Gospel Story Finder

One quorum leader says he’s almost never been turned down when he uses that approach. “First, I make sure that I talk to both the husband and wife,” he says. “If both aren’t there, I don’t even bring it up, but tell the one who’s home that I’ll visit again later.

“Second, I avoid giving them an easy way to say no. I once visited a man who had requested no home teachers. I asked him if home teachers could come by each week to teach his family. Before I was even finished with my sentence, I could tell he was going to say no. So I didn’t ask for an answer. I just said, ‘Why don’t you think this over, and I’ll be back next week.’

“The next week when I returned—I think he was surprised to see me. I told him a little bit about the first lesson. But again I could tell he was going to turn me down. So I didn’t give him a chance. I told him to think about it some more, and I’d be back a week later.

“The next week the same thing happened. I was beginning to think I’d never make any progress. But the following week he didn’t wait for me to come. He called me!

“After we started teaching him, his wife came up to me with tears in her eyes. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever seen Mac interested in the Church,’ she said.”

Grandmother also composed poems and hymns and was a great example of obedience to the law of tithing. She grew flowers and sold them at market, and from the proceeds kept the Lord’s portion in a little plastic purse. She was deeply spiritual and taught the gospel to all of her family. Once when my father resisted her, she told him that one day he would bear his testimony from the pulpit.

“That’s something you’ll never see,” he replied. But eventually both he and my mother, as well as we children, served full-time missions in different parts of the world, including El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Uruguay, and Spain.

Many years ago my father built a small cabin on part of the ranch property where he had been raised. The vistas across the meadows were exceptional. When the walls were framed in for the cabin, I made a visit. I was surprised that the window with the view focused directly on a power pole that was a short distance from the house. To me, it was a huge distraction from the magnificent view.
I said, “Dad, why did you let them put the power pole directly in front of your view from the window?”
My father, an exceptionally practical and calm man, exclaimed with some emotion, “Quentin, that power pole is the most beautiful thing to me on the entire ranch!” He then made his case: “When I look at that pole, I realize that, unlike when I grew up here, I will not have to carry water in containers from the spring up to the house to cook, wash my hands, or bathe. I will not have to light candles or oil lamps at night to read. I want to see that power pole right in the middle of the view window.”
My father had a different perspective on the power pole than I did. To him that pole represented an improved life, but to me it was a stumbling block to a magnificent vista. My dad valued power, light, and cleanliness above an aesthetic view. I immediately realized that while the pole was a stumbling block for me, it had great practical, symbolic meaning to my father.
My father saw the pole as a means of providing power, light, and abundant water for cooking and cleansing. It was a stepping-stone to improving his life.

I saw again the power of keeping covenants through a chance conversation with a man I sat down next to on a trip. I had never met him before, but apparently he had seen me in the crowd because his first words after I introduced myself were, “I’ve been watching you.” He told me about his work. I told him about mine. He asked about my family, and then he told me something about his. He said that his wife was a member of the Church and that he was not.

After he came to trust me, he said something like this: “You know, there is something in your church you should fix. You need to tell your people when to quit.” He explained that he and his wife had been married for 25 years. She had been a member of the Church since childhood. In their years of marriage she had only once stepped into a building of the Church, and that was to tour a temple before its dedication, and then only because her parents had arranged it.

Then he told me why he thought we ought to make a change. He said that in those 25 years of married life, in which his wife showed no interest in the Church, visiting teachers and home teachers had never stopped coming to their home. He told of one evening when he went out to walk his dog alone only to find the home teacher happening by with his dog, eager to visit with him.

He told, with a touch of exasperation, of another night when he came home from a long business trip, put his car in the garage, and then came out to find his home teachers standing there, smiling. He said to me something like, “And there they were, right in my face with another plate of cookies.”

