Gospel Story Finder

Akin to the miracle of inspiration is the not infrequent occurrence where, through the workings of the Spirit, one receives a new understanding of a gospel principle, an insight. One Utah sister whose son has cancer bore this testimony: “Our strivings in behalf of little Thomas have helped me to understand what faith is. I’ve learned that faith is not just something you feel, it’s something you live. I’m grateful to my Heavenly Father for helping me to gain that understanding.”
Just as this sister felt the influence of the Spirit during a difficult time in her life, so do many other Saints receive the Lord’s help through answered prayers.
One mother told of a frightening incident she had had in the month previous with her eighteen-month-old toddler. He was exploring their bathroom when “he began to scream and scream. I ran into the bathroom, and I was horrified at what I saw. He had slipped and hit his head on the bathtub. It was turning an awful black and blue and was really beginning to swell.
“I’m afraid I almost became hysterical. I picked Ronnie up and carried him into our bedroom and laid him on the bed. All I could think to do was pray. So I knelt down there by the side of the bed and had hardly uttered the first few words of the prayer when I felt an almost tangible feeling of peace and calm.
“By the time I had completed the prayer Ronnie’s head was back to normal size, and almost all of the discoloration was gone.”

• After my baptism and confirmation, my mother drew me aside and asked, “What do you feel?” I described as best I could the warm feeling of peace, comfort, and happiness I had. Mother explained that what I was feeling was the gift I had just received, the gift of the Holy Ghost. She told me that if I lived worthy of it, I would have that gift with me continually. That was a teaching moment that has lived with me all my life.

As I sat there on the porch, I continued thinking about Cindy’s question. In one of our Primary lessons we learned that the Holy Ghost is the Spirit of truth. Our teacher said that He would help us not to lie. I guessed I needed help with that too. I remembered the day Mom had come into the kitchen right after I had accidentally knocked the sugar bowl to the floor. Before she could even speak, I said, “Shauna made me do it.”
“Janna, look out the window,” she told me. “What do you see?”
I saw Shauna swinging on a rope hanging from the tree. I said, “That’s how she made me do it. I was thinking about hurrying out to swing with her, and it made me bump into the table.”
“Janna.” Mom tilted my face toward hers. “None of us breaks dishes on purpose. We all have accidents. It isn’t the sugar bowl that counts. It’s you. More important to me than all the dishes in the cupboard—even the crystal glasses—is a little girl who tells the truth.”
I looked down at the floor. I knew I should’ve said I was sorry, but I didn’t. Instead, I asked, “Don’t dishes sometimes get too close to the edge and fall off by themselves?”
“Oh, Janna Lynn,” Mom said, and I wished she’d spanked me instead of looking at me the way she did. It would have made me feel a lot better.
I was still sitting on the porch thinking when Katie and Shauna came running around the house. “Come and play catch with us,” they called.
We threw the ball back and forth to each other, and then Katie threw one that was too high for me. Running backward to catch it, I slipped and fell on my backside in a clump of Mom’s blue irises. Mom came out of the shed just then with a pair of clippers to cut a bouquet. I looked at the smashed flowers and was just starting to speak, when something inside of me seemed to say, “No, Janna Lynn, you’re not going to say Katie made you do it.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “I ran backward and fell.”
“Yes, I know. I saw you,” she replied.
“And you’re not mad at me?”
“Of course not.”
The way she laughed, I almost felt good about sitting on her flowers.
“Just look at all those irises that you didn’t sit on,” she said. “A daughter who tells the truth is more important than a whole yard full of flowers!”
Goodness! That must have been the Holy Ghost prompting me to the the truth, I thought. And He’s helping me to learn what a great feeling you have when you know you’ve done the right thing. I could hardly wait to tell Cindy.

