Gospel Story Finder

When I was 15 years old, I realized the significance of a testimony of the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith, and the Savior and how it affects our choices.
My brother, Joe, was 20 years old. It was during the Korean conflict, and only one young man in each ward could go on a mission. The others had to be available to be drafted into the military. A young man in our ward had gone on a mission early in the year; my brother’s birthday was in September, so he didn’t think he would get the opportunity to serve a mission.
Our stake president called my brother in and told him that one of the wards had not used its allotment and he might be able to go. Missionaries were called at 20 years of age in those days, and my brother had just filled out his application to medical school. He was a good student. My father, who was not active in the Church, had made financial preparations to help him with medical school and was disappointed when he learned of the conversation with the stake president. My father counseled Joe not to go and suggested that he could do more good by going to medical school.
This was a big issue in our family. That night my brother and I talked about the choice. He was five years older, so it was mainly his thinking. As we reasoned it out, we concluded: If Jesus Christ was a great man but not divine, if Joseph Smith was a wonderful teacher but not a prophet, or if the Book of Mormon had wonderful counsel but was not the word of God, then Dad was right—it would be better to go to medical school. But if Jesus Christ is divine, if Joseph Smith is a prophet, and if the Book of Mormon is the word of God, then it would be more important to accept the call and proclaim the gospel.
That night, more than ever before, I wanted to know the answers to these questions. I had always believed in the divinity of Jesus Christ. I believed in Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, but I wanted confirmation from the Lord. That night, as I prayed, the Spirit bore witness to my soul of the Savior and the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. My brother received the same witness and made the choice to serve a mission. Incidentally, when my brother returned from his mission, he went to medical school. When I reached my 20th birthday, my father was happy to see me serve a mission.

After the completion of his mission, “life was not easy,” says Prince.

“We were still struggling as a family to put meals on the table, but that did not affect my faith in Jesus Christ.”

A former mission friend suggested that he try to move to America to study.

But in order to do that, he needed to secure a study visa. “When I went to apply for my visa the first time it was rejected because I did not have strong enough family ties to prove I would come back to Kenya after my schooling,” he says. “I was determined. I felt this was my opportunity to excel in life and somehow improve life for my family. So, I tried a second time. Again, my application was rejected.”

Undeterred, Prince decided to give it one more go.

On the way to the embassy to submit a third application, he stopped in at his older brother’s office, who had agreed to provide a bank statement to bolster his case.

His older brother asked someone to prepare a drink for Prince, and after a few minutes he was presented with a cup of tea.

“I told my brother, who was not a member, ‘you know I do not take tea.’

“He apologized and laughed and asked the lady to prepare drinking chocolate for me. I responded, ‘Do not worry, just give me the documents and I will rush to the embassy.’

“But,” says Prince, “he insisted.”

Prince waited while the hot chocolate was prepared, drank it, got the document, and left.

He was walking past the Kenya Cinema—only a few meters away from the American embassy—when he heard a blast.

That blast was the sound of gunshots.

“If I had left only three minutes earlier, I would have been caught in the middle of the August 1998 terrorist attack on the US embassy,” says Prince.

“Those extra three minutes waiting for the hot chocolate to be prepared saved my life.”

More than 200 people died in terrorist attacks in East Africa that day, “but I feel I was protected personally because I lived the Word of Wisdom,” says Prince.

“I can testify that if I had thought that drinking tea was a small commandment, I am not sure I would be alive today.”

Prince saw the very real promises contained in section 89 of the Doctrine and Covenants come into play: “And I, the Lord, give unto them a promise, that the destroying angels shall pass by them . . . and not slay them” (verse 21).

In the end, Prince never went to America. He discovered that “the Lord had great plans for me here in Kenya,” he says.

While serving as a mission president in Africa, I was forever taught this great truth. I was on my way to a meeting when I saw a young boy alone, crying hysterically on the side of the road. A voice within me said, “Stop and help that boy.” As quick as I heard this voice, in a split second, I rationalized: “You can’t stop. You will be late. You’re the presiding officer and can’t walk in late.”

When I arrived at the meetinghouse, I heard the same voice say again: “Go help that boy.” I then gave my car keys to a Church member named Afasi and asked him to bring the boy to me. About 20 minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The young boy was outside.

He was about 10 years of age. We found out his father was dead and his mother was in jail. He lived in the slums of Accra with a caretaker, who gave him food and a place to sleep. To earn his board, he sold dried fish on the streets. But after this day of hawking, when he reached in his pocket, he found a hole in it. He had lost all his earnings. Afasi and I knew immediately that if he returned without the money, he would be called a liar, most likely beaten, and then cast out onto the street. It was in that moment of alarm when I first saw him. We calmed his fears, replaced his loss, and took him back home to his caretaker.

