Gospel Story Finder

President Marion G. Romney, a former member of the First Presidency, told this story:
"A few years ago as I began to practice law, members of my family were a little uneasy. They were afraid I would lose my faith. I wanted to practice law, but I had an even greater desire to keep my testimony, and so I decided upon a little procedure which I recommend to you. For thirty minutes each morning before I began the day's work I read from the Book of Mormon--I also read from all the other standard works of the Church, but I am talking now about the Book of Mormon--and in just a few minutes a day I read the Book of Mormon through, every year, for nine years. I know that it kept me in harmony, so far as I did keep in harmony, with the Spirit of the Lord."[21]

Jennetta Richards had traveled across the Atlantic Ocean and half the North American continent to join the Saints in Nauvoo, Illinois. She also suffered for years with “general debility”—an undiagnosed chronic illness. In the Winter of 1844, the Nauvoo Temple was far from being complete. But the Prophet Joseph Smith had gathered a group of men and women together to perform the sacred temple ceremonies in locations such as the Red Brick Store. Included as part of these temple ceremonies was a unified prayer in which participants combined their faith in behalf of themselves and others. The journals of the Saints who attended these temple meetings are guarded and reverent when it comes to the sacred temple ceremonies in which they participated but regularly note the people for whom they prayed—often children who were critically ill. On February 10, 1844, Jennetta was suffering a great deal. Joseph held a prayer meeting for endowed members in the evening, and those who attended “prayed for Sister Richards and others.”

A year and a half after being prayed for in the 1844 temple meeting, Jennetta Richards passed away. Notwithstanding her faith, and the united faith of her family and their temple community, just after 10:00 a.m. on July 9, 1845, Jennetta stopped breathing. The scriptures explain that even where there is faith to be healed, the healing comes only if the person “is not appointed unto death” (Doctrine and Covenants 42:48). Like Joseph Smith, who was murdered in the summer of 1844, Jennetta did not live to see the temple completed. She did, however, help lay the foundation of temple worship in the Restoration. And part of that foundation was her example of seeking healing from the Lord through a prayer offered by others—a prayer offered in the same manner we experience in temples today.

One day, some years ago, when the youngest of my nephews was about 5, I received a phone call from his brother, 3 years his senior. “Now, Aunty Sarah,” the voice on the phone said, “you mustn’t be cross.”
Uh oh, I thought.
“R wants to talk to you, he’s very upset.”
A very sniffly voice came on the line. “Aunty Sarah, I’ve spent all of your money!”
Let me pause to explain the back story. In the days of angry birds and me being a very cool aunt, I had given my nephews access to my bank account (I know!), with strict instructions that they stick to the agreed budget and always pay me back with their pocket money at the end of the month.
This agreement had largely been honoured.
“What happened R?”
“I pressed the thing to buy the game and it didn’t work and so I pressed it a few more times, and now I’ve spent ALL of your money!”
“How much have you spent?”
“£30!”
As it turns out, I had £35 in the bank, so all was well, but here’s the point. In the light of his overwhelming distress and remorse, I would have done anything to comfort him. I did everything to console him that he had not, in fact, spent all of my money. And that if he had, his father and I would have sorted it out. Over and over, I reassured him that although terrible and enormous to him, what he had done was fixable and he could leave it with me. I told him all was well, that these app things are tricky to work when you’re 5 and that I loved him.
He stopped crying and after a time, we ended the call.
In that moment, I believe I felt some measure of the power and depth of God’s love for all of us, when we seek Him in utter despair and humility. When all feels hopeless. When the long burden feels too much to bear.
I had a glimpse into all that our Heavenly Parents must feel for us. I would have done anything to comfort and console my nephew. I didn’t care about the money, I only wished to reassure him. We know that the Saviour feels the same about us. May we learn to trust and believe that He will do, in fact has done, all that is necessary to carry the burden for us.