When I was a young man, I was inducted into the United States Army Air Corps. One cold night at Chanute Field, Illinois, I was given all-night guard duty. As I walked around my post, I meditated and pondered the whole miserable, long night through. By morning I had come to some firm conclusions. I was engaged to be married and knew that I could not support my wife on a private’s pay. In a day or two, I filed my application for Officer’s Candidate School. Shortly thereafter, I was summoned before the board of inquiry. My qualifications were few, but I had had two years of college and had finished a mission for the Church in South America.
The questions asked of me at the officers’ board of inquiry took a very surprising turn. Nearly all of them centered upon my beliefs. “Do you smoke?” “Do you drink?” “What do you think of others who smoke and drink?” I had no trouble answering.
“Do you pray?” “Do you believe that an officer should pray?” The officer asking these questions was a hard-bitten career soldier. He did not look like he prayed very often. I pondered. Would I give him offense if I answered how I truly believed? I wanted to be an officer so that I would not have to do all-night guard duty and KP and clean latrines, but mostly so my sweetheart and I could afford to be married.
I decided to be honest. I admitted I did pray and that I felt officers might seek divine guidance as some truly great generals had done. I told them I thought officers should be prepared to lead their men in all appropriate activities, if the occasion requires, including prayer.
More interesting questions came. “In times of war, should not the moral code be relaxed? Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
I recognized that here was a chance perhaps to make some points and look broad-minded. I suspected that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could say that I had my own beliefs, but I did not wish to impose them on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. In the end I simply said, “I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.”
I left the hearing resigned to the fact that these hard-bitten officers would not like the answers I had given and would surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my astonishment I had passed. I was in the first group taken for Officer’s Candidate School! I graduated, became a second lieutenant, married my sweetheart, and we have “lived together happily ever after.”

I am the fifth child in a family of nine kids. We’ve always gone to church on Sundays and had family night on Mondays. I was president of both the Beehive and Mia Maid classes. I guess I took my religion for granted. Nobody really asked me if I believed it, and I never really even asked myself.
That all changed one Sunday morning in March. My mother had risen early to warm our home with a brisk fire in our big rock fireplace. There was no other heat in the house, and Mother knew we’d get out of bed faster if we were warm.
My mother ignited the wood on the fireplace grate, and small flames started burning the kindling. My little brother and sister were lying on the couch in a big blanket.
A flame jumped onto the nozzle of a gasoline can that had been left on the hearth. My mother lunged to take the can outside but stumbled, and gasoline spilled across the room. Suddenly the curtains, walls, and furniture caught fire.
“Matthew! Mary! Fire!” My mother jumped toward her children, the flames of the fire building around her bathrobe.
Instantly the children roused. Older Matthew shielded our younger sister, and together they leapt through the flames, stumbling outside into the early morning rain.
My mother ran toward the back rooms, shouting for the rest of us. We older children awoke in a sleepy stupor. I remember feeling the heat on my face and hearing the crackle of burning wood. Thick smoke burned my lungs and eyes. We escaped through our bedroom windows, dropping onto the cold, wet grass with our bare feet.
Sirens broke the air as a fire truck arrived and firefighters surrounded the area. My mother counted as eight pajama-clad children emerged from the home coughing, crying, and wheezing. My stomach heaved when I heard her gasp, “We left the baby in there!” She tried desperately to get back inside.
One of the men held my mother back while she fought at his grip, her arms reaching toward the fire and her baby. As jets of water struck the house, a fireman climbed into the billowing smoke of the baby’s room. He returned within moments. He slumped to the grass, clutching my littlest sister. She wasn’t breathing.
I watched my mother weep inconsolably. We had lost our home, clothes, even our childhood pictures. But nothing compared to the emptiness of losing our baby. How could this have happened?
We buried my sister three days later. The funeral left me empty and cold. I returned to our blackened home that afternoon and kicked at the embers. Heavy tears slid down my chin, and I turned and ran toward a nearby field. Sorrow overwhelmed me, and I dropped to my knees. For the first time in my life, I prayed—I mean really prayed. I opened not only my mouth but also my heart. The words that followed were not repetitious or planned. My pain spilled out, and I cried, “I need to understand. Why did this happen?”
Something changed. My body started to warm from the inside out. It was more than the warmth of a physical touch. My soul awakened, and I felt comfort and love. It was as though Heavenly Father were saying, “I understand.”
I opened one eye toward heaven and said out loud, “Heavenly Father, is that you?”
Once again, I felt it. I stayed on my knees for a long time, clinging to the first peace I’d felt since the fire. Heavenly Father was there.
Eventually we rebuilt our home and our lives. I still miss my sister, but I am at peace. I know I will see her again.
Each one of us will have to go through trials that will tear at our hearts. There have been many times since that morning that I have again asked, “Heavenly Father, are you there?”
He answers in that quiet voice, and I know I am not alone.