I think I understood his feelings. And then I tried, as best I could, to tell him how hard it would be to teach such teachers to quit. I told him that the love that he had felt from those many visitors and their constancy over the years in the face of little response came from a covenant they had made with God. I told him about the baptismal covenant as Alma described it in the Book of Mormon. I didn’t quote these words, but you will remember them as Alma asked those he had taught whether they wished to be baptized:

“And it came to pass that he said unto them: Behold, here are the waters of Mormon (for thus were they called) and now, as ye are desirous to come into the fold of God, and to be called his people, and are willing to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light;

“Yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in, even until death, that ye may be redeemed of God, and be numbered with those of the first resurrection, that ye may have eternal life” (Mosiah 18:8–9).

Those home teachers and visiting teachers understood and believed that the covenant to be witnesses and to love were intertwined and that they reinforced each other. There is no other way to explain what had happened. My new friend recognized that the visitors had genuine concern for him and for his wife. And he knew their caring sprang from a belief that impelled them to come back. He seemed, at least to me, to understand that those visitors were driven from within by a covenant they would not break. As we parted I think he knew why he could expect that there would be more visits, more evidence of caring, and more patient waiting for the opportunity to bear testimony of the restored gospel. As we parted, I realized that I had learned something too. I will never again see home teaching or visiting teaching as only programs of the Church. Those faithful teachers saw what they were doing for what it really was. Such work is an opportunity, not a burden. Every member has made the covenant in the waters of baptism to be a witness for God. Every member has made a covenant to do works of kindness as the Savior would do. So any call to bear witness and to care for others is not a request for extra service; it is a blessing designed by a loving Heavenly Father and His Son Jesus Christ. They have provided such calls as well as other settings, sometimes without a formal call, all for the same purpose. Each is a chance to prove what blessings flow from being a covenant people, and each is an opportunity for which you agreed to be accountable. Each is a sacred responsibility for others accepted in the waters of baptism but too often not met because it may not be recognized for what it is.

For Christmas one year, Russell’s parents gave him a shiny black bike. When Russell was 10, his dad asked him to come work as his errand boy. He would send Russell on his bike to deliver and pick up things all over town. Russell met lots of new and interesting people. He was excited to help!
Later Russell used the money he earned from his job as an errand boy to buy his mom a present on his birthday! He wrote her a note that said, “Thanks for having me!”

To illustrate my point, I would like to go back in thought to my native Holland where six generations of my father’s ancestors lived in the little village of Scheveningen at the seashore. They were fishermen or had other related vocations, like fishing-boat builders, sailmakers, or fishing-net repairmen. Many of them were also involved in the voluntary but hazardous task of lifesaving. They were stouthearted, experienced men who always were ready to man the rowing lifeboats to go on a rescue mission. With every westerly gale that blew, some fishing boats ran into difficulties, and many times the sailors had to cling to the rigging of their stricken ships in a desperate fight to escape inevitable drowning. Year after year the sea claimed its victims.

On one occasion during a severe storm, a ship was in distress, and a rowboat went out to rescue the crew of the fishing boat. The waves were enormous, and each of the men at the oars had to give all his strength and energy to reach the unfortunate sailors in the grim darkness of the night and the heavy rainstorm.

The trip to the wrecked ship was successful, but the rowboat was too small to take the whole crew in one rescue operation. One man had to stay behind on board because there simply was no room for him; the risk that the rescue boat would capsize was too great. When the rescuers made it back to the beach, hundreds of people were waiting for them with torches to guide them in the dreary night. But the same crew could not make the second trip because they were exhausted from their fight with the stormwinds, the waves, and the sweeping rains.

So the local captain of the coast guard asked for volunteers to make a second trip. Among those who stepped forward without hesitation was a nineteen-year-old youth by the name of Hans. With his mother he had come to the beach in his oilskin clothes to watch the rescue operation.

When Hans stepped forward his mother panicked and said, “Hans, please don’t go. Your father died at sea when you were four years old and your older brother Pete has been reported missing at sea for more than three months now. You are the only son left to me!”

But Hans said, “Mom, I feel I have to do it. It is my duty.” And the mother wept and restlessly started pacing the beach when Hans boarded the rowing boat, took the oars, and disappeared into the night.