Alden Maynes was a copilot on a B-17 bomber. He had completed 25 successful missions over Germany when his luck ran out. The crew had just released six bombs over Berlin when the tail of the airplane was shot away, throwing the plane into a barrel roll. As Brother Maynes tried to make his way to the escape hatch, his parachute caught on something and was pulled open. He attempted to close it without success and was forced to bail anyway. At 27,000 feet without oxygen, he lost consciousness as he fell through the air. When he came to, he was still falling and the war was going on around him. Planes were still dropping bombs and antiaircraft guns were still being fired. Falling toward a mass of fire and destruction, with his parachute trailing unopened above him, he gyrated in 25 foot circles. He tried to draw it down in hopes he could force it open, but the effort proved impossible. At this point, he talked to the God and told him that he had done all that he could do and that it was now in God's hands. Alden Maynes submitted completely trusted in the will of the Lord. Immediately a calm and peaceful feeling settled over him and he knew that whatever happened would be all right.
As he continued to fall, he drifted away from the bombed area. As he fell past a six-story building, his chute caught hold of the roof, holding him briefly and then tore loose. Barely missing the building, his parachute caught again, this time on a street lamp--saving his life, suspending him feet three feet above the sidewalk. Though he was taken prisoner, in his heart knew that God had spared his life. God did more for Alden Maynes than he ever could have done for himself.

While living and working in Alaska a number of years ago, I had occasion to go on a fishing trip with a group of young men that included one of my sons. The other adult leaders and I knew that the area we would be camping in was bear country, so prior to the trip, we gathered the boys together to discuss certain safety measures.
We talked about four basic rules to remember when fishing in bear country: First, don’t do things that would invite a bear into the camp. For example, don’t store food out in the open that would attract the bears. Second, keep the camp clean. Take care of all garbage. If you catch and clean fish, get rid of the entrails and slime. Third, if a bear does come, know how to defend yourself. Drop down, be still, and play dead. Fourth, if someone gets hurt or is attacked by a bear, know how to get help. Signal to others that you are in trouble, and keep a good orientation of your surroundings so that you know the fastest way to go for assistance.
I am confident that all would have gone well on that trip had we kept all those rules. But we didn’t! On our last day we cleaned fish in the center of the camp and didn’t properly dispose of the remains. That night a Kodiak bear wandered into camp. We had just settled inside our tents, when we heard its panting. We literally froze in fear. We couldn’t talk.
Luckily for us, the bear got what it was after and nothing more. It found and ate some of the fish we had cleaned, and it ran off with two buckets, which were filled with the day’s catch. But it left us alone and didn’t do more harm.

The story is told of a traveler who asked a farmer, “How’s the cotton crop going to be this year?”
The farmer replied, “There won’t be any. I didn’t bother to plant it, because I was afraid of the boll weevil.”
Upon hearing this, the traveler asked further, “Well, are you going to harvest a big corn crop?”
“It’s the same,” came the response. “I was afraid that we wouldn’t get enough rain for the kernels to mature.”
The traveler pursued, “At least you will have a good potato harvest.”
“Nope. I didn’t dare plant any, because I was afraid of insects.”
Somewhat frustrated, the traveler then asked, “Well, what is it that you have planted?”
“Nothing, my good man,” came the answer. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