Joanne, a young Church member, married a man who everyone thought was unworthy of her. He was addicted to alcohol and reckless with money. Almost immediately, the marriage had difficulties. But Joanne seemed to possess the magic of being happy.
As the years passed, instead of becoming bitter and defensive, Joanne became even more patient. Her children were reared tenderly, and she taught them to be loving and kind with each other, with her, and with their father. Five of the eight went on missions and all were married in the temple. Miraculously, the year before her husband’s unexpected death, he accepted the gospel and was baptized.
What caused such a marvelous change?
Joanne’s sister says, “Joanne never allowed her children or anyone else to talk negatively about their father. Sometimes he would come home at two or three in the morning, and my sister would wake all the kids and say, ‘Your daddy is home! Come, kiss him, love him!’
“When the children grew older and questioned their father’s actions, she would say, ‘Honey, don’t judge your dad. He doesn’t have the gospel yet. All we can do is love him and forgive him. He is a good man, and he is head of this family.’”
But was she happy?
“To her family, to us, to everyone,” says Joanne’s sister, “she radiated happiness. But I’m sure she suffered. I also know how badly she wanted her husband to join the Church.”
Joanne talks about staying with a man many women would abandon:
“I never considered turning away from my love for and loyalty to my husband. He was a very good man, even though he did foolish things. He loved people. He helped others in need. We sometimes had a person, even whole families, live with us because my husband knew that they were out of work and needed someplace to go.
“We had great, genuine love in our family. I know that he loved me and the children and that he was proud of us. The good example of our children brought him into the Church. It was the happiest day of my life when he was baptized.” They were married twenty-eight years before that happened.

