes, and exams from his undergraduate degree, he held in his hand the only thing he saved from his entire undergraduate experience. It was a Chemistry 105 exam. After retrieving the exam he quickly glanced at it and saw the number 76 scrawled across the top in red pen. He felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He started thinking that obviously he wasn't smart enough to be at a university. He pulled the dreaded exam from his backpack, hoping that he somehow read the score incorrectly. But sure enough, that red 76 was still there. But then he saw something he hadn't noticed before. His heart raced when he saw a tiny minus sign. He didn't get a 76 on this exam; he missed 76! And sure enough, in the corner was the number 24.
Why did he save that particular exam as his only memento of his undergraduate academic experience? It is because this experience impacted and shaped him in significant ways. He remembers that every storm will eventually break if you just hold on long enough. Even as the next stanza to my opening lyrics says, “No cloud can cast a shadow over courage such as mine, so I’ll sing my song as I go along, I’ll live, I’ll work, I’ll do!”

Before I left on my mission, I gave a colleague a subscription to A Liahona (Portuguese). Three months later she was baptized and today is a faithful member of the Church.
As a missionary, I always try to share something from the magazine with our investigators. They are always interested in the articles, and they feel the Spirit very strongly. The magazine is a great missionary tool—if we will use it.
Elder Gevezier,Brazil Recife Mission

Somehow, in spite of conflicting feelings, I decided to go on a mission. Once I had made the decision, I was elated, almost euphoric. But when I told my nonmember mother, she found the idea disagreeable. “I have lost you as a son,” she said, with great pain on her face.
In spite of my mother’s reaction, I had many peaceful Sundays and many quiet, confidential talks with Bishop Calvar. “Look,” he said one day. “Here are the keys to the church. Find a little room somewhere and get close to the Lord.”
Day after day after that, I would stop at his house and pick up the keys. I would stay at church for four or five hours, reading the Book of Mormon and other scriptures. I also fasted for the purpose of gaining a testimony of the book.
The bishop knew about the fasting, and he did not miss an opportunity to instruct me about the close relationship between the body and the spirit. He explained the importance of the Word of Wisdom and taught me how to seek personal revelation. I will never forget his teachings.
The hours I spent in that classroom at the church will always be part of my life. I cannot specify any particular hour or day when my testimony came; it was a gradual process. But slowly, each story in the Book of Mormon became my own personal spiritual feast.
Often, I felt as though transported from the cold metal chair on which I sat, or from the floor on which I knelt, to the ancient days of the Nephites and the Lamanites. I did not read King Benjamin’s sermon—I lived it. I imagined that I lay on the grass, surrounded by Nephite tents, watching people who had come to hear their aging leader. His speech answered many of my longstanding questions about the role of government, good leadership, personal worthiness, and the nature of true service.
From the beginning I had believed that the promise of Moroni would be fulfilled. But I had expected it to happen suddenly, as it had for others I knew. But though it came gradually, it came powerfully. I knew! I knew!
I left for the mission field surrounded by the love of Church members, as well as that of some of my family. My family didn’t quite understand what I was doing, but most believed it was something good.
How grateful I am to the Lord for that time of challenge! How grateful I am for the opportunity I had to represent the Lord Jesus Christ! During my mission, I bore my testimony of him and of the Book of Mormon often—a testimony which I had gained slowly, but undeniably, one conversation, one prayer, one page at a time.

A story might be interjected here. I have a brother sitting here before me who has served you for many years as a doctor in the McDonald Student Health Center. He has been a very, very liberal brother in the benefactions he has given to the family. For years he sent us Christmas gifts the like of which we could not reciprocate. One year when Sister Edmunds and I felt that we had a few extra dollars, we decided to make a present to him and his wife, a Christmas present that would be somewhat commensurate with what they had been doing for us. We went to one of the large stores in the Chicago Loop, one of the very prominent stores in the Midwest, and selected a beautiful set of china plates that were to cost us quite a sum of money. As I took out the check and began to fill it in, I said to the clerk, “I don’t want this sent out now.” It was then the middle of November, and I didn’t want the gift to appear as an invitation to my brother to go the extra mile and outdo me. So I said to the clerk, “I want you to hold this until the middle of December and then ship it.”