It is not hard for me to remember when I was in college. I loved many things about college life: I loved learning. I loved the comradery. And I loved football.
I had always dreamed of playing football at the university level, and during my freshman, sophomore, and junior years, I wore a crimson uniform and played running back.
At that time, the world tottered on the brink of chaos. Opposing political forces roiled and ground against each other. Tension mushroomed. Nations chafed against each other. It was as though the entire world groaned in a burgeoning rumble, a volcano that had to erupt, that ultimately would erupt. Before it was over, every nation, every people felt the effects of those dark days.
I remember the day my father came to me. It was just after the 1936 football season had ended.
“Joseph,” he said, “do you want to go on a mission?”
I told him I did.
“Then you must go now,” he said. “If you wait any longer, you’ll never go.”
I didn’t want to believe him. I wanted to pursue my dream of continuing to play football and graduating from the university. If I were to accept a mission call, I would have to give up everything. In those days a mission call was 30 months long, and I knew if I accepted, there was a good chance I would never play football again—perhaps I would not even be able to graduate.
But I also knew what my father had said was true. My bishop was Marion G. Romney (1897–1988), who later became a member of the First Presidency of the Church. He had spoken with me before about serving a mission, and I went to tell him that now was the time.
A few months later I stepped aboard the SS Manhattan and began a long voyage that would take me into the heart of the world crisis. My mission call was to the German-Austrian Mission.
My first field of labor was in Salzburg, Austria. The mission was shorthanded, and not long after I arrived, my companion was transferred to another district in the mission. Soon I found myself alone in Salzburg, a young missionary in a strange, new country.
One other thing was happening that I haven’t mentioned: a large army of Hitler’s Third Reich was gathering just over the border, not 30 kilometers from Salzburg. Everywhere you went you could sense a mounting tension in the air. No one knew if tomorrow would be the day the panzer tanks would flood across the border.
I remember those days well. I don’t suppose there has been a time in my life when I felt more discouraged, more lost. The mission was a difficult one; no one seemed to have time for me or the message I brought. I wondered if there would ever be enough members in that city to make a ward.
Six weeks I was alone. Six weeks I waited for a companion. Six weeks I wondered about what I might be doing had I stayed in Salt Lake City and continued my studies.
Even though the days and nights seemed at the time to be never ending, they eventually passed. A senior companion arrived, and we did the best we could under the circumstances to serve the Lord.
That year as Christmas Day approached, my companion and I decided we would walk to Oberndorf, a little village nestled in the beautiful Bavarian Alps. You may know that the beauty and majesty of this little village are what inspired Joseph Mohr in 1818 to write the wonderful hymn “Silent Night” (Hymns, number 204).
On Christmas Eve we walked to the village and sat quietly for a while in a small, humble church, listening to the beautiful organ music. A crisp, clear winter night enveloped us as we began our return trip. We walked under a canopy of stars and across the smooth stillness of new-fallen snow. Perhaps it was a night not unlike the one that inspired an assistant priest to write the lyrics to one of the most beloved hymns in all of Christendom more than a hundred years earlier.
As we walked, my companion and I talked of our hopes and dreams. We talked of our goals and what we wanted to have happen in our lives. The more we talked, the more serious we became about achieving the things we talked about. As we walked under the light of a full moon, we both made serious resolutions.
I committed that night that I would not waste my time. I would renew my efforts to serve the Lord. I made up my mind that I would magnify any callings I received in the Lord’s kingdom.
That was also the evening I made up my mind about whom I would marry. I didn’t know her name, but I had in my mind the type of person she would be—one who lived the gospel and who was strong spiritually. I even described her to my companion—that she would be 1.65 meters tall, that she would have blue eyes, and that she would have blond hair. Sister Wirthlin fits all of the description that I made of her at that time without knowing her. And so that night was important to me.