As I went home that evening, I realized two great truths. First, I knew as never before that God is mindful of each of us and will never forsake us; and second, I knew that we must always hearken to the voice of the Spirit within us and go “straightway” wherever it takes us, regardless of our fears or any inconvenience.

Gennevieve Acain De Jesus traveled from Palawan with her family, after saving up with her seven-year old daughter for more than a year, selling baked goods, arrozcaldo, and champorado.
Her mother was supposed to be with them but she unexpectedly passed away weeks before the trip. Gennevieve brought a photo of her parents and snapped a picture with the temple in the background, symbolizing that they were still with her in spirit.
“When we saw the Temple, the burden was lifted off my back,” Gennevieve said.
They met old friends and new acquaintances.
“They were hugging us and happy to meet us,” she described. “The whole experience was like a gathering of Israel, a glimpse of a great reunion on Christ’s second coming.”

The experience began in February 2023 when Elder Doneal White and Sister Claudia White arrived in the Cook Islands to serve a mission where there was no stake patriarch. In an early morning seminary class, they heard that 14 students told their teacher they had not received their patriarchal blessings. Wheels were set in motion and soon thereafter Brother Stebbings was authorised to travel to the Cook Islands to provide the desired blessings.
Elder and Sister White said they had prayed the Stebbings there—to the Cook Islands, and the timing was perfect—with a district conference during that time, and it was school holidays—plus a national youth soccer tournament the following week had brought in two groups of members for the tournament—and they could receive their blessings.

