Gospel Story Finder

It all started in 1988 when three young women from the Jacana Ward in Sao Paulo, Brazil, felt a strong desire to visit the elderly ladies who live in a nursing home near the chapel.
The initial idea turned into a continuous service project called “Adopt a Grandma” and other young women from the ward soon began to participate. Later on, more young people from two other wards were also involved. Now, there are nonmembers who help with the project.
These youth have learned what it means to have the pure love of Christ. The elderly women in the rest home have different backgrounds and histories. Some don’t even know their parents or when or where they were born.
One of these is Sebastiana Maria Catarina de Jesus; a talkative, cheerful lady who appears quite small in her wheelchair. She does not know her age, and has no relatives nor visitors. She has become a different woman since these loving and giving young people began visiting her. Catarina now feels that she has a family. She loves to spend time with these youth who are her new family.
Flora Esperanca Galassi is seventy-nine years old and becomes emotional at the mention of her family. A surprise birthday party was given to Flora, who is touched as she remembers this precious day in her life. She embraces the young people warmly because they are everything she has in life.
Virginia Fernandes, who looks about seventy-five years old, also does not know when she was born. She walks around the nursing home with difficulty and does not hear very well, but her countenance reflects joy in being close to her newly made friends.
They speak words of support and are always willing to help the elderly ladies, whose simple needs are easily met: a towel to Catarina, clothing to Flora or a cake to Virginia. These young people know that they are attending to the needs of a part of the Good Shepherd’s flock. They freely give of their love, affection, and kindness, which is just as freely returned.

When I was preparing for a match the next day, I’d be tired enough so that I could usually get to sleep; but once I’d get to sleep, if I ever woke up, then my mind would start operating and I’d start mentally playing the match, and I just had no hope of further rest. In fact, many nights I’ve lain in bed before a big match and never slept. I figured I got my rest by just lying down. I’ve seen kids who were the same way. As I got older, I got a little bit better, but I was still excitable. I remember playing in the senior finals at Forest Hills. The fellow I was playing was the defending champ, and he was pretty smart. He won the toss but chose to receive, so I had to serve. When I threw the ball up, my hand was actually shaking so hard I couldn’t let go of the ball. Finally, somehow, I got control of myself and managed to play a pretty fair game.
Many times players lose points by getting what we call the “elbow,” the “steel elbow.” It’s really funny, because I don’t know whether you’re afraid to win or afraid to lose; but you get so scared you’re going to make a mistake that your elbow just won’t let you go. It happens to the greatest players; everybody gets it, to a degree, one time or another.

Following the renovation of the Mesa Arizona Temple some years ago, clergy of other religions were invited to tour it on the first day of the open house period. Hundreds responded. In speaking to them, I said we would be pleased to answer any queries they might have. Among these was one from a Protestant minister.
Said he: “I’ve been all through this building, this temple which carries on its face the name of Jesus Christ, but nowhere have I seen any representation of the cross, the symbol of Christianity. I have noted your buildings elsewhere and likewise find an absence of the cross. Why is this when you say you believe in Jesus Christ?”
I responded: “I do not wish to give offense to any of my Christian colleagues who use the cross on the steeples of their cathedrals and at the altars of their chapels, who wear it on their vestments, and imprint it on their books and other literature. But for us, the cross is the symbol of the dying Christ, while our message is a declaration of the Living Christ.”
He then asked: “If you do not use the cross, what is the symbol of your religion?”
I replied that the lives of our people must become the most meaningful expression of our faith and, in fact, therefore, the symbol of our worship.
I hope he did not feel that I was smug or self-righteous in my response. Our position at first glance may seem a contradiction of our profession that Jesus Christ is the key figure of our faith. The official name of the Church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We worship Him as Lord and Savior. The Bible is our scripture. We believe that the prophets of the Old Testament who foretold the coming of the Messiah spoke under divine inspiration. We glory in the accounts of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John setting forth the events of the birth, ministry, death, and Resurrection of the Son of God, the Only Begotten of the Father in the flesh. Like Paul of old, we are “not ashamed of the gospel of [Jesus] Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation” (Rom. 1:16). And like Peter, we affirm that Jesus Christ is the only name “given among men, whereby we must be saved” (Acts 4:12).