After a struggle with the high-going seas that lasted for more than an hour (and to Hans’s mother it seemed an eternity), the rowboat came into sight again. When the rescuers had approached the beach close enough so that the captain of the coast guard could reach them by shouting, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called vigorously against the storm, “Did you save him?”

And then the people lighting the sea with their torches saw Hans rise from his rowing bench, and he shouted with all his might, “Yes! And tell Mother it is my brother Pete!”

What a choice Heidi Heistø had to make! Should she become a doctor or a professional musician? Both paths were open to her. Both were wonderful ways to serve her country and her fellowmen. Both were traditions in her family. Both seemed attainable. She has the talent in both areas.
So Heidi didn’t choose. She decided to pursue both. She had completed her high school years with a fine academic standing and was accepted into three medical schools and auditioned and was accepted into music conservatory. Soon she was spending every minute either at school or studying or practicing. After two quarters of this killer pace, she was tired and confused. She felt she was not giving either school her best. When she asked friends and relatives what she should do, the answers were of little help. Some said, “Oh, if you have the possibility of going to medical school, you must do that.” Others said, “Oh, you are so talented in music. Of course, you must do that.” Heidi was very confused.
Heidi had been taught by her mother, Karin, and her grandmother how to search out the guides in her life. She had learned in church that she had an eternal friend who will always listen. She turned to Heavenly Father in prayer. She also asked for and received a blessing from her home teacher. The blessing said that she had her agency and that she should pray about her decision. As she prayed, her answer became more clear. She should devote herself to music. Her fears about not being skilled enough lessened.
She turned to her patriarchal blessing, which encourages her to develop her musical talent. She had started with the violin at age seven even though she had been begging to start much earlier. Then her instructor suggested she change to the viola because the warm, somber tones of that instrument complimented her technique and temperament. And Heidi found she preferred the beautiful tone. Now she has chosen her course and is devoting her schooling to music.

SALEM, Ore.—It was a summer full of good deeds for Boy Scout Spencer Oberan. As he was working on his Eagle project in a park, he spotted a house on fire and put out the flames.
Spencer, of the Salem Oregon Stake, was installing park benches and painting fences with his dad, Steve, and his cousin, Beau Manutai, of the Rialto California Stake, when they noticed smoke rising from the roof of a home.
Spencer’s dad called 911 while the two boys raced to warn the homeowner. The boys then used garden hoses to put out the fire.
“We looked at each other and started to laugh because we couldn’t believe we were putting out a fire together. We were so excited to be helping someone,” said Spencer. “Scouts had definitely taught us to be prepared, think ahead, and work together.”

Deciding to Be Baptized
Kerry Johnson, 16, Farragut Ward
I remember when I was deciding whether or not to be baptized. One day, I got up really early. It was a Saturday. I went out into this field we lived by. The sun was just coming up. I was lying down, really praying a lot about if the Church was true or not. I lay there awhile just thinking. I didn’t know whether to ask for a sign or what, but I started getting a good feeling. When I opened my eyes, all these little butterflies were flying up from the grass. It seemed to fit how I felt. I knew in that moment that the Church was true.

Before the trip, Spencer asked the missionaries for 10 copies of the Book of Mormon and some pass-along cards to hand out. We gave them to people like hotel employees and tollbooth attendants. Once Kylie got to take a Book of Mormon to the clerk at a gas station. He said he already had a Bible, so Kylie explained why the Book of Mormon is special. He said he would try to read it! Kylie says, “I loved traveling with my family, visiting relatives, seeing God’s beautiful creations, and being a missionary too!”