“Whose bright idea was it to come down in this dungeon?” Amy asked.
Just moments before, the debaters had been trying to study together in the school library, preparing for the state tournament that afternoon. The distractions became unbearable, so at Darin’s suggestion, they had relocated to the basement, in a secluded room the librarian said was only used occasionally, for tutoring.
“Excuse me?” Darin questioned.
“She’s referring to your idea of coming down here,” Jodi said, looking up from her book.
“Do you have a better idea?” Darin snapped back. It was like that with the debate team. Sometimes it seemed they couldn’t have any kind of conversation without turning it into a discussion of pros and cons.
“Hey, we’re leaving soon anyway. At least now I can hear myself think,” Brent jumped to Darin’s defense.
“I don’t understand what the problem with the library was,” Matt added. The debate continued. First, about how ugly and cold the room was. Then about Social Security, the topic of the tournament. Then movies, then … They were the intellectually elite of the school, skilled at making arguments. Getting any of them to back down was next to impossible.
The classroom door slowly opened. A young man entered and observed them carefully. They seemed oblivious to his presence.
“Excuse me,” he finally said.
“Did you need something?” Jodi said. She acknowledged his presence but was too caught up in the group discussion to be bothered.
“Yeah, I’m supposed to meet my math tutor down here. The principal sent me.”
“We’ll be done in a minute,” Matt said without looking up.
The young man eyed the others, then found a seat on the opposite side of the room. He chuckled to himself as he listened to their arguments. He recognized Darin and Matt as two of the smartest students in the school. He was definitely out of his league.
The ground beneath his feet suddenly seemed to move. The arguing stopped. The lights flickered. Then things crashed around them. Amy screamed as a large beam dropped from the ceiling, forcing her to the ground. Her arms flailed out, grabbing empty air for some support.
“Get under something!” the young man yelled as he dove for the ground. A sharp pain took him by surprise as the corner of a desk crashed into his head. A pipe burst, showering the room with cold water. It was totally dark.
Almost as quickly as it had begun, the room stopped shaking. The teenagers sat petrified for a moment as the gushing water slowed to a trickle before stopping.
Everything was suddenly silent. Thick dust drifted in the cool air, making it hard to breathe. Finally someone spoke, “Is everyone all right?”
The voice was answered with a muffled groan, a couple of coughs, and someone crying.
“What happened?” another voice asked.
Jodi stood up, spilling ceiling tiles and other debris into the puddle below her. “I think we just had an earthquake.”
Amy whispered in quiet, scared gasps, “Help me!”
The young man heard her cry. “Where are you?”
“Please hurry!” came the weak reply.
He kneeled down and began searching. His heart jumped as his hand finally fell on her cold arm.
“Please help. It hurts so bad!”
“It’s okay. Everything is going to be all right!”
He found the heavy ceiling beam resting across Amy’s small frame. He tested its weight and lifted. Slowly it rose. Amy cried out.
“You’ve got to push yourself free!” he gasped.
He was answered by short gasps of pain and fear. The burning in his muscles was overwhelming, telling him he couldn’t hold the beam up much longer. Just then someone startled him.
“I can help.”
“Pull her out of the way,” he managed to gasp. “Be careful; she’s hurt!”
Amy let out another cry as she was pulled to safety.
“Amy, it’s Jodi. You’re going to be all right!”
The strength in his fingers gave out, and he let the wood crash to the floor.
Brent soon found his way to Amy’s side.
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere. It really hurts to breathe,” Amy said softly.
Darin found his way to the others.
“The door’s stuck,” he informed them. “It won’t budge.”
“Looks like we’ll have to wait until someone finds us,” Jodi sighed.
“It better be soon,” Brent said matter-of-factly. “We need to get Amy some help.”
They became quiet as they contemplated their situation. Amy broke the silence with her quiet voice, “What’s your name?”
The young man realized she was speaking to him.
“Reegan.”
“Thank you, Reegan,” her voice trailed off.
“No problem,” Reegan replied, “just try not to talk.” He found Amy’s hand. It was cold and weak but still managed to close around his own.
“Where’s Matt?” Darin asked, suddenly remembering they hadn’t accounted for everyone.
“Over here,” came a reply from across the room. “I’m trying to find my backpack. My flashlight’s in it.”
The group settled down in the dark, listening. The floor was wet and cold, and the dark, dirty air stuck to them.
“Do you think they’ll find us?” Jodi asked fearfully.
“Oh, sure. They’ll have us out of here in no time,” Brent responded, a little uncertainly.
“Hey, Reegan, way to pick the right time for tutoring!” Darin said.
“No kidding,” Reegan said. “If I had known it was going to be like this in here, I’d have stayed upstairs.”
“I found it!” Matt cried.
Suddenly a large circle of light appeared on Reegan’s head. He squinted. The light bobbed around the room. The ceiling tiles were now all about them on the floor, exposing old pipes, beams, and wires. Then with a clank the light disappeared.
“Oh no, I dropped it!” Matt said. He reached for the flashlight, found it, and pushed the button. Nothing happened. He pushed it again, and his spirits dropped.
“Way to go, klutz!” Brent grumbled.
“Hey, Houdini, why don’t you pull a flashlight out of your hat,” Matt shot right back.
The fireworks began. The room, no longer silent, echoed the irritation as the debaters took turns blaming each other for their predicament. Finally Reegan let out a piercing whistle. The room quieted immediately.
“Hey, you guys. I know we’re all scared, but I really don’t think anyone here caused the earthquake,” he said.
“Well, God sure picked a nice time to give us a jolt,” Jodi said smugly.
“Oh, please. Do we really need your religious mumbo-jumbo to explain why the ground started shaking?” Brent asked.
“You believe what you want; I’ll believe what I want,” Jodi answered.
“Show me some proof, and I’ll believe anything,” Darin said.
Reegan chuckled. His memory returned to a few nights before when he sat in the home of a young couple. He’d been with the missionaries on splits. In the home he remembered hearing the same statement about showing proof.
“What’s so funny?” Darin asked.
“Nothing. I was just thinking it would be tough to show you guys anything,” Reegan said.
Time seemed to stop in the empty darkness. The group sat impatient and anxious, each engrossed in thought. Reegan closed his eyes as he silently prayed for help.
“Someday when we’re out of here, you’ll have to show me your proof of God, Jodi,” Darin finally said.
“Maybe we won’t get out of here, and you’ll be able to see him yourself.”
“What do you think, Reegan? You a churchgoer?” Brent asked.
“Well, yeah,” Reegan said.
“What church do you go to?” Brent asked.