This time I took the things of God more seriously. I even set a goal to investigate more churches. Before I would go to church, I would kneel down and ask Heavenly Father to give me more wisdom so that I would be able to choose good and reject evil.
I began to visit other churches in addition to the Christian church I attended, but I often felt confused by their different doctrines. The more confused I got, the more I prayed. It seemed that every time I visited a church, I felt something was missing, but I didn’t realize what it was. That’s why I set a goal to keep investigating other churches and not rest until I found the truth.
One day I was visiting my brother and sister-in-law, and it got dark before I left. I had quite a distance to walk to reach the bus stop. This was March 1992, and it was very cold with a strong wind. My baby was squirming as I carried him. I walked backwards many times so the wind would hit me and not my baby.
I became sad as I thought about how I was freezing, walking with my baby, while my ex-husband had our car. I started thinking about how cruel life had been to me and felt a great weight in my heart. I started to cry like a child. I looked around and saw I was alone, so I cried to God out loud, “Heavenly Father, help me find the light.”
Finally I arrived at the bus stop, and when the bus came I sat in the front seat as I always did. When I looked to my left, I saw two young men in white shirts and ties. One of them came up to me and said to me in Spanish that was quite limited, “You too speak Spanish?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
“You desire to receive the gospel of Jesus Christ?” he asked.
These words were wonderful to me. The gospel of Jesus Christ. I had investigated several churches, and in none of them had I heard this beautiful turn of phrase. I had always heard the word, the gospel, or the good news. So I very happily gave them my address and phone number.
I started taking the discussions from the missionaries, and in June 1992 I was baptized and confirmed. I will never forget that very special day. Before entering the waters of baptism I could feel a great weight, as if I were walking with feet of lead. But when I came out of the water, I felt like I was flying in the air. And when the missionaries placed their hands on my head and gave me the gift of the Holy Ghost, a warm feeling entered my body, and I was filled with a peace I had never felt before. The tears began to roll down my cheeks. To my surprise I realized I was crying not from pain or sadness but for the great joy and peace in my heart.
Some months after my baptism I was called to serve in the nursery and then as a Primary teacher. A year later I received my endowment. I also met a great man at church. In September 1994 we were sealed in the Toronto Canada Temple. Three years later we were blessed with a beautiful son.
I continue to serve in Church callings, and I share my testimony of the gospel with all my loved ones. I know that the gospel of Jesus Christ comes from the heavens in all its glory and that through this gospel we can be transformed if we are obedient to the Lord’s commandments.

It was the most exciting thing to happen that fall or any fall. “I just have to go, Mama,” Kate insisted. But Mama said no.
“Please, Mama. I’ve wanted to be a magician all my life, well, anyway, ever since I read that magic book Papa brought me.”
“I know, Kate,” Mama said. “I’m truly sorry and I wish it were possible, but Papa has to go into town to see the lawyer about the pastureland, and I have an appointment with the doctor. That leaves only you to stay with Sarah.”
Mama put her hand gently on her daughter’s head. “You know she can’t go outside until she’s better. You heard what the doctor said about keeping her from chilling.”
I heard him all right, Kate thought. It’s just that I hoped I could find a way to see the magic show.
Sarah coughed upstairs in the loft where she lay on a straw bed covered with warm quilts and a comforter. “Mama,” she called.
Mama said, “You go, will you please, Kate, and see what she wants? Papa’s waiting for me in the wagon.”
Kate went slowly up the ladder to the loft. She looked out the window and saw the wagon pulling away, raising a cloud of dust behind it. She felt her eyes sting when she thought of the magic show and all the excitement in town.
She could just see the bright red wagon with its bells and silver trim pulled by prancing white horses. There would probably be a silver awning over the driver, who would be the magician himself. He would be wearing a tall hat with gold tassels, very tight pants, and black shiny boots. And his long, expressive hands would be able to fool everyone who came to watch. Everyone except maybe Kate. She knew from reading her book how some of the tricks were done.
“What is it?” she asked Sarah impatiently.
“I …” Sarah began. Then suddenly she turned her face to the wall, but not before Kate saw the quick tears come into her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Kate apologized. She sat on the bed and took Sarah’s hot hands into hers. “I didn’t mean to be cross. Now what can I get for you? A piece of cloud? A chunk of the barn roof?”
“Kate,” Sarah said, trying to match her sister’s smile, “all I want is a drink of water.”
“I guess I can manage that,” Kate said. She went down the ladder and out to the well. As she brought the sloshing bucket up, Kate thought she heard someone behind her. She turned and was startled to see an elderly man standing there.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the stranger said. He had a long gray beard and wore a huge floppy hat that let long wisps of hair fly out behind. “I just wondered if you could spare some water for me and my horse over there.”
Kate turned to look where he was pointing. A tired horse and an old wagon stood at the edge of the clearing.
“He’s come up lame,” the man said.
“Here,” said Kate, “you can get a drink from this bucket and your horse can drink from the trough. Then we’ll take him into the barn where I can look at his hoof. I’m pretty good with horses.”
The old man unhitched the old horse and let it drink before leading it to a stall. Kate brought some medicine and bandages. Gently she talked to the horse while applying some ointment. Then she expertly wrapped the leg with white strips of cotton cloth. “He’ll be all right now,” she announced, “but you better let him rest a little while.”
“You’ve done a good job,” he said. “Never saw a horse doctor do better. I’ll just settle down here for a bit and keep him company.”
Kate left the old man in the barn and hurried into the house with the bucket. She explained the delay to Sarah and told her all about the man and the horse. Then she went down to fix dinner. While she was boiling potatoes, she imagined the silken scarves that the magician would draw out of his sleeves, the top hat with the rabbit suddenly appearing under it, the doves that would fly out of his coat and swoop around the tent.
She took a tray up to Sarah and then went to the barn and invited the old man up to the house for something to eat.
“I’d be grateful,” he said. “And look how much better my horse is.”
Kate led the way to the house. Later, when the old man had finished his meal, he patted the front of his vest and said, “That was a fine meal. I would like to pay you for it and also for treating my horse.”
“Oh, I don’t want pay,” Kate told him. “Mama says that we should do whatever we can to help people, and it will come back to us in some way. So don’t you worry about it.”
“There is something I can do if you’d like. I’m on my way to the next town to give a magic show. I’d never have made it without your help.”
“You mean you’re a—”
“I’m a magician, yes. How would you like to ride into town with me and see a free show?”
Kate thought for just one wonderful moment about riding into town high up on the wagon seat with the magician, waving and smiling at the crowd. But then she explained to him about Sarah.
“Ah, then,” he said, “I’ll just put on a show for you right here!”
He folded down the sides of the wagon and opened up the ends to display a stage full of interesting and exciting things—flags, bells, horns, metal tables with “invisible” tops, silk scarves, hats, balls, and balloons.
“Wait until I get back before you start,” Kate said, running to the house. She climbed the ladder and pulled and tugged Sarah’s bed over to the window. “Look out,” she said, “and watch the magic show. The man with the lame horse I told you about is the magician who was on his way to town!”
After she was sure Sarah was comfortable, Kate hurried back outside and onto the porch steps where she sat hugging her knees.
The magician had changed. He no longer looked like a tired old man. He was dressed in a red velvet jacket, a white top hat, and very tight breeches that tucked into shiny black boots. His hands were thin and dexterous, and he used them in ways that even Kate could not follow. He made things appear and disappear and fly and walk and multiply and divide and waver and float until her head was spinning.
And then, too soon, the show was over. The magician bowed, folded up the sides of his wagon, and went into the barn to change. When he came out leading his horse, the magician looked just the same as he did when Kate first saw him. “My horse is hardly limping now,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You’ve more than thanked me,” Kate answered. “I’ll remember your wonderful magic show all my life. I’m going to be a magician some day too.”
“If you really want to be one, you will, young lady,” the magician said encouragingly. And then, handing her a carved wooden box with a tiny gold clasp on the lid, he said, “Here, this will be your first magic prop.”
Inside was layer upon layer of beautiful silk scarves. They were in shades of palest pink to fiery red to deep purple.
“From me and my horse,” he said. “Take them and learn to use them. I know you can do it.”
“Oh, I will,” Kate promised. “And thank you ever so much.”
As the magician drove off down the road toward town, Kate thought of the excited people who would watch the show. Some were probably already sitting in the tent waiting for the famous magician. But she and Sarah had seen his show already!
Her feet hardly touching the rungs, Kate flew up the ladder to show the box of scarves to Sarah.