Courage counts. This truth came to me in a most vivid and dramatic manner many years ago. I was serving as a bishop at the time. The general session of our stake conference was being held in the Assembly Hall on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. Our stake presidency was to be reorganized. The Aaronic Priesthood, including members of bishoprics, were providing the music for the conference. As we concluded singing our first selection, President Joseph Fielding Smith, our conference visitor, stepped to the pulpit and read for sustaining approval the names of the new stake presidency. He then mentioned that Percy Fetzer, who became our new stake president, and John Burt, who became the first counselor—each of whom had been counselors in the previous presidency—had been made aware of their new callings before the conference began. However, he indicated that I, who had been called to be second counselor in the new presidency, had no previous knowledge of the calling and was hearing of it for the first time as my name was read for sustaining vote. He then announced, “If Brother Monson is willing to respond to this call, we will be pleased to hear from him now.”
As I stood at the pulpit and gazed out on that sea of faces, I remembered the song we had just sung. It pertained to the Word of Wisdom and was titled “Have Courage, My Boy, to Say No.” That day I selected as my acceptance theme “Have Courage, My Boy, to Say Yes.” The call for courage comes constantly to each of us—the courage to stand firm for our convictions, the courage to fulfill our responsibilities, the courage to honor our priesthood.

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Youth Dance
Come have some fun at the dance this Saturday! Remember, no saying no—always say yes when someone asks you to dance!
I’m excited for the dance, but For the Strength of Youth says that agency is the ability to choose and act for yourself. What if I just don’t feel like dancing with someone? Don’t I get to choose whether to say yes or no?
You should always be kind, but I think it’s your right to choose. Let’s talk to the leaders about this rule.
Thanks for letting us know how you feel. You’re right. It’s your choice. We understand not everyone will always feel comfortable dancing, but they still want to come.
Hey, will you dance with me?
Thanks, but I just don’t feel like dancing right now.
Oh, OK.
I’m not trying that again!
What about her?
Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask!
“Heavenly Father has given you agency, the ability to … act for yourself.”
For the Strength of Youth (2011), 2.