Anna Matilda Anderson huddled with her mother and sister, Ida, under the black umbrella. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the train approach. She shivered. This train would take her from Sweden and begin her journey to America.
“Be good and listen to Elder Carlson,” Anna’s mother whispered in Swedish. She held the girls close. Elder Carlson was a missionary who had been serving in Sweden for three years, since Anna was eight. Now it was time for him to return to his family in Idaho, in the United States.
When Mamma had decided to send Anna and Ida to America to escape the persecution in Sweden, Elder Carlson had offered to watch over them. Now he stood by the train. He motioned for the two girls to join him. Ida hugged her mother tightly and moved forward, but Anna stayed behind.
“I love you,” Anna said. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too. Now listen closely. If you come to a place where you can’t understand what the people are saying, don’t forget to pray to your Father in Heaven because He can understand you.”
Still thinking of her mother’s words, Anna got on the train and settled next to Ida and Elder Carlson. She had been excited about her first ride on a train, but now she only wanted one last glimpse of her mother. The train was too tall for her to see people’s faces, but she smiled when she saw her mother’s black umbrella held high above the crowd. It reminded her that Mamma was watching.
With a great bellow of smoke, the train lurched forward. At first it moved so slowly that Mamma ran beside the train. The black umbrella waved at Anna. But soon the black umbrella disappeared from view. Anna leaned against the windowpane and wondered what lay in store.
Several weeks later, Anna leaned against the windowpane of another train. This one was taking her to Salt Lake City, Utah. “America looks different than Sweden, ja?” she said to Ida.
“Ja,” Ida whispered back in Swedish. “But America is home now, and if we work hard enough, we can bring Mamma here too.”
There had not been enough money for Mamma to buy her own ticket. A family in Ogden, Utah, had paid for Ida’s passage to America. Ida would stay with them on their farm and work to repay them. But Anna would be staying with her aunt in Salt Lake City. Anna’s aunt had come to Utah several years earlier, and Mamma had written to tell her that Anna was coming.
After the train, they had taken a boat over the North Sea to Denmark. Then they sailed to England and Ireland before crossing the Atlantic Ocean and landing in New York City. Anna had been seasick for most of the 15-day journey. She had been relieved to board a train in New York headed to Utah.
“Ogden, Utah!” the conductor called. Anna still knew no English, but she recognized the name of the city. Her heart sank. It sank even further when Elder Carlson stood and picked up his and Ida’s bags.
“Do you have to go?” she asked her sister.
“Yes,” Ida said gently. “Don’t worry, Auntie will be there when you get to Salt Lake City.”
Anna watched as Ida and Elder Carlson met his family at the station. They would take Ida in a covered wagon to her new home on the farm and then travel on to Idaho. Now Anna felt truly alone.
The train rumbled through the night until it shuddered to a halt at the station in Salt Lake City. It was nearly midnight. Anna grabbed her bag and leapt down onto the platform. Her tired eyes searched for her aunt.
But there was no one waiting for her.
Fear slid over Anna. She scanned the platform again, hoping she had missed something. Her eyes lingered on the shadows. She tried to make out people’s features in the flickering gaslights. But her aunt was not there.
Strangers walked up to her and asked her questions. Anna thought they wanted to help, but she could not understand what they were saying.
She had never felt so scared in her life. Not when her classmates in Sweden had mocked her new faith. Not when she had been sick on the boat to New York. And not even when she had said good-bye to Mamma.
Anna closed her eyes and thought back to her mother’s words: “Don’t forget to pray to your Father in Heaven because He can understand you.”
Anna knelt on the platform next to her suitcase and prayed harder than she had ever prayed in her life. She prayed that Heavenly Father would send her someone who spoke Swedish and could understand her.
When she finished the prayer, she looked up. There was still no one waiting for her. But then she saw a German family she recognized from the train ride. The mother motioned for her to follow them. Still crying, Anna grabbed her bag and shuffled after them.
She followed them to the south gate of the Temple Square block. She looked at the spot where the beautiful new temple had been built. Then suddenly Anna heard rapid footsteps nearby. A woman was hurrying toward them, looking closely at all the arriving immigrants. The woman’s gaze passed over the German family. Then she paused on Anna. When Anna looked up, the woman stopped and stared. Anna stared back, hope rising in her.
Anna knew her! It was her Sunday School teacher who had gone to Utah only a year before! She knew her!
The teacher pulled Anna tightly into her arms. She wiped away Anna’s tears and whispered in Swedish, “I was awakened over and over again. Images of the arriving immigrants raced through my mind. I could not go back to sleep. I was prompted to come to the temple to see if there was anyone I knew here.” She took Anna’s hand and led her down the street. “Now come with me.”
Later Anna learned that her aunt and uncle had moved from Salt Lake and had not received her mother’s letter. Her teacher sent word to them, and they came to pick up Anna four days later. Eventually Ida and Anna were able to bring Mamma to America too.
But for now, none of that mattered. As Anna walked to her teacher’s home, she thought, “Heavenly Father more than answered my prayer. I only asked for someone who could understand me, and He sent someone I knew.”

Each of us remembers with affection the teachers of our youth. I think it amusing that my elementary school music teacher was a Miss Sharp. She had the capacity to infuse within her pupils a love for music and taught us to identify musical instruments and their sounds. I well recall the influence of a Miss Ruth Crow who taught the subject of health. Though these were Depression times, she ensured that each sixth-grade student had a dental health chart. She personally checked each pupil for dental health and made certain that through public or private resources, no child went without proper dental care. As Miss Burkhaus, who taught geography, rolled down the maps of the world and, with her pointer, marked the capital cities of nations and the distinctive features of each country, language, and culture, little did I anticipate or dream that one day I would visit these lands and peoples.