Sybil heaved a sigh of relief as she tucked her youngest brother between the clean homespun sheets and kissed him good night. As the oldest of eight children, she worked hard helping her mother care for the little ones. Usually she enjoyed getting them ready for bed, but tonight Sybil was bored. She paced back and forth before the open door of their home in Fredericksburg, New York.
“What’s the matter, Sybil?” her father asked, looking up from his work at his cluttered desk. “You seem restless.”
“I don’t know, Father,” she answered truthfully, “I just have a feeling … I want to do something—something important for a change.”
Her father smiled. “Spring fever,” he consoled her. “You’re a young girl, and you’re impatient. That’s understandable. And as for doing something important, why don’t you go help your mother with the mending?”
“I don’t want to do mending. I’m always doing mending. And besides, Father, I’m not a young girl. Mother was already married to you at fifteen, and I’m sixteen!”
Colonel Ludington smiled again sympathetically and turned back to his work. When Sybil was in one of her headstrong moods, it was hard for her to patiently do ordinary, but needed, tasks.
Suddenly they were both startled by the sound of pounding hooves in the cool spring night. Seconds later an exhausted messenger burst through the door, dripping with perspiration and barely able to stand. Sybil could see his lathered horse tethered outside.
“The British!” the man gasped. “They’re raiding Danbury! They’re burning the town and sacking our supply center. The Continentals can’t hold out. You’ve got to muster your militia, Colonel, and drive the British back!”
Colonel Ludington leaped to his feet. Rural New York was sparsely settled in 1777, and his volunteer militiamen were scattered in farms and villages over a wide area. Someone would have to rouse the men and tell them to meet at the Ludington home prepared to defend their young country against the British. But who could go? This messenger and his horse were too tired to go any farther, Colonel Ludington knew, and he himself had to remain to organize the men as they gathered there.
“Father, I’m going to go,” Sybil spoke up determinedly.
The messenger looked at her in surprise as her father sputtered, “Y-You? I won’t allow it! It’s late, and the roads are narrow and dangerous.”
Sybil’s eyes flashed as she grabbed her coat and declared, “I can do it, Father. Star is a good horse, and I know the way. My country needs me.”
There was little time for argument. Colonel Ludington looked hard at his oldest child and said softly, “All right, Sybil”—she was halfway to the barn to saddle Star before he could finish the sentence—“but be careful!”
Grabbing a stick to pound on the doors of the sleeping soldiers, she was off. The night was dark, and a chilly breeze whipped through her hair as she and Star sped on their desperate mission. As the girl passed each militiaman’s house, she pounded on the door with her stick and shouted, “Wake up! The British are burning Danbury! Go to the colonel’s prepared to fight!”
Sybil stayed only long enough at each house to insure that the militiaman was awake. Then she was gone.
She rode to Carmel, past Mahopac Falls, over the treacherous rocky path to Kent Cliffs. At times the moon’s faint light was obscured by drifting clouds, and the path was plunged into eerie darkness. Once Star tripped on an outcropping of rock and fell to his knees, but Sybil clung to the saddle and urged him up and onward through the night. Finally a very weary Sybil reached the last tiny settlement, Stormville, and rapped with her stick on the doors there.
Her job was finished.
Star was limping as they returned to the brightly lit Ludington home, and Sybil was slumped in the saddle with fatigue. The courageous ride had taken hours. The first gauzy rays of the sun were just visible over the horizon as she groomed the exhausted horse and brought it fresh water and feed.
“You did a fine job, Star,” she praised him before she went into the house.
Most of the volunteer militiamen were already there, and the small parlor was strewn with muskets and horns and flasks of gunpowder. Sybil caught her father’s eye, and the room became silent.
“This young woman,” Colonel Ludington said, his eyes shining with pride, “has proven herself a patriot!”
The soldiers stood in a silent tribute to the courage and gallantry Sybil had shown by calling them out in the dead of the night.
Colonel Ludington’s forces were able to join General Wooster at Ridgefield, a town near Danbury, in time to drive the British back to their ships in Long Island Sound. Sybil’s “spring fever” had brought success to the Continental Army. A statue of her astride Star stands by Gleneida Lake in Carmel, New York, not far from the very path she rode on that desperate night over two hundred years ago.