“Did you see how that new kid skates?” Alex whispered to me as we sat on the players’ bench. “He crashed into the boards twice because he couldn’t stop fast enough.”
“Just our luck,” I agreed. Our hockey team has players from lots of different schools every year. “Look at the new guy on the Fliers,” I told Alex. “He zips around the ice like his skates are jet-propelled—and we get Sam. Sam trips over his own hockey stick.”
“No wonder we’re getting slaughtered again,” Alex sighed, glancing up at the scoreboard. Its red light said, “PENGUINS 1, FLIERS 7.”
The clock buzzed, and the coach signaled Alex and me to replace Sam and Joe as they came off the ice to rest.
The Penguins skated hard, but we just couldn’t score. The one time we managed to pass the puck into Flier territory, the Fliers’ new guy intercepted it. Stickhandling it down the ice, he sent the puck flying into the net under our goalie’s outstretched leg.
When the clock finally buzzed the end of the game, the Fliers had racked up ten goals. We Penguins still had only one.
“We’ll get them next time,” Sam said as the team headed to the locker room.
“Sure, Sam,” grumbled Chris, our star right wingman. “Are you going to shut down their new guy? First, you have to learn how to stop when you’re skating.”
“Guess so.” Sam shrugged his shoulders.
I felt a little sorry for him, but Chris was right. Sam didn’t seem to know what he was doing on the ice.
The locker room cleared out without much more conversation. When I zipped up my duffel bag, I noticed that Sam was still sitting on a bench with all of his equipment on. Maybe he wanted to hang around, but I couldn’t wait to forget about that game.
The next day, we had practice after supper. When I stepped onto the ice, Sam was already there. His face looked sweaty, and he was breathing hard.
“Did you figure out how to stop yet?” Chris asked him, zipping around the ice.
“I will,” Sam said, ignoring the jab. I had to admit to myself, at least, that Sam didn’t let anyone beat him down. He just kept racing down the ice and practicing his stops until his jersey was soaked from falling on the wet rink.
“Sam must be a little crazy,” Alex said as we leaned against the boards to catch our breath after a drill. “He’s wiping up the ice every time he tries to turn or stop. Doesn’t he know when to quit?”
“He does seem a little clumsy,” I agreed.
“A little! A clown with floppy shoes could do better.”
Ftweet! Coach blew his whistle, and we started a scrimmage. I was glad that Sam had been put on the other team. Who could win with him falling all over the ice?
All week I kept expecting Sam to quit. “How much fun could it be for him?” I asked Alex. “He constantly crashes into the boards, and everyone razzes him.”
“He doesn’t look like he’s ready to give up yet,” Alex answered. “He’s always already on the ice, practicing, when I come, and he’s the last guy off afterward.”
That Saturday we played the Rockets. For the first two periods, we actually kept a one goal lead. Then our team fell apart. Chris got a penalty, and we were shorthanded. The Rockets took advantage of their power play. Their left wingman hooked the puck away from Sam and sent it skittering down the ice. Two seconds later, the puck went flying into the corner of the net. The scoreboard glowed with the tie score.
The Rockets won the face-off. Their team passed the puck down the rink again. It ricocheted off the boards and went right through Sam’s legs. A moment later, the Rockets’ right wingman slapped the puck hard into our net. The Penguins lost by one goal.
“We’ll never win,” Chris complained as we headed to the locker room. “Not if we let the puck slip through our legs.”
I figured that Chris had made a few mistakes, too—like landing in the penalty box—but I said nothing. I didn’t want him picking apart my game next. As usual, Sam sat on a bench with his equipment on while everyone else changed and cleared out. I waved good-bye to him. He looked exhausted.
The team didn’t have much spirit left when we showed up for practice on Monday. We’d lost five games in a row, and everyone felt discouraged. Everyone, that is, except Sam. He was out on the ice practicing. I was still on the players’ bench when it happened. Sam actually flew down the ice and stopped on a dime.
“Hey, Sam,” yelled Alex, “way to go!”
Sam grinned and raced down the ice, sending a shower of ice flakes flying as he stopped again.
“I’m seeing a miracle,” Chris shouted.
Sam laughed “Here’s another one!” He raced down the rink and stopped right in front of Chris.
One by one, the whole team started to watch Sam. We all knew how hard he’d worked, and we felt happy for him. Suddenly Sam slipped and went sliding into the boards—but he didn’t jump back up.
“Sam’s hurt,” I said, and the rest of us hurried down the rink.
“Are you OK?” Chris bent over Sam and brushed the snow off his legs. All at once, Chris’s hand froze in midair.
“I just had the wind knocked out of me,” Sam told him.
“There’s something on your leg,” Chris finally said. “I felt it.”
Sam put his head down and took a deep breath. Then he looked at the circle of faces around him. “I didn’t want anyone to find out, because I don’t want you treating me special. I was born with a bad leg, and I have to wear a brace. But I can manage just fine. Now that I’ve finally impressed you with my stops, I have to work on my turns.”
No one said a word as Sam got up and skated down the rink. “Come on,” he hollered. “Coach is here.”
That day something happened to our team. We started practicing harder than ever before. We figured if Sam could learn to stop, we could all push ourselves a lot more, too. Sam had shown us that a fighting spirit and extra effort could accomplish amazing things.
During the next game, our team scored five goals and tied the Minnows. Sam still fell down every time he tried turning fast, but the whole team was improving.
“We’ll get them next time,” Sam said as we headed into the locker room.
This time Chris looked at Sam and grinned. “Yeah,” he agreed. “We just might.”

In October 2024, Eliza was diagnosed with Stage 3 Parapharyngeal Synovial Sarcoma—an extremely rare and aggressive cancer. Her diagnosis was a miracle in itself, confirmed only after two nearly impossible biopsy operations. Surgery wasn’t an option due to the tumor’s location, leaving chemotherapy and radiation as her only treatments. Despite completing seven cycles of high- dose chemotherapy and 36 radiation sessions, the cancer progressed to her bones and eventually her brain. She underwent 10 more rounds of radiation under palliative care. Through it all, Eliza showed remarkable courage and unwavering faith, facing even her final days with peace and trust in the Savior.
Eliza’s faith was nurtured in many ways. She loved Strive to Be music, which helped her feel close to the Savior. She looked forward to temple visits and attended church meetings whenever possible. Her time at FSY 2025 strengthened her testimony and deepened her love for the Savior. She bore her testimony from the pulpit—not from a wheelchair—during Testimony Sundays. Even when hospitalized and unable to see or move, she sent a voice recording to her bishop. Her patriarchal blessing reminded her of her divine identity and gave her peace, even in moments of great pain. In her final weeks, she stayed awake to be fully present with us, showing love and courage without relying on heavy medication.
On June 18, 2025, Eliza returned to our Heavenly Father. That day shattered our hearts, but amid the grief, the Spirit whispered that her earthly mission was complete—and that our story with her was far from over.