All morning the low black clouds hovered over the valley, and the air was hot and still. Up in the hayloft Sarah pitched the sweet-smelling hay over the oak beam and down to the barn floor, where her sister, Amy, scattered it around for fresh bedding when the cows came in for their evening milking. Sarah was twelve, and she and Amy, who was two years younger, did most of the barn chores. They also helped their father with the cows’ care and milking.
Each time Sarah pitched a forkful of hay she’d call, “Look out below!” Then she’d catch a glimpse of Amy’s freckled face grinning up at her.
And Amy would always shout back, “If I had a penny for every time I’ve heard you say that, I’d be rich by now!”
Sarah laughed and brushed at a trickle of sweat that ran down her cheek, then stopped to scoop up her long blond hair and tie it back with a piece of baling twine. She felt uneasy as she glanced out the open loft door and saw lightning flash on the distant horizon in the direction of the city where her parents had gone that morning to shop.
She leaned out the door, her gray eyes searching for her father’s familiar green truck. A dark mass of low-moving clouds was gathering over the valley, and a new sound filled the air. Sarah looked out at the heavy rain that had begun to fall. The once-quiet river had become a gushing torrent of muddy water. She busied herself by stacking the smaller bales of hay to save her father any extra work. As she stacked, she could hear the thunder overhead and the rain pounding on the tin roof. She pushed the last bale into place and sat down to wipe her sweaty face.
A sudden cry from Amy sent her scurrying down the ladder. There was a look of alarm on her sister’s face as she pointed at the river. The churning water was rapidly overrunning the riverbank. Sarah’s heart pounded with fear as she remembered another time when a flash flood had swamped the entire valley.
Sarah tried to be calm as she turned to Amy and said, “We’d better hurry to the house. Mom and Dad should be coming back soon.”
The sudden sharp ring of the telephone startled the girls a few minutes later. Sarah ran to answer it. Against the crackling sound of static, a faint voice asked, “Sarah, are you and Amy all right?”
Sarah clutched the receiver tightly and replied, “Dad! Where are you? We’re having a terrible storm!”
The calm, controlled voice of their father gave the frightened girl some assurance as he replied, “Sarah, we can’t make it home tonight. Everyone in town is moving to higher ground, and all the roads are underwater. In another hour it will hit the valley. You should have enough time to get over the bridge to open the lower pasture gate and herd the cows up to the barn. But hurry!” Another burst of static followed, and she barely heard the last fading words before the line went dead, “Sarah, don’t go near Sam. He’ll be wild and dangerous with fright. …”
For a moment Sarah stood still with fear as she uttered one word, “Sam!” She had forgotten about her father’s prize bull and how much she feared the huge animal. Only that morning her father had led Sam down to the edge of the river and had chained him to an iron stake.
Amy tugged at Sarah’s arm and looked at her sister’s frightened face. “What’s wrong, Sarah?”
The older girl tried to keep her voice from trembling. “Amy, we have to work fast. Mom and Dad can’t make it home tonight. The roads are underwater. We have to bring the cows up from the lower pasture before the bridge is washed away. I’ll run down to open the gate and herd them across. You stay ahead to lead them into the barn.”
Sarah had barely finished her instructions before Amy was running toward the barn to unlatch the big sliding doors. Sarah braced herself against the sharp wind and cutting rain as she ran across the bridge and opened the gate where the restless cows were jammed together. The animals pushed excitedly over the stone bridge as floating debris began to wash over the top. Sarah shooed and waved her arms wildly as the last drenched animal crossed over. She caught a glimpse of Amy running ahead, her little figure dwarfed by the frightened herd that followed her into the barn.
The breathless girls sank down onto a bale of hay, water rolling down their faces and their wet clothes clinging to them. The barn was filled with the sounds of the animals’ heavy breathing and the crunching of hay beneath their hooves as they began to settle down.
Amy brushed the hair off her forehead and said, “We made it! We got them all back safely.”
Sarah stood up and walked to the open door, shaking her head sadly. “No, Amy, not all of them.” She saw Sam’s huge black form struggling against the wild current of the river. And he was unable to free himself from the chain that kept him staked to the ground.
Amy walked over to her sister, and for a long moment she watched the river rising up to the frightened animal’s chest. As though reading Sarah’s thoughts, she protested, “You know Dad said not to go near him.”
The girls watched Sam finally stop struggling, bowing his great head as though he had resigned himself to his fate. Amy’s eyes filled with tears. “Poor Sam!” she whispered.
Desperate thoughts and her father’s warning combined in Sarah’s mind. Suddenly a glimmer of hope lit up her eyes. She cried out, “Look Amy! A big log has washed up against the bridge, and it goes clear over next to Sam! I could crawl along the top of it and open the lock on Sam’s chain. I know I can do it!”
Sarah turned toward Amy, took her gently by the shoulders, and looked into her tear-streaked face. “I have to try to free him, Amy, or at least give him a chance to save himself!”
Amy’s trembling lips uttered one word, “Yes.”
Sarah reached for the key that hung on a chain over Sam’s pen, put it around her neck, and ran out into the howling storm. “Open his pen, Amy!” she shouted. “Then go up to the loft and stay there till I get back!”
Sarah raced down the path toward the log and started to shinny across it, clinging desperately with both hands and feet. As the water pounded against her, Sarah was barely able to stay on the log. Slowly she inched across it until she reached Sam. The animal seemed numb with fear as she tried to turn the key in the lock. Each time she reached out, the fierce current almost swept her away. But at last, with a final tug, the lock sprung open and the chain dropped into the water.
Above the roar of the river she shouted, “Swim, Sam! Swim!”
Slowly the waterlogged animal turned his shaggy head and looked at the girl through half-closed eyes.
Sarah was making her way back across the bobbing log when suddenly something whammed into it and whirled it around until one end lodged on the shore not far from the gravel path. Sarah was pitched ashore, where she lay stunned. Then slowly she raised her head and looked around for Sam.
He was still standing in the same place, not realizing that he was free. “Sam! Come on, boy!” she shouted, scrambling to her feet. “Swim!”
Slowly the dazed animal turned his head and realized the restraining chain was gone. With a ponderous movement he swung his heavy body around and began making his way across the river. Floating debris slammed into his sides, and the waves lashed at him. But at each onslaught, he reared his powerful neck to meet the river’s torrent. Sam’s massive strength kept him plowing straight toward Sarah who was still gasping for breath.
She trembled anew at the sight of the huge animal rising up out of the water, his wild black eyes fixed on her. And when a loud clap of thunder struck close by, he let out a bellow that swelled his sides and shook the ground.
The frightened girl was surprised at her own calm voice as she called, “Steady, boy! We’ll make it now.”
The bull, unbelievably docile now, lowered his head and kept a steady pace beside her as she made a beeline for the barn. Quickly she swung the pen gate shut and pushed the bolt safely into place. Then she sank down weakly on the dry hay, every muscle and bone in her body aching. From the loft she heard Amy whisper, “Is it safe to come down, now?”
Sarah looked up at her sister and managed a smile. “Yes, Amy. We made it. We saved Sam.”
They watched the bull toss the hay around, picking out the tender stems. When he raised his head, a pile of hay was perched on top with some of it sticking out of his ears. He looked so comical that both girls burst out laughing.
With the busy sound of the munching animals settling around them, the girls slipped out of the barn and trudged up to the house.
Sarah lit the kerosene lamp, and a cheery glow filled the room. Silently, the girls struggled out of their wet clothes and wrapped themselves in warm robes. Curled up in the comforting armchairs, they were soon sound asleep.
Bright sunlight streamed through the window, and the sound of a blaring horn brought Sarah to her feet as Amy rubbed her sleepy eyes. The girls rushed to the window to see their father’s truck splashing across the bridge over the ebbing river. The storm had ended.
Their worried parents called out, “Sarah! Amy!”
Both girls rushed into their parents’ open arms. Sarah then noticed her father’s anxious look in the direction of where Sam had been tethered.
With a suppressed smile, she said, “Come out to the barn, Dad. We want to show you something.”
Amy danced ahead. “Yes, we have a surprise for you.”
When they slid the barn door open, their father stood speechless at the sight that greeted him. Sam was contentedly pacing back and forth in his pen. And the impatient cows, waiting to be milked, seemed relieved that their owner was here to look after them.
The look on her father’s face filled Sarah’s heart with an unequaled joy. “We’ll tell you the whole story,” she promised. “But we’re too hungry right now.”
Father put his arms around both of his daughters. And as they walked back to the house, he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll bet your mom is making a special breakfast for two hungry and very brave girls right now. I’ll race you to the kitchen!”