One day as one of my sons bade me farewell prior to his leaving for high school, I noticed he had forgotten to tie his shoelaces. For a fleeting second, I was tempted to turn the moment into the major crisis of the week, but, thankfully, I let it pass. A few days later we went to a school function where, to my amazement, I observed the shoelaces of all of the young men were untied. I then realized my son had fallen victim to another fad. I think it was in this same year that I found out it was no longer socially acceptable to go to school with boots, gloves, or earmuffs.

The first obstacle was finding a place for the trek. “We had no idea how hard it would be to find land that we would be allowed to cross,” said Marlene Meyer, the stake Young Women president. “In some ways it reminded us of the feeling the pioneers had when they were driven out of every place they tried to call home.”

For months the leaders scoured the state looking for a suitable site that could handle 150 people pulling handcarts and camping along the way. Because much of Alaska is covered in wetland, they knew they needed to find an abandoned road with dry campsites every 12 miles. Fourteen days before the event was scheduled to begin, the leaders were contacted about the possibility of passing through some land in a small area called Anchor Point. Miraculously, it had oil pad sites, areas covered in gravel and suitable for camping, positioned every 12 miles along an old road. With only days to spare, stake leaders got the permits and the trek went forward.

I stormed into my house, eyes flooding with tears after yet another disappointing piano lesson. It was my fourth year taking piano, and I had barely improved past “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” My teacher had tried to find something positive to say about my horrific playing, but I only felt worse. My parents were paying money for piano lessons that I didn’t want and had no hope for.
I wanted my parents to let me quit. “Please,” I begged. “I’ll do anything. What will it take?”
After discussing it between themselves, they said, “If you learn 50 hymns, we will let you quit.”
I started practicing right away. I wanted to quit so badly I was willing to spend extra time on the piano. The first hymn, “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” (Hymns, no. 19), took nearly a month to master. I was still intent on quitting, so I continued practicing.
An interesting thing happened: the hymns got easier to master. I felt happier throughout the week. I found myself humming hymns during the day and singing louder in sacrament meeting.
Eventually, I stopped keeping track of how many hymns I knew. As I became more skilled on the piano, I realized I could learn a new hymn almost perfectly in less than 30 minutes.
When I finally did add them all up, I had learned way over 50 hymns. And there was no way I was going to quit playing piano. I had become much more confident in my abilities to play and had felt the power of the hymns in my life.
Hymns are like scriptures; they speak truth. When I play the hymns, I feel like I am immersing myself in the scriptures. Learning how to play the hymns has been a kick start to building my testimony and learning truth. I find myself going through the words of different hymns to help me throughout my day. Playing piano has strengthened my testimony and has opened doors for me wherever I go.