An illustration of the spirit of President Hunter occurred at the conclusion of a regional conference at BYU’s Marriott Center as he was exiting the building through the west tunnel. This was the period when he was just beginning to stand again and use his walker, but he was still a little unsteady. My son Lee and three of his children had attended the conference, and they were also exiting the Marriott Center through the west tunnel. As Lee and his children moved up the tunnel, his son Justin, who was wandering more left and right than in a straight line, drew dangerously close to President Hunter. Lee cautioned Justin, “Don’t get in President Hunter’s way.” President Hunter stopped for only a moment, turned his head around, smiled, and with a twinkle in his eye said, “Nothing gets in my way.”

My new husband and I knew the importance of family home evening in helping families learn to love each other and grow together, but our children were grown and on their own. It was hard for us to hold a family night until we decided to invite my husband’s mother. At the time my mother-in-law was 74 years old and belonged to another church. She worked in a flower shop and scarcely ventured from her routine of going to work and then home.
At first she was a little hesitant to come because she knew nothing of our faith, but now she looks forward to Monday nights. We share dinners, laughter, and music and have become very close. We know that she does not want us to try to convert her, but she does allow us to share stories about our faith. One evening I read a talk from one of the Church leaders. We all felt the Spirit. We have had opportunities to show her the Ensign, and she looks at every page. We have taught her what temples are for, and she has watched Church videos. We do these things sparingly, as the Spirit guides us.
Before one of our family home evenings, I asked her to teach the lesson. She brought pictures of herself when she was young and of my husband when he was a baby. I heard stories of aunts, uncles, grandmas, and grandpas. The happiness in her eyes as she relived these experiences made my heart almost burst. I realized then that the commandment to have family home evening is divine instruction from our Father in Heaven.
Many doors have been opened for my mother-in-law to learn things pertaining to the gospel. I don’t know that she will become a member of the Church during her life on earth, but I do know that our family has been strengthened and our love increased.
Dani Jeanne Stevens, Logan Ward, Huntington West Virginia Stake

Another of the great blessings of my life has been to feel the closeness of heaven during those moments when I sit at the bedside of people as they pass away. Early one morning some years ago, I entered the hospital room of a faithful Latter-day Saint widow who had cancer. Two of her daughters were sitting with her. As I went to her bedside, I quickly discovered that she was no longer suffering, because she had just died.

In that moment of death, the room was filled with peace. Her daughters had a sweet sadness, but their hearts were filled with faith. They knew that their mother was not gone but had returned home.23 Even in our moments of deepest grief, in the moments when time stands still and life seems so unfair, we can find comfort in our Savior because He suffered as well.24 It was a privilege for me to be in that room.

Sometimes it’s difficult for new members to stay rooted in the gospel when they don’t have a complete assurance of what the future holds. Learning about this aspect of faith for Mei-ling, a homemaker in Taiwan, involved the gospel admonition to bring children into the world, a challenging step because “many in my culture have one child or have a pet instead,” she observes. Each pregnancy has required her to have faith to step into the unknown and ignore sometimes intense criticism from relatives and the culture at large.
Often, moving forward requires stepping into the unknown, which can be intimidating to those new in the faith. It requires developing trust that the Lord will help them along the path. Having unease and uncertainty, Elder Bednar assures, is a normal part of our learning and growing process, but sometimes our steps into the unknown—whether they involve forming a family or returning to participation in the Church—can be particularly daunting because the witness comes after the trial of our faith (see Ether 12:6). Mei-ling and her husband received such a witness after creating a family. “We are happy and so grateful for our children,” she says. “We’ve learned to live frugally, to help and love each other. I’m grateful we brought them into the world.”

Sister Josivini in Fiji had difficulty seeing her way forward on the covenant path—literally. Her friend saw that Josivini struggled to see the scriptures well enough to read. She provided Josivini with new reading glasses and a bright yellow pencil to highlight every mention of Jesus Christ in the Book of Mormon. What started as a simple desire to minister and to help with scripture study has resulted in Josivini attending the temple for the first time 28 years after she was baptized.