When I was a high councilor, I had what became a very cherished experience with private prayer. In our first meeting with our newly sustained stake president, he was stern and demanding—quite a contrast with the loving and gentle manner of his predecessor. Several of us struggled with our negative reactions to his style. During that meeting, he assigned me to speak in an upcoming priesthood session of a ward conference. As he did so, an idea for a theme flashed through my mind, and I jotted myself a note. But later, when I prepared the talk, I forgot the note and the prompting.
As I gave the talk, a depressing feeling of failure troubled me. Afterward, when I was alone, I knelt down and asked the Lord why I had failed after trying so hard. An impression came to me that I had given the wrong talk. Then I remembered the earlier impression and realized that I hadn’t followed it. I told the Lord I was sorry and, feeling downcast, went off to the sacrament meeting session of ward conference.
During the opening hymn, I felt an urge to pray again. I asked the Lord to give me another chance and told him that I would give the right talk this time. I was mystified about why I was so bold, because I knew the agenda for the conference was full and that there was no chance for me to speak. But during the intermediate hymn, I noticed the stake president lean over and whisper something to the bishop. After the hymn, the bishop announced, “The stake president would like to have Brother Bachman briefly bear his testimony.”
With considerable emotion, I explained what had just transpired and testified of the inspiration of our new stake president. The eyes of several of the other high councilors sitting in the congregation glistened with tears, as did mine. Then I related my little talk as I had promised the Lord I would and sat down, almost in shock at the events of the past two hours.
During the closing hymn, I was still basking in the spirit of it all. Suddenly, a phrase of the hymn swept out of the air above the congregation and pierced my consciousness: “God hears my secret prayer” (Hymns, 1985, number 144). My tears again flowed freely.
That was the beginning of one of the most wonderful priesthood relationships I have ever experienced in the Church. For four years, I enjoyed sitting at the feet of this great man and learning about inspiration, leadership, and Church government.