Dad dumped some compost onto the soil.
“What are you doing, Dad?” Caleb asked.
“I’m getting the soil prepared for our garden.”
“Why do we need a garden?” Caleb asked. “Can’t we just buy food at the store?”
“Yes, but the prophets have counseled us to plant a garden, and I want to obey,” Dad said.
Dad and Caleb worked to prepare the soil. Finally, the garden was ready to plant.
On Saturday the whole family planted seeds in their garden. There were beans, corn, yellow squash, zucchini, cucumbers, and pumpkins.
Every morning, Caleb walked around the garden looking for weeds. Before picking each weed he asked Dad to make sure it wasn’t a seedling.
Then one day, Dad announced that the first plant had popped up. Caleb ran out to the garden. When he saw the tiny leaves peeking out of the ground, he couldn’t hide his disappointment.
“What’s the matter, Caleb?” Dad asked.
“I guess I just thought it would be bigger.”
“Don’t worry. It will grow,” Dad said.
Dad was right. Every day the plant grew a little bigger. Then more plants popped up. Soon the whole garden was filled with plants.
One morning Caleb noticed a plant growing right next to the yellow squash. It looked different than the squash plant.
“Hey, Dad, what’s this plant over here?”
Dad came over. “I don’t know. It doesn’t look like a squash. We’ll just have to wait and find out.”
Whenever Caleb was in the garden, he checked on the mystery plant. Before long, he noticed a green ball on the vine. Excitedly, he showed Dad.
“Looks like it might be some kind of melon,” Dad said. “That’s strange. We didn’t plant any melons.”
Each week the ball got bigger and bigger, and soon it started to turn a tan color.
“I think that’s a cantaloupe, Caleb,” Dad said one day. “It must have grown from some seeds that were in the compost.”
Caleb could hardly wait for the melon to grow. He loved cantaloupe.
Soon the garden was producing food for the family. Caleb enjoyed helping with the harvest. Mom bottled many of the fruits and vegetables, and they gave extras to neighbors.
“Caleb, would you go pick a yellow squash for dinner tonight?” Mom asked one evening.
“Sure, Mom!” Caleb ran to the garden. As he gently moved the cantaloupe so he could pick the biggest yellow squash, the cantaloupe fell off the vine. Caleb went to find Dad.
“Dad, I didn’t mean to, but the cantaloupe broke off the vine when I moved it,” Caleb said.
“That’s OK,” Dad said. “That probably means it’s ready to be picked.”
Caleb grinned. “Really? You mean it’s done?”
Dad laughed. “Let’s taste it and find out!”
Caleb brought the cantaloupe into the kitchen, and Dad cut off two slices.
“I guess this cantaloupe is one way Heavenly Father is blessing us for following the prophet,” Dad said.
Caleb looked at the colorful pile of produce on the counter that was waiting to be bottled. “Heavenly Father has blessed us a lot!” he said.
They both smiled as they took their first bite of cantaloupe. It was delicious!

It was the first time I’d been able to drive my family’s car to work in weeks. When I pulled into the parking lot, I failed to notice how inappropriately fast I was driving. I thought a one-handed parking job would be rather impressive.
Crunch!
I was wrong.
The car next to me jolted from the impact.
“You just hit that car!” I yelled at myself.
My forehead sunk to the dashboard in despair. I felt like such an idiot.
Had anyone seen? I looked around but didn’t spot anybody. My heart was thumping in my chest. I threw open the door and ran around the front of my car to survey the damage. I examined the front bumper and right panel carefully but saw no sign anything had happened.
Then I turned and looked at the new Toyota Camry I had hit. On the left, back panel there was a small dent where some of the shiny green paint had come off.
I scanned the parking lot again. No one was around. I’d heard kids at school talking about dinging cars and just taking off. It happens to everyone.
“I could just leave, and no one would ever know,” I thought. “If it ends up costing very much I won’t have enough money to take my vacation to Europe in a couple of months. These people probably have tons of money anyway, and I’ve been waiting my whole life for this trip.”
I clutched my wad of keys and gave my predicament a little more thought. I could see my forehead wrinkled with indecision in the reflection of the car window. I took a deep breath and knew it didn’t matter that no one would know. I would know. I could take off and avoid having to pay for the damage I had caused, but I wouldn’t be able to escape denting my soul.
I took out my planner and a pen and wrote a note to stick on the car’s windshield.
“I’m sorry I hit your car. Here’s my name, number, and e-mail address. Please contact me so I can pay for the damage.”
I walked into work feeling sick to my stomach. If I’d done the right thing, why did I feel so awful?
The owners of the car called me that night. I felt embarrassed and angry at myself and almost choked when they told me it was going to cost $800 to get the panel replaced. How was that possible? It took me months to make that much money at my part-time job. I knew I could kiss my vacation plans good-bye.
Even though I felt horrible about what had happened, I never regretted my decision. It felt good to know my integrity was worth more to me than $800 and a little embarrassment.
I learned that honesty is sometimes just between Heavenly Father and me. Honesty is about doing the right thing when nobody is watching and then facing the uncomfortable consequences afterward. I could have escaped the monetary consequences of my mistake but not without cheapening my integrity. I know Heavenly Father is proud of me for keeping my soul dent-free.
By Allyson Taylor

Roger had been a valuable employee throughout his successful career. But company ownership changed, the workforce was reduced by 25 percent, and Roger’s position was eventually eliminated. Though he had not anticipated losing his job, he never dreamed he’d have a difficult time finding work as an engineer.

Roger’s former employer provided the assistance of a professional outplacement firm. The firm assured him that with his expert skills and valuable experience, unemployment wouldn’t last long. Although Roger dutifully searched the job market and distributed copies of his résumé, days turned into weeks and weeks into months, and Roger became discouraged. “I felt extremely frustrated, knowing I was capable and experienced enough to provide for my family, yet being unable to find an opportunity to do so,” he remembered. After more than seven months of unemployment, funds from Roger’s severance package were gone and the family’s savings were nearly exhausted.

After learning of Roger’s struggle, his ward employment specialist encouraged him to participate in the professional placement program at the Michigan Detroit LDS Employment Resource Center. A woman in attendance at the next weekly networking meeting was looking for employees to work in her manufacturing company. She was impressed by Roger’s valuable skills and experience. A job interview followed shortly thereafter and a job description was written specifically to fit Roger’s skills.