Although many of our activities are the same as those of other boys around the world, we get to see and do different things because of the unique land we live in. For example, a few weeks ago the Cub Scouts and the Boy Scouts hiked through Wadi Kelt. A wadi is a riverbed at the bottom of a valley that is usually dry except during the rainy season. This wadi winds through part of the Judean wilderness, and is it hot! All you can see for miles around are bare, rocky hills and clear blue sky.
Many people believe that Wadi Kelt is the place where Elijah, an Old Testament prophet, was fed by ravens when he sealed the heavens so that no rain would fall.
After hiking through this wadi, I can see why Heavenly Father had to provide food for Elijah—there is nothing out there to keep a person alive! So before we started, we made sure that we packed a lunch and filled our canteens full of water. Our Cub Scout leaders kept reminding us to drink lots of water so that we wouldn’t get sick from the heat.
Our hike began fifteen miles away from Jericho and took us about four hours. We had lots of fun as we followed the wadi through the desert. Some of the boys spotted ibex on the steep cliffs. They look like wild goats, with huge horns that they butt with.
My friends and I also saw a bedouin shepherd with a herd of goats. Bedouins are desert people who live in tents and wander from place to place. Many of them still wear long robes and veils to protect them from the scorching sun.
About an hour after we had started, we came to a small waterfall that tumbled into a green pool below. Swimming in it was my favorite part of the hike, because that’s my best sport, besides basketball. The cool water felt good after our climb down the hillside, and before long we were all in the pool, splashing around and sliding down mossy rocks.
Ryan and Shaun Dennett, two friends in my den, found some dead crabs in the water. They scared some of the boys when they threw the crab legs at them. We also found some frogs, only they weren’t dead.
We sat on big rocks in the sun and dried off while we ate our lunches. Boy, did the cheese sandwich my mom packed taste good! I was starving! Just as I finished my last mouthful, Joel Galbraith, one of the older Scouts, called out, “Time to go. We still have a lot of hiking to do.”
As we climbed deeper into the dry valley, Shaun, Aaron, and I pretended that we were in the army. Aaron was a general, Shaun was a sergeant, and I was a colonel. We ran ahead and hid and dropped off cliffs, scaring the others as they came by.
Sometimes we would march along in the wadi, which was full of water from desert springs. The bottom and sides of it were slippery, and we pretended that we were ice-skating. At times the water was flowing so fast that it would push us along. The moss along the bottom was great to throw, and we had the best water and moss fight. We called it slime fighting.
Some parts of the hike were really steep, and a lot of us slipped on the loose rocks on the path. Joshua Rona, another Cub Scout, fell and hurt his foot. But Ian Boyd and Steve Rona, two older Scouts, made a foot brace for him out of a bandanna. It was pretty tricky.
The last part of the hike was the hardest. The sun beat down on us, and my feet hurt. But I continued to run ahead and look for the place that marked the end of our hike—St. George’s Monastery.
On my way I saw a man and two donkeys by the side of the wadi. The wadi is the only place where desert people can obtain water, and donkeys and camels are the only means by which water can be carried from the wadi to their tents.
At last I saw the great monastery, built on the side of the cliff. It sure looked neat, but I was just as interested in getting to the top, where a stand with cold drinks and ice cream was waiting.