My parents exemplified this love in so many ways. They had a large family, with many grandchildren, some of whom chose to step away from the Church or follow paths that diverged from its teachings. Yet, to my knowledge, my parents never criticized, coerced, or tried to change their grandchildren in an effort to “save” them. They left judging and saving to the Savior and simply loved them. Their home was a place where everyone felt welcomed and safe, regardless of their religious beliefs, sexual orientation, or political or world views.
Grandchildren could tell them about anything and be themselves around them without fear of rejection. My parents spent time with them, listened to them, and built relationships with them.
In the days leading up to my mother’s passing, I witnessed her grandchildren—most now in their 20s and 30s—weeping as they gathered around the bed of their cherished grandmother. This small white-haired woman, along with my father, had ministered to them, valued them, welcomed them, and loved them without conditions. My parents were faithful Latter-day Saints who understood that loving others, even when their beliefs or choices differ from our own, doesn’t diminish our faith or change our beliefs. We lose nothing by loving all of God’s children.

A visible and tender act of fellowshipping was witnessed in the ancient city of Rome. Some years ago, Sister Monson and I met with over 500 members there in a district conference. The presiding officer at that time was Leopoldo Larcher, a wonderful Italian. His brother had been working as a guest employee in the auto plants in Germany when two missionaries taught him the gospel. He went back to Italy and taught the gospel to his brother. Leopoldo accepted and sometime later became the president of the Italy Rome Mission and then the Italy Catania Mission.
During that meeting, I noticed that in the throng were many who were wearing a white carnation. I said to Leopoldo, “What is the significance of the white carnation?”
He said, “Those are new members. We provide a white carnation to every member who has been baptized since our last district conference. Then all the members and the missionaries know that these people are especially to be fellowshipped.”
I watched those new members being embraced, being greeted, being spoken to. They were no more strangers nor foreigners; they were “fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God.”

In one of my stake conference assignments in the Salt Lake Valley, I invited a young deacons quorum president to join me to talk about the keys of the priesthood. I wanted him to understand that he held a very special office that included the keys to preside over a quorum of the priesthood. We talked about the great responsibility it is to hold keys and how special it is to belong to a quorum. At the conclusion of the little presentation, I asked him how many members he had in his quorum. His answer was 14.
Then the question: “How many are active?”
The answer: “12.”
Then I asked: “What about the other two?”
His response was: “I need to get to work and make them an active part of our quorum.”
I asked him how long that would take. He thought maybe three months. I encouraged him in his efforts.
Three months later, almost to the day, I received a letter from him informing me that all the members of his quorum were now active. He said he had befriended them, and one was now attending deacons quorum meetings, and the other had been ordained a teacher by the bishop. I was overwhelmed with his response. What an example of one honoring his priesthood and using priesthood keys to carry out an assignment the Lord has given him to fulfill. I could not help but marvel at the design the Lord has established for the administration of His work here on earth using the powers of the priesthood.

Earlier this year, I was provided with an exciting yet humbling opportunity to help my little sister, Oceane, progress on the covenant path by accepting the invitation to be baptized and fulfill one of the prescribed requirements to enter the celestial kingdom. She postponed her baptism one month, until I was ordained a priest, to give me the privilege to perform the ordinance, while our other sisters were also privileged to work under priesthood assignment and stand as witnesses. As we stood on opposite sides of the font and prepared to enter the water, I noticed her excitement, as it matched mine. And I felt united with her, seeing that she was making the right decision. This opportunity to exercise the priesthood required me to be more careful and less casual in my gospel living. In order to prepare, I went to the temple every day that week, supported by my mom, grandma, and sister, to perform baptisms for the dead.
This experience taught me a lot about the priesthood and how I could exercise it worthily. I know that all priesthood holders can feel the same things I felt if we follow Nephi’s example to “go and do” (see 1 Nephi 3:7). We cannot sit idly and expect the Lord to use us in His great work. We must not wait for those who need our aid to seek us out; it is our duty as priesthood holders to exemplify and stand as witnesses of God. If we are making decisions that inhibit us from our eternal progression, we must change now. Satan will try his hardest to keep us in a carnal state of seeking simple pleasures. But I know that if we put in the effort, find those who will support us, and repent each day, the resulting blessings will be incredible and our lives will be forever changed as we press forward on the covenant path.