That was the case for my wife and I when we married, got through 4 years of Phd education and work and got a job straight out of my program that provided for us through the first two of our great kids. We had our problems, like everyone, but we were cruising, and we knew that our faith would carry us through whatever came. There are many references in the scriptures to light. The majority of these references are in relation to our Saviour Jesus Christ. Christ said to the Nephites, “Behold I am the light; I have set an example for you” (3 Nephi 18:16) and to those in Jerusalem, “I am the light of the world” (John 8:12). We figured we were living in that light, and that would mean a string of joy with a few minor problems like a B on a report card, a broken transmission occasionally, or a child who didn’t get into the ivy league college he or she wanted, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Any of you who know my wife will know that she is a happy person. People comment on it. For most of her life, my wife was the sort of person about whom the apostle might have been speaking when he said, “Ye are the children of light.” She naturally carries a light about her, and that is the result of her relationship with her savior. That was for the most part our situation at that point in our lives. We were prospering in the land.

Then in April of 2009, our third child, Mathew, was born. The excitement of a new child carried us through the first few months of sleeplessness, sibling rivalry, and other transitions, but then something changed. Something inside of her changed. The hope and joy that brought light into her life dimmed. As the months went on, she found herself in complete darkness. For the first time she began to doubt, to wonder and to question, and she began to stumble. She had never really questioned her faith or the direction God was taking her life, but for the first time, she did. Everything she held close: her family, faith, confidence, joy, crumbled away, leaving her feeling alone, disconnected, and unsure. She often couldn’t feel anything or only sadness and despair when she did, and she certainly couldn’t find any light. This lasted years and while it has gotten less it hasn’t really ever left, but over time my wife has learned an important lesson, and she has brought me along: even when there is darkness, that darkness doesn’t have to become the focus of our lives.

In President Uchtdorf’s April 2013 General Conference talk he describes a painting in his office entitled “Entrance to Enlightenment”. President Uchtdorf states, “The painting shows a dark room with an open door from which light is shining. It is interesting to me that the light coming through the door does not illuminate the entire room -- only the space immediately in front of the door.” He continues by saying, “To me, the darkness and light in this painting are a metaphor for life. It is part of our condition as mortal beings to sometimes feel as though we are surrounded by darkness . . . but even though we may feel lost in the midst of our current circumstances, God promises the hope of His light -- He promises to illuminate the way before us and show us the way out of darkness.”

God will illuminate one step at a time if we turn to him. He is there wanting to show the way, but it is up to us to decide if we’re willing to trust in him that the next step we take will take us one step away from our darkness and one step closer to his light. For my wife some steps were a constant stream of prayers to get her through just a part of a day, one small act of service for her family or someone else, making sure to read her scriptures even if it was just one verse, a conference talk at just the right time, especially those by Elder Holland. A few years later after renovations and rededication were complete she was able to attend the temple, one more small moment of light to help her see at least the next step. Other steps came to be going for a run to help clear her mind or hiding in her room to read a book or sleep, and other activities she could do by herself to help calm her mind. One step at a time and slowly, with a lot of help and patience from her family and her Heavenly Father, she was able to find a time when her steps were more in God’s light than in her darkness. “He that followeth me,” the savior said, “shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”

At the age of 18, Olivia Nez has been around the longest of any of the girls in the Young Women program on the reservation. She has played a large part in helping to plan this first girls’ camp, working closely with the leaders to make sure that all the girls had the equipment and skills necessary to have a great time. Even though her senior year was chock-full of activities, including being the student body president, Olivia made time to act as the youth camp director.
“Since I just graduated [from high school], this is my first and last camp with our branches,” she says. “The girls in my branch and the other branches face a lot of challenges, and this is a good opportunity to learn more about the gospel and recommit ourselves.”

Please ask the Lord if we can be the special witnesses mentioned in the Book of Mormon.
The Lord has told me that if you will rely on the Lord, humble yourselves, and testify of the truth, you may see the plates.
Later that day.
Each man took a turn praying to be shown the plates.
Nothing happened.
I’m the reason the heavens are closed.
Soon the angel Moroni appeared.
Then they heard the voice of God.
These plates are from God. The translation is correct, and I command you to share what you now see and hear.
Later, Joseph finds Martin praying.
I haven’t received a witness from the Lord, but I still want to see the plates. Will you pray with me?
A few days later and with direction from God, Joseph invited eight others, including his father and two of his brothers, to see the plates. They did not see an angel, but they got to hold the plates in their hands.
All eleven witnesses attached their names to statements in the Book of Mormon, known as Testimony of Three Witnesses and Testimony of Eight Witnesses. Though some left the Church for a time, they all bore testimony throughout their lives that they had seen the gold plates. None of the witnesses ever denied what they saw.