At 16, after being a paper boy for five years, I was somewhat surprised when the manager of circulation asked me to be the assistant manager and act as the supervisor of all the newspaper boys in the city. It was quite an honor because of my youth, and I remember how grateful I felt to the Lord. I saw it as a direct blessing from the Lord in allowing me to grow and obtain additional development.
I worked as the assistant manager for about two years, and I will never forget the great challenge that then came to me. I had been paying my tithing regularly during that time and certainly believed in the principle, but I did not have as sure a witness of that principle as I was about to attain.
One Saturday afternoon after finishing work, the manager told me that starting a week from the following day, on Sunday, it would be necessary for me to work every Sunday morning. The manager was an inactive member of the Church at the time, and he knew that I was not going to react favorably to the suggestion. But he was quick to tell me that even though I would miss priesthood meeting and Sunday School, I could find some other means of attending meetings, and thus it would not be all that serious to skip those meetings. He then attempted to entice me by telling me that my pay would be increased by 30 percent, thinking that this might change my mind about the principle of not working on Sunday.
I remember how strongly those words fell upon my heart, but I also remember my response: “I am quite certain that I cannot work on Sunday.”
“Well,” he said, “you will have to work on Sunday or I will find another assistant manager.”
I left the office rather teary-eyed that day. I remember asking the Lord why I should lose my job as a result of the Church. I had been working hard to save enough money to support myself on a mission, and now I was going to lose my job unless I were willing to work on Sunday.
I talked to my father to ask his counsel, and all he would tell me was, “I am sure you will do what is right, whatever that may be.” I was left with the weight of the decision. I spoke later to my bishop and asked him what to do, and his advice was the same as my father’s. However, he added that if I decided to work on Sunday, there might be some possibility of my attending another ward for priesthood meeting as the neighboring ward was holding them in the afternoons at that period of time in the city where I lived. After talking to these two men, the feeling came over me that there was no way to resolve this matter except by finding out what the Lord would have me do.
The following Saturday I went in and announced to the manager that I would not work on Sunday. He informed me that since that was my choice, I would have one week and no longer as the assistant manager, and then I would be replaced by a young man who was “really willing to work.”
I left work that day with a very heavy heart, realizing that in five or six days I would be without a job. In one more year I was to go on my mission, and I did not yet have sufficient funds to support myself. I prayed much that week.
The following days at work seemed very long, and there were very few words spoken between my boss and me. I waited for the next Saturday, which was to be my last day.
Friday finally arrived. As I was finishing work that evening, the manager approached me and said, somewhat emotionally, “Gene, you are right in what you are doing, and I am wrong in asking you to work on Sunday. I have found a young man of another religion who is willing to work on Sunday, but I still want you to be my assistant manager. And by the way, that 30 percent increase will be given to you anyway, even though you will not be working the seventh day. You are a very good young man.”
My young friends, I will never forget the feeling of gratitude that came over me at that moment. I will also never forget my feelings that month as I paid more than an honest tithe and faithfully attended to my responsibilities on Sunday.

A few years ago two of our American churches on the West Coast were holding a convention in Salt Lake City. The people came from California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Utah, and Nevada and represented the Congregational and Evangelical churches. The leader of that group wrote a letter to President McKay and asked if he would send one of the General Authorities to talk for two hours in the morning session of their convention to tell them the story of Mormonism, then to remain as their guest for lunch, and then to stay an hour and a half in the afternoon for questions. Well, I got the assignment, and I don’t mind telling you I was glad to get it. I always tell our missionaries you never need to argue with anybody—“If you learn how to tell our story, you tell them things they’ve never heard of, and prove them out of their own Bibles.” When I arrived at the meeting, I asked, “Now, do you want it just the way we believe it, how we got the church and what we believe?”
The man in charge said, “That’s just what we want.” Some of them had to get away on earlier planes, so they moved the luncheon back half an hour and gave me two hours and a half in that morning session. I just gave them chapter and verse and showed them what we received through the restoration of the gospel. You remember the words of Peter when he said the heavens were to receive the Christ until the restitution of all things spoken by the mouths of all the holy prophets since the world began (see Acts 3:20–21). A restitution is not a reformation, which is how all these other churches have come into existence. They have tried to correct the mistakes of history, but we have a restitution of all things. I showed what we got by the coming of the different holy prophets, as Peter said, and when I was through, I had only one question out of all those ministers and church leaders. You might be interested in that question. The man in charge said, “Now, Mr. Richards, you’ve told us that you believe that God is a personal god.”
I said, “That’s right.”
He said, “We’re heard it said that you believe that God has a wife. Would you explain that to us?”
I think he thought he had me in a corner and that I couldn’t do it. So rather facetiously I said, “Well, I don’t see how in the world he could have a Son without a wife, do you?” They all began to titter, and I didn’t have any more trouble with that question.