For example, when I was presiding over the Florida Mission some twenty years ago, I received a letter from Sister Flavia Salazar Gomez in Santiago, the Dominican Republic. Originally from Mexico, where she had joined the Church when she was twelve, Flavia had married and moved with her husband to his native country. She believed she was the only Latter-day Saint within Dominican’s population of some five million people. She wrote that she had a year-old baby who had not been named or blessed by the priesthood. She added that she had cancer and doctors did not expect her to live very long. Demonstrating simple faith, she asked if a priesthood holder could travel to Santiago to bless both her and the baby.

Soon after receiving the letter, I had the opportunity to fly to that area. I met with an active Latter-day Saint family we knew of in the Dominican capital of Santo Domingo, Dale Valentine and his wife and children. Brother Valentine and I drove to Santiago, and then realized that we did not have Flavia’s street address with us. I told Brother Valentine to drive into the busy city and turn to the left. Then I told him to make a right turn and proceed toward the center of the city. After traveling several blocks, I said to Brother Valentine, “Go to the next corner; make a right turn; and after you turn, you will find an empty parking space.” He drove as I had directed, and we did find an empty parking space, which was most unusual in all the traffic. “Now what do we do?” he asked.

I said, “Let’s just start asking people.”

Brother Valentine went over to a man standing outside a residence and asked if he knew of a Flavia Salazar Gomez.

Surprised, the man said, “Yes, she’s my wife.”

We went into the home, and met with and interviewed Flavia. In the two years since she had left Mexico and her contact with the Church, she had faithfully kept the Word of Wisdom, and prayed every day.

We blessed the baby. Then I felt impressed that Flavia should be blessed that she should recover from her cancerous condition and become well.

Some six months later, I had the opportunity to meet again with Flavia and her husband. She was in good health; doctors had told her she was completely cured.

When this lovely young mother had needed a priesthood blessing she had exercised her faith, and had written to a mission president whom she did not know. The mission president had done what the Lord told him to do to answer her need. It was just that simple.

In one of my hardest classes, the lecturer taught for two hours without ceasing each time we had class. It was difficult to understand not only the content of the class but also the accent of the lecturer, so with permission, I recorded his lectures for review. One day I received an email from a woman I did not know. She introduced herself as a classmate and asked if I could share my recordings because her work schedule sometimes kept her from attending class.
Of course I was happy to give her copies of my recordings. I thought I was helping her, but I soon found that she was another angel whom God had arranged to help me. To pass the class, we had to submit two assignments and take a three-hour exam. She helped me complete the assignments and prepare for the exam. Without her help, I don’t think I would have passed.

Back in the year 1961, a worldwide conference was held for mission presidents, and every mission president in the Church was brought to Salt Lake City for those meetings. I came to Salt Lake City from my mission in Toronto, Canada.
In one particular meeting, N. Eldon Tanner, who was then an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve, had just returned from his initial experience of presiding over the missions in Great Britain and western Europe. He told of a missionary who had been the most successful missionary whom he had met in all of the interviews he had conducted. He said that as he interviewed that missionary, he said to him, “I suppose that all of the people whom you baptized came into the Church by way of referrals.”
The young man answered, “No, we found them all by tracting.”
Brother Tanner asked him what was different about his approach—why he had such phenomenal success when others didn’t. The young man said that he attempted to baptize every person whom he met. He said that if he knocked on the door and saw a man smoking a cigar and dressed in old clothes and seemingly uninterested in anything—particularly religion—the missionary would picture in his own mind what that man would look like under a different set of circumstances. In his mind he would look at him as clean-shaven and wearing a white shirt and white trousers. And the missionary could see himself leading that man into the waters of baptism. He said, “When I look at someone that way, I have the capacity to bear my testimony to him in a way that can touch his heart.”

When Harold B. Lee was in high school, he joined the debate team.
Harold’s friend: Harold, did you hear? We’re leaving town for a debate tournament!
Harold: When?
Harold’s friend: Next week!
Harold prepared his speeches and packed his suitcase, trying to not be nervous for the tournament. On the day of the tournament, he was ready.
When his turn came to speak, he stood at the podium and did his best. His team won every debate!
Harold: Mother, you’ll never guess what happened—we won!
Harold’s mother: I know all about it. I’ll tell you why when you come home.
Harold returned home, eager to find out how his mother had heard the news.
Harold’s mother: When I knew it was time for your debate to start, I went out among the willows by the creek, and there, all by myself, I prayed to God that you would not fail. And I received assurance that you would not.
Harold learned the strength of his mother’s love and faith. He learned that Heavenly Father answers the prayers of those who love Him, that He helps His children to do their best in all of their activities, and that that is even more important than winning.