Amanda was quiet on the way home from church. When Mom asked her if something was wrong, Amanda started crying and tried to say, “I don’t want to go to church anymore!” Her words came out all wrong, but Mother understood.
Amanda couldn’t hear very well, so the sounds she made when she talked weren’t always correct. Most of the time it didn’t bother her.
But today had been different; her feelings had been hurt. Even now, she could feel the embarrassment making her cheeks red and her ears ring. There was no way around it—she couldn’t go back to church again.
At home, Amanda told Mom what had happened. She had been asked to say the closing prayer in sharing time. She had gotten nervous. She’d spoken too fast and said “Zesus” instead of “Jesus.” As soon as she said it, Amanda knew it had come out wrong; but worse, everyone else seemed to notice too. Many of the children laughed. Some even teased her afterward and called her a baby. They said they’d never heard of “Zesus” before.
“It’s not fair!” Amanda shouted. “They were mean, and I don’t want to go back.”
“It’s tough being different, isn’t it?” Mom asked as she held Amanda close.
“I’m not just different. They said I’m stupid!”
“Let me ask you something, Amanda: Do you love Jesus?”
Amanda nodded yes.
“Do you believe that our church is His true Church?”
Again, Amanda nodded.
“Do you think Jesus loves you and is happy when you go to His Church?”
Now Amanda wasn’t so sure. “How can it make Jesus happy for me to be laughed at when I go to church?” she asked.
“Jesus doesn’t want you to be unhappy at church, but when you go you learn more about how much He loves you,” Mom said. “You learn how He sees you. Then, you can learn how He sees others.”
Amanda thought about what her mother had said. After she prayed that night, she remembered part of a verse from 1 Samuel that her dad had taught her: “The Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.”*
Amanda knew that Jesus didn’t care about things that seemed different to other people. He walked and talked with people whom others teased and didn’t like. Sometimes even His Apostles didn’t understand, but Jesus taught how to love everyone. He was even nice to people who weren’t nice to Him.
“Is Mom right?” Amanda wondered. “Can I learn to see others the way Jesus sees them?”
All week Amanda practiced remembering how special she was to Jesus and Heavenly Father. She looked for people around her who seemed to have a problem. Instead of thinking about the problem, she tried to think of Jesus and what He would see in that person.
Sometimes it was easy. Other times Amanda couldn’t see much, but when she really tried, she got a warm feeling inside that told her Jesus loved each person. Every time she got that warm feeling she remembered she was loved too.
On Sunday, Amanda went to church with her family. When she saw the children who teased her, she still felt a little angry and hurt. She wasn’t sure if she could find anything that caused them problems, but she wanted to try. As Amanda watched, one boy accidentally tripped and dropped his books. Amanda wanted to join in the laughter of the other children, but suddenly the warm feeling came again. She knew that Jesus loved him and she could too. Amanda handed the boy his scriptures and smiled at him. It was a wonderful feeling.
After church Amanda was quiet again. This time when Mom asked what was wrong, Amanda said, “I was just thinking how good it feels to try to see what Jesus sees.”
“Be that kind of friend and that kind of person who lifts and strengthens others.”Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “Gifts of the Spirit,” Ensign, Feb. 2002, 20.

One Monday in Frankfurt, I got hung up at work and arrived at the church just after the carpool of our group of young single adults had driven away to a distant apartment across town.

For me, this was a disaster. Some of you will know that the streets of Frankfurt are designed like a spider web that has been through a fire. The streets wander through each other in random disorder, crossing rivers and tram tracks and back again. Someone seemed to go out at night to reverse one-way street signs so that even when you thought you knew where you were going, you could not go that way. I remembered that a couple of months earlier I had ridden through the dark to this same apartment, crammed in the crowded back seat of a car, but I remembered nothing of the route. I knew only that it was many miles of tangled streets away.

I drove home a sad, dejected soldier. I remember folding my arms, intent on grumbling a little, and saying, “Heavenly Father . . .” But before I could continue with “I am really trying here,” something of a map flashed in my head: a well-lit sequence of streets started at the church and traveled down Eckenheimer Landstraße, through a number of intersections, around a traffic circle, left, right, left, over a bridge, more turns, and onto a broad-bending street in front of an apartment building.

I was incredulous. There was not a chance I could drive to that place. But I returned to the church to make a faithless try and followed the route that had been impressed upon my mind. After driving perhaps twenty minutes (and making about forty uncertain decisions), I turned onto a broad street alongside an apartment building that filled the entire length of the long, bending city block. I was stunned to see that I was pulling up to what might be the right building.

Now I had a new problem. There were several narrow tunnels through the building into small parking areas behind that accessed stairwells to the four floors of apartments above.

“Impossible,” I thought. “I don’t know if any of those is the right drive-through, and besides, there are hundreds of apartments.” But it seemed to be a miracle that I had gotten this far, so I slowly drove past several drive-throughs and blindly turned into one.

Standing at the base of a dark, cold, four-story building, I thought, “Even if this is the correct stairwell in the correct building, they could be anywhere on any floor.” I started climbing the stairs, with little hope of a hint. Ultimately I stopped on the third floor. This way or that? That way. Was the door on the left or right side of the hall? I walked past eight or ten doors, my feeble faith vaporizing by the moment. I thought, “I may not even be in the right building. Does my faith require me to just start knocking on random doors?” I stopped to contemplate that question and heard singing: “The Spirit of God like a fire is burning!”

I opened the door, the most astonished twenty-three-year-old in the Church. Heavenly Father had sent a shaft of light that replaced my bewilderment with wonder. Later that night I couldn’t even find my way home without a guide.
What were the chances?