Sweat trickled down Randy’s back as he lugged the heavy wire cage onto the grass. “Boy, it’s hot for March, Honeybun, even for Georgia,” he said to the black-and-white rabbit. “You’ll be comfortable in the shade of this apricot tree, though, and you can munch some nice fresh grass while I’m at soccer practice.” Randy brought the hose and filled Honeybun’s dish with water.
“Isn’t that Jim’s rabbit?” Dad asked as he walked by pushing the lawn mower.
“Yes. I’m pet-sitting while he’s away this weekend. Honeybun’s going to win a blue ribbon for Jim at the county 4-H contest this summer,” Randy said. He petted the rabbit gently, stroking the soft fur on her flanks and lightly tickling her ears. She was happily chewing the long grass poking through the bottom of the cage as Randy left for soccer practice.
After practice, Randy went home with a friend and stayed until late in the afternoon. When he returned home, Dad was waiting for him in the front yard. “I just moved Jim’s rabbit back into the shade, Randy,” he said. “The sun had traveled to that side of the apricot tree long ago, and I’m afraid his rabbit was in the sun too long. She doesn’t look good.”
Randy ran to the backyard and crouched by the cage. Honeybun was lying on her side, panting. She stared at Randy listlessly. Every few minutes she struggled to get up, only to fall over again.
“Come on, Honeybun! Get up, girl!” Randy urged. He got some water from the hose and sprinkled the trembling form. Honeybun shuddered and lay still, barely breathing. “Oh, no,” Randy groaned.
Dad squatted down by the cage and shook his head.
Randy went into the house and lay on his bed. What if Honeybun died? How could he ever explain to Jim what had happened? He stared at the ceiling for a long time; tears began to slide down his cheeks.
Dad came to the door of Randy’s room. “I’m afraid that the rabbit’s dead, Son,” he said quietly. He put his arm around Randy’s shoulder, and together they went outside and buried Honeybun in the freshly plowed earth of the vegetable patch.
“Dad, would you tell Jim for me?” Randy asked. “I don’t think that I can do it.”
“You took the job, Randy. You’ll have to tell him.”
“Please, Dad,” Randy begged. “I just can’t face him. What if he’s mad? Maybe he won’t be my friend anymore.”
“It’s never easy to give someone bad news, Son, especially if it was your fault. But I think you need to tell Jim yourself.”
Randy turned away and got his bike and wheeled slowly out of the yard. He wanted to get away from everything, as far away as possible. As he rode, the breeze brushed back the hair on his forehead and dried the sweat on his neck. But it couldn’t blow away the terrible lump in his throat.
Randy slowed down as he passed the ice-cream store on Main Street. He dug into his pockets, but they were empty. Next door he saw Alec’s Pet Shop. Usually she had birds or kittens in the window. Randy’s eyes almost popped when he saw the new display. Several fat, sleek, black-and-white rabbits frolicked on artificial turf! A sign read: “Dutch Rabbits—$8.00.”
Randy began thinking, What if … ? Rabbits are rabbits, aren’t they? They don’t come when you call their name, or sleep on the end of your bed. Jim probably couldn’t tell the difference, and he could still win a blue ribbon.
Randy raced home and counted the money in his savings bank. There was the five-dollar bill that Grandma had given him for his last birthday, some quarters from his allowance, and a bunch of dimes, nickels, pennies. Altogether he had $9.49. Randy stuffed the money into his pocket and practically flew downtown on his bike. He felt sure that his troubles would soon be over.
“I’d like to see that big rabbit, the one over in the corner,” he told the shopkeeper. “Is it a male or a female?”
“That’s the only female,” he answered. “She’s a beauty.”
Randy tried to cuddle the rabbit, but quickly dropped it. “Ouch!” he cried. “This rabbit scratches!” The rabbit scooted across the floor and squeezed close to the wall. Randy took some pellets from an open bin and held out his hand. “Come here, Honeybun,” he called hopefully. The rabbit scrunched even closer to the wall and pressed her ears tightly against her body.
“She’s not very tame, is she?” Randy said aloud, thinking, She’s not at all like Jim’s Honeybun, who loved to eat from his hand and sit quietly in his arms to be stroked.
Randy and the shopkeeper finally cornered the big rabbit and got her back into the pen.
“Do you want to buy her?” the shopkeeper asked.
Sadly Randy shook his head. He knew that his wonderful idea wouldn’t work. This rabbit couldn’t replace Honeybun. He knew what he’d have to do. Telling Jim would be hard, maybe the hardest thing that he’d ever done, but it was the only thing to do. And he would offer the money to his friend so that Jim could decide whether or not to replace Honeybun. Randy climbed onto his bike and started home.