She said, “It is against the policy of the store to do that. If you pay for merchandise fully, we must send it out within a reasonable time. But you can do this: you can make a small payment on account and then, when you want the merchandise sent out, you can come into the store, pay the balance, and we’ll be glad to ship it.” We made a small payment and left.

About the middle of December I said to Sister Edmunds, “Don’t you think it’s about time we had that gift sent to Paul and Ella?” She agreed that it was and said she would go in and make the payment and order its shipment. During the afternoon, a few minutes after she had entered the store, I received a distress call at my office from my wife. She said, “Something terrible has happened. I came into this store and I spoke to one of the clerks and told her that I had come to make the balance payment on a gift we had ordered and to have it shipped to Utah. The clerk left me for a few minutes, came back, and then told me that the gift had been sent. I told her I didn’t see how it could have been because we hadn’t paid for it. She said, ‘Well, it was sent COD.’” What followed that in the telephone conversation is best described by my wife. She said, “When I told you that, there was a dead silence. I know that you are not a swearing man.” (This is her story; I am not admitting to anything.) “But you broke the silence of the telephone by saying, ‘Did you ever hear of anything so damned dumb?’” After saying that, embarrassment crowded in upon my mind, and I immediately wrote a letter of apology to my brother and sent him the money that he had had to pay to take the gift out of the mail.

In due course, I received a response from him which was very interesting. He said, “We could hardly believe, John, that you were sending us a Christmas gift COD. But we entered into the spirit of the thing and we took it out. We called in our friends and showed them this beautiful gift and told them how we had received it. Our friends and neighbors have come to the conclusion that it was a very smart idea. They’re all for bigger and better Christmas gifts. And we’re already planning on what we will send you for Christmas next year.”

As I contemplated what I might receive the next year, I thought to myself, “Well, I have to be a good sport. I’ll have to take it—whether it’s a wheelchair or an elephant.” Then I thought to myself, “There are some gifts he could send me that I wouldn’t mind paying for COD.” Then the thought came to me, “Why, aren’t all of our blessings sent to us in that same manner? Does not God give us our blessings COD?”

For the past two years our family has served a mission in Texas. It has been glorious and fulfilling beyond all expectations. When we first arrived, Sister Featherstone went to the Lord and said: “We don’t have much time. Please let me learn quickly so that the work will go forth.”
Later she said, “The Lord has answered my prayers. He taught me several great lessons. One of those lessons came after the first three or four weeks in the mission field. I was unable to find a few minutes each day to repair to a quiet spot. When I was home I would take about forty-five minutes in the afternoon and go out and curry down my Arabian horse. I would retreat into a world of my own for those few minutes.”
She could not find time for even a few minutes for herself in the mission field. She went to the Lord and knelt in prayer and said, “Please, Heavenly Father, help me to find some time for myself while I am here.”
And she said that just as clear as anything in this world the words came into her mind, saying, “My daughter, this is not your time; this is my time.” We have attempted to work with all our energy while we were on his time. And that work standard is compared to our work standard and not someone else’s.

When Steve and I were dating, I used to go sit on the beach while he would surf, often with a book in my hand to pass the time. Once, when the surf was really big, I climbed up into a platform that had been built into a tree so that I could see better. It was 12 to 15 feet at Sunset Beach, and Steve was practically beside himself with excitement.

The next couple of hours were some of the worst of my life. I don’t know how close any of you have been to 15 foot waves, but these were huge and close to closing out the break—which means unsurfable. You also have to keep in mind that Hawaiian surfers measure from the back of the wave, which means that the face of the wave, what you and I see from the beach, is double the size of the back of the wave.