Recently my husband and I had dinner with some friends. The conversation turned to religion, and one friend, a less-active member of the Church, began telling me why the Church was not true.
In the course of his explanation, he became adamant, hostile, and angry. The entire time I sat and listened. At first I felt like crying, but then I became angry and wanted to tell him off. The still, small voice, however, told me to be quiet.
Our friend didn’t finish his tirade until we had finished our dinner and paid the bill. Then he paused, as if waiting for my rebuttal. I sat there for a moment in silent prayer. Then, in a soft voice, I calmly said, “Do you know what I like best about going to church on Sunday? The sacrament. It allows me the opportunity to quietly bow my head and pray to Heavenly Father. I tell Him all the ways in which I could have done things differently during the past week, and I seek for ways to improve.”
Then I added, “I think of all the people I tried to be a blessing to during the past week, and I ask Heavenly Father to help me find more people to bless during the coming week. I am thankful that I have time during the sacrament each week to do this and to become the best I can be.”
Our friend looked at me and said nothing. We left the restaurant and walked to the car. I then asked him if he remembered all of the self-help books I had on my bookshelf at home. He did. I told him that since I had joined the Church, I had never read another self-help book. I said the only book I get my answers from anymore is the Book of Mormon.
A few days later he called to apologize.

While reading through the May 2007 issue of the Liahona, I was deeply moved by Elder Jay E. Jensen’s talk, “The Nourishing Power of Hymns.” I too have a strong testimony of the power of hymns. In February 2000, while listening to a local radio show, I heard a song I had never heard before. I not only enjoyed the flow of the music, but I also enjoyed the manner in which the group sang and the message the song carried. I later learned that this song was by a group called Latter-day Saints. I wanted to get the full text of this song. I decided I must visit this church. The first Sunday I attended, my first task was to get a hymnbook. There it was—hymn number 30, “Come, Come, Ye Saints.” I was baptized a few months later.
Richard S. Scotland, Liberia

As soon as the bell rang, Lincoln started walking to the parking lot as fast as he could. He couldn’t wait to get home from school!
He stood on his tiptoes, looking at all the buses and cars in the pickup lane. Classmates rushed by him, laughing and talking. But Lincoln didn’t feel like joining them. He prayed that his mom would get there soon. Finally he saw their blue minivan.
“Hi, buddy,” Mom said as the van door slid open. Lincoln climbed in and pulled the door shut. All the noise went quiet. It was like he had clicked the mute button on the TV remote.
Lincoln sighed with relief. The quiet felt so good.
“How was your day?” Mom asked.
Instead of answering, Lincoln started to cry.
Mom looked at him in the rearview mirror.
“Uh oh, what happened?” she asked. “Are you OK? Did you get hurt?”
Lincoln wanted to answer, but his throat felt tight. Even if he could talk, he didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know,” he finally mumbled.
“You don’t know why you’re crying?” Mom asked.
Lincoln shrugged. “I feel worried and nervous and scared, and I don’t even know why!” He cried harder, glad that he didn’t have to hold it in anymore.
“It sounds like you are feeling anxious,” Mom said. “Sometimes I feel like that too. I actually feel that way a lot.”
“You do?” Lincoln asked, wiping his cheeks with his sleeve.
“Yep. For me, it happens when I’m tired or I’ve been around a lot of people without a break.”
Lincoln nodded. That sounded like his day today! He was glad he wasn’t the only one who felt this way sometimes.
But there was still something he didn’t understand.
“At church I learned that when we choose the right, we feel good inside,” Lincoln said. “I don’t think I did anything bad today, but I still feel terrible!”
Mom looked at him with a smile. “Our feelings can be funny like that. Not all unhappy feelings are because of bad choices. There are lots of reasons we can feel unhappy or anxious. Sometimes we don’t even know why we feel the way we do.”
Lincoln thought about that during the rest of the drive. He was glad his anxious feelings weren’t because of something he did wrong. When they got home, they said a prayer together and asked Heavenly Father for help. Then Mom helped him figure out some things he could try to feel better.
First Lincoln got a snack. Then he played with his toys for a while. After that, he read a few chapters of a book he had gotten for his birthday.
Pretty soon, his body felt more relaxed. The nervous thoughts weren’t racing through his brain anymore.
Lincoln thanked Heavenly Father for helping him feel better and learn more about his feelings. He could use the ideas he’d learned next time he felt anxious too. Things were going to be OK!