My friend and I were playing at the park. I climbed a tree, but my friend couldn’t climb up. When I tried to get down, I couldn’t, and it was too far to jump. My friend said that we should say a prayer so that someone would come help us. First I prayed, and then my friend prayed. A few minutes later my dad showed up at the park and helped me down from the tree. I told my mom and dad what happened, and each of them told me that they had a feeling they should check on me to see if I was OK. I know that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers.Nicholas M., age 7, Utah

Exactly 20 years ago last fall I stood on the famous white cliffs of Dover overlooking the English Channel, the very channel which 20 years before that ran as the only barrier between Hitler and England’s fall. In 1962 my mission was concluding, and I was concerned. My future seemed very dim and difficult. My parents were then serving a mission also, which meant I was going home to live I-did-not-quite-know-where and to pay my way I-did-not-quite-know-how. I had completed only one year of college, and I had no idea what to major in or where to seek my career. I knew I needed three more years for a baccalaureate degree and had the vague awareness that graduate school of some kind inevitably loomed up behind that.
I knew tuitions were high and jobs were scarce. And I knew there was an alarmingly wider war spreading in Southeast Asia, which could require my military service. I hoped to marry but wondered when—or if—that could be, at least under all these circumstances. My educational hopes seemed like a never-ending path into the unknown, and I had hardly begun.
So before heading home I stood one last time on the cliffs of the country I had come to love so much.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, …
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war.
(William Shakespeare, Richard II, act 2, sc. 1, lines 40, 43–44)
And there I read again,
“We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. … What is our aim? … Victory—victory at all costs; victory in spite of all terror; victory, however long and hard the road may be. …
“Conquer we must; as conquer we shall. … We shall never surrender.”
Blood? Toil? Tears? Sweat? Well, I figured I had as much of these as anyone, so I headed home to try. I was, in the parlance of the day, determined to give it “my best shot,” however feeble that might prove to be. I ask you to do the same.

I find the New Era very helpful in my daily life. No matter what is going on, I can turn to the New Era for help. I really enjoyed “Somebody Had It Harder” in the November 2003 issue. I can relate to the author, Elder Preston. I am a new missionary. I entered the mission field unsure of what I was doing here. Then one night, while studying, I learned that the Lord knows why I am here. I know He put me in Nebraska at this time, and I will do His work.Elder Brian Bodell, Nebraska Omaha Mission