For most of that time, I couldn’t even see him. I would see him catch a wave and then disappear into the huge crashing white wash. Then I would search desperately until I saw him catch the next wave. It was not fun. I kept thinking, “Is he going to make it back out? Am I going to lose him? What if he doesn’t come back up after this one?”

When he finally paddled in, I scrambled down out of the tree and ran to meet him. He was grinning ear to ear and totally pumped. “Steven,” I said, “don’t ever bring me to watch you in surf that big again.”

In hindsight, I shouldn’t have gone to watch him. I’ve lived on islands all my life. I know what big surf looks like, and I know the dangers involved. This was just the first time that someone I loved was out there in that crazy stuff! Steve and I worked out a compromise—he continued to surf big waves, and my rule of thumb as a spectator became 8 feet or under.

Soon after beginning LeGrand’s project, we met in his office each Friday morning. He answered all of my questions. At age ninety-four, his recall was remarkable. I was never intimidated by him. Then why, upon returning home, was I so exhausted that I went to bed?

After several weeks I came to know that it was the Light! The veil was very thin, and LeGrand lived so close to the Lord that His Light shone through His great servant.

President Henry B. Eyring has been an advocate for this kind of record keeping. Many of you will remember this talk.

When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. Let me tell you how that got started.

I came home late from a Church assignment. It was after dark. My father-in-law, who lived near us, surprised me as I walked toward the front door of my house. He was carrying a load of pipes over his shoulder, walking very fast and dressed in his work clothes. I knew that he had been building a system to pump water from a stream below us up to our property.

He smiled, spoke softly, and then rushed past me into the darkness to go on with his work. I took a few steps toward the house, thinking of what he was doing for us, and just as I got to the door, I heard in my mind--not in my own voice--these words: "I'm not giving you these experiences for yourself. Write them down."

I went inside. I didn't go to bed. Although I was tired, I took out some paper and began to write. And as I did, I understood the message I had heard in my mind. I was supposed to record for my children to read, someday in the future, how I had seen the hand of God blessing our family.

Grandpa didn't have to do what he was doing for us. He could have had someone else do it or not have done it at all. But he was serving us, his family, in the way covenant disciples of Jesus Christ always do. I knew that was true. And so I wrote it down, so that my children could have the memory someday when they would need it.

I wrote down a few lines every day for years. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: "Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?" As I kept at it, something began to happen. As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. As that happened, and it happened often, I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done.

More than gratitude began to grow in my heart. Testimony grew. I became ever more certain that our Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. I felt more gratitude for the softening and refining that come because of the Atonement of the Savior Jesus Christ. And I grew more confident that the Holy Ghost can bring all things to our remembrance--even things we did not notice or pay attention to when they happened.[10]

During that same summer, as many of you will remember, there was the death of George Floyd, which caused great unrest throughout the United States and here in Provo, including on campus. One of the ways in which people expressed their feelings about this event—and their feelings were very deep—was that professional athletes would put a message on the back of their jerseys about what they stood for, one way or the other. They were evaluated and criticized or praised, depending on what their message was.

Our football team that fall was in the midst of all of this and was trying to decide what to do. In a players-only meeting, they said, “So what is our message to the world? What are we going to say? Are we going to emphasize diversity, equity, and inclusion, or are we going to emphasize something else?”

Through their own inspiration, they came up with what was a perfect solution. The front of the T-shirt said, “We Are One.” Unity. On the back it said, “Love One Another.” Those two ideas are connected and are a great example of people, including students, receiving inspiration and following gospel principles here on campus.