Almost all the families living in the valley came on Valentine Day 1853 to see the ground-breaking ceremonies for the Salt Lake Temple, conducted by President Brigham Young. At the close of the service, after Brother Brigham turned the first shovel of dirt, many of those present rushed forward to do the same. Twelve year old Wilford Woodruff, Jr., joined his father and grandfather as they each “flung out dirt for this important temple.”

Recently, I read a fictional story about two brothers who lived on adjoining farms and fell into conflict. After having shared machinery, goods, and land for decades, their collaboration fell apart. It started with a small misunderstanding which grew into major differences, anger, and weeks of silence.
One morning, a carpenter who was looking for a few days of work knocked on the older brother’s door. “Is there anything I could help you with?” asked the carpenter with his toolbox under his arm.
The older brother said, “Yes! Look across the creek at that farm. That belongs to my younger brother. Last week he dug a wider passage for water and ended up creating a very wide creek between our farms. Please build me something so we don’t have to look at each other’s face from across the creek.”
The carpenter said “I think I understand the situation. I can help you.” With that, the carpenter went to work and spent all day measuring, sawing, and nailing.
At sunset, the elder brother returned to the creek as the carpenter had just finished his task. The brother never could have imagined what he saw. It was a bridge stretching from one side of the creek to the other! It looked beautiful! To his surprise, his younger brother crossed the bridge to meet him with a big smile and his arms wide open to hug him.
“You are really humble and kind, my brother. After all I have done and said to you, you still show that our relationship can never be broken! I am very sorry for my behavior,” the younger brother said as he hugged him.
They turned to see the carpenter hoist his toolbox onto his shoulder. “No, wait! Stay a few days. I have lots of other projects for you,” said the older brother.
“I’d love to stay,” the carpenter said, “but I have many other bridges to build!”

At times the need for mercy can be found close to home and in simple settings. We have a four-year-old grandson named Jeffrey. One day his fifteen-year-old brother, Alan, had just completed, on the family computer, a most difficult and rather ingenious design of an entire city. When Alan slipped out of the room for just a moment, little Jeffrey approached the computer and accidentally erased the program. Upon his return, Alan was furious when he observed what his brother had done. Sensing that his doom was at hand, Jeffrey raised his finger and, pointing it toward Alan, declared from his heart and soul, “Remember, Alan, Jesus said, ‘Don’t hurt little boys.’” Alan began to laugh; anger subsided; mercy prevailed.

As missionaries in Ghana, we washed our clothes by hand on preparation day. Elder Moss, my companion who had recently arrived from the United States, had not experienced this way of doing laundry. But being a native of Ghana, I was used to it.
Every Monday Elder Moss set out to scrub his clothes, but about halfway through the job, his hands and knuckles would start bleeding. I would then need to take over his work, in addition to finishing my own.
One Monday when washing time came around, Elder Moss seemed a bit worried. I had injured my hand the previous day, and he knew that I was not going to be able to help him with his laundry. I wouldn’t even be able to do my own. He started his washing, but as usual, he needed help halfway through.
Since I couldn’t help my companion with the actual washing, I encouraged him to endure—to let his hands rest and then keep trying. He stopped for a time and then continued. I told him he could find a way to finish. His hands and knuckles were still sore, but he pushed on. When the washing was completed, he said, “I am proud of myself. Elder Asante, are you proud of me?”
“Yes, of course I am proud of you,” I answered.
As I have thought about this incident, I realized that Heavenly Father knows our potential, but He tests us so we can develop diligence, patience, and faithfulness. He is pleased with us when we make righteous choices and prove that we can bear our afflictions.
When we work hard and endure the trials placed before us, we can say, “Heavenly Father, art Thou proud of me?” I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are pleased when we endure and that They will tell us so one day when They welcome us home.