Quite recently I was privileged to observe this process in the life of a brother named Stan, who had been less active for some 45 years. He had lived a good life and supported both his wife and son in their activity as faithful members in the Church. Yet for personal reasons he chose to remain outside the fellowship of the Church. Even so, each month he welcomed the home teachers.
During February 2006, Stan received new home teachers. Their first visit was pleasant enough, although Stan showed no real interest in the gospel or in any matters remotely associated with spiritual things. Their next visit did little to alter their initial observations, even though Stan was a little warmer and friendlier. On their third visit, however, there was a visible change in Stan’s countenance and demeanor. To their utmost surprise and even before they were able to present their message, Stan interrupted them with a number of thoughtful questions. In the ensuing discussion he also recounted his experiences during the past month, in which he and his wife had commenced reading one chapter a day from the Book of Mormon.
Elder Bruce R. McConkie eloquently described the type of reawakening Stan experienced: “Here is a man who gains a copy of this blessed book, begins to read it, and continues … until, having read it all, his famished soul is filled with the bread of life. He cannot lay it aside or ignore its teachings. It is as though the waters of life are flowing into the barren deserts of his soul, quenching the arid, empty feeling that theretofore separated him from his God.”
The home teachers were reminded of the remarkable power of the Book of Mormon and how very real the influence of the Spirit of the Lord is when we turn to its sacred pages. They also more fully understood the Prophet Joseph Smith’s declaration “that the Book of Mormon [is] the most correct of any book on earth, … and a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book.”
Stan’s thirst for learning and rediscovery of the restored gospel soon expanded his reading beyond one chapter a day, accompanied by deep soul-searching and fervent prayer. To those who sometimes are concerned whether the Lord will actually hear their prayers, the Savior reminds us:
“If a son shall ask bread of any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone? or if he ask a fish, will he for a fish give him a serpent? …
“If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your heavenly Father give good gifts, through the Holy Spirit, to them that ask him?”
Our beloved prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, also counseled: “You can’t do it alone. … You need the help of the Lord … and the marvelous thing is that you have the opportunity to pray, with the expectation that your prayers will be heard and answered. … He stands ready to help.”
During August of 2006, Stan ventured alongside his ever-faithful wife into his ward sacrament meeting—his first in 45 years. There, with a humble and prayerful heart, he listened to the simple sacramental prayers offered by the youthful priests. Feeling unworthy and sensing something of the depth and the meaning of this most holy ordinance, he reflected deeply and painfully without partaking of the bread or the water for a number of weeks.
President Joseph Fielding Smith, in a tender testimony many years ago, said: “In my judgment the sacrament meeting is the most sacred, the most holy, of all the meetings of the Church. When I reflect upon the gathering of the Savior and his apostles on that memorable night when he introduced the sacrament … my heart is filled with wonderment and my feelings are touched. I consider that gathering one of the most solemn and wonderful since the beginning of time.”
Stan continued studying, praying, attending church, and receiving appropriate counsel and encouragement from his home teachers. Then the day arrived when, joyfully, he felt he was ready to put forth his hand to partake of the precious sacrament. When we partake worthily, thoughtfully, and reverently of the holy sacrament, we are enabled to become “partakers of the divine nature” because of the Atonement of Christ and the power of the Holy Ghost.
As Stan returned to activity in the Church, he received a calling and, some months later, was ordained an elder. In July 2007, Stan and his wife knelt across the altar in a house of the Lord and, by the authority and eternal law of God, were married for time and for all eternity.
Brothers and sisters, may we discover anew the divine power of daily prayer and the convincing influence of the Book of Mormon and the holy scriptures. On Sundays, when partaking of the sacrament, may we do so in the spirit of true devotion to Him who is the giver of all things.
In the wake of our best and very limited efforts and because of the Lord’s infinite goodness, “great things [are] brought to pass” by the “small and simple things.”
Finally, as to these sacred things, may I add my personal witness and assurance in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

A sister in Sandy, Utah, tells of a time her son, his wife, and their two-year-old daughter stayed in her home. “Every evening before their little girl’s bedtime,” she recalls, “all three would disappear into their bedroom. One evening during their absence, they received a phone call. I went to their room and quietly opened the door. There on the bed were the three of them, each with a Book of Mormon. Mom and Dad would take turns reading and then talking to their two-year-old about what they had just read. The warm, sweet spirit that filled the room is difficult to put into words. By their example as parents, they were teaching their little daughter to feast on the words of Christ. I quietly closed the door and thanked my Heavenly Father for allowing me to have a peek at a bit of heaven on earth.”