The teacher nurses a knife wound in her back. Gladys Saiah is not much older than her students. She and her sister were running an errand for their mother in an unfamiliar part of town when she was attacked and stabbed by a group of men. Gladys and her sister were fortunate; they were allowed to leave without further injury.
“As my sister and I began walking home,” she says, “I told Ellen we must first thank Heavenly Father for sparing our lives. We did, and then, arising from our knees, I asked Ellen, ‘Now will you please clean my back?’”
Though life in Soweto can sometimes be dangerous, the dangers are pushed into the background once the opening hymn and prayer start seminary. Class begins with scripture mastery, and each student recites a scripture word for word.
“And the Lord called his people Zion, because they were of one heart and one mind, and dwelt in righteousness; and there was no poor among them” (Moses 7:18).
“But the Lord said unto Samuel, Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused him: for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Sam. 16:7).
Soweto seminary students know the Lord helps them through the scriptures. Lucky Ndhiela knows his faith spared him a severe beating.
“One day our school teacher was very angry with our class,” says Lucky. “He said he had explained a science principle to us, and the other students said he had not. A still, small voice whispered in my ear, ‘You know it, Lucky—the teacher did teach us that.’
“So I raised my hand and said in front of the whole class, ‘You did teach us that.’ I felt so happy to say it.
“But the whole class shouted, ‘He did NOT!’ The teacher became very angry and started hitting them all, one by one. I sat near the back of the class, and while he was busy punishing the students in front, I bowed my head and began to pray.
“I remembered my scripture mastery, Proverbs 3:5–6 [Prov. 3:5–6], and said to myself, ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
“When the teacher came to my desk, his voice changed. His face changed. He said, ‘Lucky is praying to his God. I forgive him.’ He did not punish me, nor any others that day. That is how I know it is important to apply the scriptures in my life. My prayer was answered!”
Studying the Old Testament together had great impact on Soweto’s seminary students. Scenes like this one, described by a teacher, Leadh Vilakazi, are not uncommon:
“When we got to the story of Moses, everyone wanted to know everything concerning him. It was a wonderful feeling, as if Moses were among us.
“But the sad moment started when Moses was told he would not be allowed to enter the promised land, after all he had been through, and the faithful heart he had, and his hard work in leading the Israelites.
“‘Oh, what a painful and upsetting thing,’ my students grieved to me. And it was even a greater blow when the scriptures said Moses died. Everyone’s heart was moved, as if Moses had departed from us, and it was silent for a moment.
“When I looked at the students’ faces, tears were about to fall. Some of them looked down—they could not look at me. I heard one of the students say, ‘We now know that we had such a wonderful leader.’
“Another said, ‘Why don’t we sing “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” ?’
“Then came another voice. ‘Oh, yes—just to thank our Heavenly Father for our beloved prophet for the last time.’ And so we sang, with our tears.”
Seminary student Girly Mbuli explains how her faith and love of the scriptures saved her from a terrible situation.
“One day my friend Tiny Gugu and I had to go to Zondi to take some books to another girl. On our way back we saw a gang of boys. Gangs here rape girls, steal cars, do everything horrible. We started to run, but it was too late.
“The boys faced us. They had weapons. They made us go up on a hill and meant to do awful things to us. On the way up the hill, I was saying a prayer to my Heavenly Father. I don’t remember which scriptures I tried to say, but I kept thinking of them. I asked for help to be calm and not afraid. I felt peace come into my heart.
“When you are on top of that hill, you can see everything. The boys looked down and asked where I was staying. I pointed to Jabulane, and something told me to say I was staying with my grandmother and my friend Lindiwe.
“The leader looked at me and said, ‘You are not afraid. Let them go!’ I later found out that the brother of my friend Lindiwe is the boss of this gang, and he stays in the house of my grandmother. That is why they let us go free.
“When I tell this story to people, they refuse to believe we survived. But I did, and I know why. It was because of my faith in Heavenly Father. I know that Isaiah 1:18 [Isa. 1:18] can be true for those guilty gang boys, if they will repent: ‘Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.’”
Many people would be amazed at Girly’s charitable attitude. They would view Soweto as a terrible place. But Soweto is where these seminary students have received the gospel of Jesus Christ. Through study, prayer, and faith, they have found hope, confidence, courage, and love.
“I want to tell everyone not to forget their Heavenly Father, wherever you are,” says Girly. “He won’t forget you. He didn’t forget me.”