Eventually I returned to BYU, still confused about how it could have made sense for me to drop out of school for three long years. Subsequently, many reasons have become clear.

After returning to school, I started dating a girl I had met in Frankfurt, a girl from Tooele, Utah, whose father had taken a job in Germany—a girl so far beyond me in every way that I could never have gotten her attention at BYU in Utah if I had not known her first in Germany, where she was in a state of diminished capacity as a fellow stranger in a strange land. And so it came to pass that against all odds she agreed to marry me. What were those chances?

I have learned that the Lord sometimes withholds blessings from us to eventually deliver undeniably discernible miracles. I would serve one hundred army enlistments for that one stunning miracle that formed our family.

Now at BYU, I was serving in the bishopric of a singles ward and became friends with the ward finance clerk, who had just returned from a mission in France. He finished his finance degree at the same time I finished law school, and he invited me to help him build a company. Thirty-five years later, that company touches millions of people in fifty countries. I marvel that but for that burst of light in the temple years before, I would have come and gone from BYU and never met Blake Roney, who has enabled so many miracles in our lives.

The list of blessings flying from that still, small spark of inspiration goes on and on. None of these things are coincidences. They are consequences of a string of unpredictable heavenly interventions that have burst through the veil as flashes of light through what has at times felt like a drab, never-ending gray wall.

I chose a place in the hills on the moors called Saddleworth Dovestones, where I would not be disturbed. I took my lunch, scriptures, and my journal and headed out, climbing to the top to offer the desires of my heart to my Father in Heaven. As I prayed, I listened very carefully for an answer, maybe a peaceful feeling or a burning in my bosom, but I felt nothing.
As I walked back, I noticed a series of rocks on the ground carefully placed to spell out the words “Truth Will Prevail.” “Curious,” I thought, but nothing more. However, when I told my mother, she said simply, “That’s your answer.”

During my first two years of teaching seminary in Nevada, I assigned two students in each class to be what we called “seminary phantoms.” They were to do nice things throughout the year for their fellow students, without anyone knowing.
Most of the students in my early-morning class were from the same two wards, except for one freshman. His name was Clark, and every day he sat by himself near the front of the room. About three months into the year, I had the class grouped into teams. I asked one boy to let Clark be on his team, and he asked, “Who’s Clark?” It was then that I realized how few people knew Clark.
A few weeks later, as the Christmas season drew near, we geared up to do our annual seminary Christmas activity called “secret Santas.” Students who wanted to participate signed up to do nice things, anonymously, for another student during the week before Christmas break. As the sign-up list went around, nearly everyone signed up. Everyone except Clark.
After class, I pulled aside my two seminary phantoms and asked if they would do a favor for someone in the class. They both willingly agreed. I explained about Clark and asked if they would mind doing just one nice thing for him from his secret Santa.
The following Monday, Clark’s book slot was decorated with ribbons and candy. Tuesday, there were small gifts. As the class came in both days, they crowded around him to see what he had received. Again on Wednesday, there was a small surprise left for him on my desk. When Thursday came, he found a gingerbread house on his desk. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
The next morning was Friday, the last day before Christmas vacation. Clark came into class with a present of his own. It was a huge gingerbread house that must have taken him and his mother all evening to make. He asked if I would please give it to his secret Santa. When class was over, Clark was slow in leaving, hoping to find out who I would give his gift to. But I convinced him that his Santa wanted to remain a secret. As he walked down the street, a car which a few minutes earlier had appeared to drive off, turned into the parking lot again, and two girls got an early Christmas present.
Seminary became Clark’s favorite class. Throughout the remaining three years, he had some wonderful friends in seminary. I can’t help but think that it was partially the result of those two seminary phantoms. The year that he graduated from high school and seminary, I was transferred to another state.
The following summer, my family and I came back to visit. Late one evening, at the home where we were staying, we heard a car drive by. The horn honked and someone yelled, “We love you, Brother Fowler!” In the morning, I found my car “decorated” with toilet paper. Inside was a note with a copy of a mission call attached to it. It was from Clark. It read, “Seminary was the inspiration for the day and for my life. Thanks!”

A ribbon of black asphalt wends its way through the mountains of northern Utah into the valley of the Great Salt Lake, then meanders southward on its appointed course. Interstate Highway 15 is its official name. This super-freeway carries the output of factories, the products of commerce, and masses of humanity toward appointed destinations.
I remember a time when driving to my home years ago, I approached the entrance to Interstate 15. At the on-ramp I noticed three hitchhikers, each one of whom carried a homemade sign that announced his desired destination. One sign read “Los Angeles, California,” while a second carried the designation “Boise, Idaho.” However, it was the third sign that not only caught my attention, but also caused me to reflect and ponder its message. The hitchhiker had lettered not Los Angeles, nor Boise, on the cardboard sign he held aloft. Rather, his sign consisted of but one word and read simply “Anywhere.”
Here was one who was content to travel in any direction, according to the whim of the driver who stopped to give him a free ride. What an enormous price to pay for such a ride! No plan. No objective. No goal. The road to anywhere is the road to nowhere, and the road to nowhere leads to dreams sacrificed, opportunities squandered, and a life unfulfilled.