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Hey, I’m a Mormon too,” Matt said excitedly. “But I haven’t been to church since I was little.”
“That’s too bad. It’s an all-right place to be.”
“I think anyplace would be better than here,” Darrin moaned. “So what exactly do Mormons believe?”
“You want the condensed version?”
“I don’t think we’re going anywhere soon.”
Reegan took a deep breath. Then he recited the Articles of Faith. The group sat in silence and let the statements sink in.
“You know, I don’t mean to be rude or arrogant,” Jodi said, “but I am one of the top students in the school. I’ve studied all kinds of religions, and science just doesn’t seem to support any of them. What does that tell you?”
“I think it’s wonderful that you’ve become so knowledgeable about things of this world,” Reegan answered. “But you’d be even wiser to keep in mind that maybe—just maybe—there’s some truth to what I’ve just told you.”
“Only an idiot would believe something just because someone tells them it’s true,” Darin said, building a defense. “We’re debaters. We’re skeptical by nature. We want cold, hard facts.”
“Let me ask you something then, Darin,” Reegan said. “Who taught you how to read?”
“My parents.”
“How do you know they taught you the right way?”
Darin laughed. “Because when I open a book and see all those letters, my mind can transform them into words. Where are you going with this?”
“Patience, Darin. When you were learning to read, you had to trust your parents as they taught you the alphabet. Also, when they taught you the sounds and uses of each letter and then taught you to recognize those letters and words in simple sentences, you had to believe them. How long was it before you could read without their help?”
“A while. So what?”
“There weren’t any cold, hard facts involved in learning to read. You learned because you initially trusted that your parents knew how and would teach you. Now look at the great advantages you have gained through reading; it’s opened many doors for you. My church’s beliefs are kind of like that. We don’t start out with a complete knowledge. We learn it and earn it. I can’t debate truth with you, and I can’t make you believe what I believe—nor should I be able to. What I can do, what we can all do, is share what we know with others. Take them by the hand for those first few steps and let them see for themselves if it’s right or wrong.”
“Let’s just say for argument’s sake that there is a God and that this gospel you describe is true. Then why doesn’t everybody know it?” Brent asked. “It doesn’t seem fair that only a few people should be privileged.”
“You guys know what foods are good for you and which aren’t,” Reegan said. “You probably even know what size portions of certain things to eat to help you remain healthy, right? But do you suppose there are people in this world who are so hungry that they’ll eat anything, even if it’s not good for them?”
The group agreed.
“Well, that doesn’t make the knowledge of nutrition that you have untrue. But it does give you the opportunity to share it. It’s the same with the gospel. People are hungry for truth, so hungry they just want to be fed. Unfortunately there are others who take advantage of that hunger and use it for their own gain.”
“That’s kind of a cool concept,” Brent said.
“Hey, I’m completely serious when I tell you it’s just what I know,” Reegan answered. “I don’t want to debate or argue about it. If there’s one thing that can’t be argued, it’s the truth.”
“Come on, guys,” Darin said. “You’re not buying this, are you?”
No one responded.
“Listen, I didn’t mean to offend anybody,” Reegan apologized.
“You didn’t,” Amy added quietly. “We’re used to opposing points of view.”
Darin sighed his disgust in the darkness. Just then Reegan felt a cold hand on his arm.
“Will you please pray for us?” Amy asked weakly.
Suddenly fear sprang into Reegan’s heart. They were all so much smarter than he was. How could he pray in front of them? But quickly the hesitation vanished. Of course he would pray.
“Is that okay with everybody?” he asked.
The response was affirmative, even from Darin. “It can’t hurt, I guess,” he said.
Reegan took a deep breath then began. He gave thanks to Heavenly Father for their safety. He asked for comfort and strength, that Amy might be all right until help arrived, and that she would recover quickly and fully. He then asked that they be found. He also asked that they each might learn to put their faith in God and recognize his hand in all good things. When he finished, Reegan felt the presence of the Holy Ghost. He hoped the others did too.
As the hours continued to pass, the gloom and hopelessness began to settle back in. What was happening on the outside remained a mystery. Stomachs growled from hunger. Parched lips burned for water. The musty air was turning stale. Amy’s labored breathing continued as each person slowly dozed off.
Then they heard a horrendous crash beyond the door. In an instant they were sitting up wide-eyed as could be. What sounded like a muffled chain saw ripped through the air. A thin sliver of light appeared under the doorway. Those who were able jumped to their feet. They pounded on the large steel door, hoping that someone on the other side would hear them.
The chain saw stopped. Then, after some tugging, the door swung open. They all squinted as bright light entered the room.
“He’s here!” a voice called out. There was a brief pause before the same voice called out in confusion. “And there are more!”
They were rescued.
A couple of weeks later Reegan opened the mailbox. The large goose egg on his forehead had all but disappeared, erasing the only evidence of the excitement of the weeks past. As he walked back toward his house, he opened an envelope addressed to him. He pulled out a large thank-you card and began reading.
“Hey, Reegan, thank you so much for saving my life. The doctor said that with my punctured lung it was a miracle I lasted as long as I did. If it hadn’t been for your faith, I wouldn’t be here today. Love, Amy.”
Another note read, “Reegan, you showed me your religion by your example, and what an impression it has made. Thank you for what you taught me that I wouldn’t have learned otherwise. Matt.”
He continued reading. “Hey, Reegan, I just wanted to thank you. I hear the principal suddenly remembered she sent you down to the basement. Had she forgotten, we’d probably still be there. At any rate, we were the ones who needed tutoring that day. I’ve learned that love and compassion are more important than man’s knowledge. Thanks, Brent.”
Jodi had also scribbled a short message. “It’s amazing how my outlook on life has changed since our adventure. I think it really helped to get my world ‘shaken’ up. Love, Jodi.”
The final words were from Darin. “Hey, Reegan. I have to admit your example has taught me that, believe it or not, I don’t know everything. I’m beginning to see that there are things in life we just can’t learn about in school. I’m going to try to listen better. It’s nice to know a person like you. Oh, one more thing. Can I really debate with the two missionaries you’re bringing over?”
Reegan smiled to himself as he returned the card to the envelope. He envisioned himself on Darin’s porch with the elders.
“No, Darin. There’s no debate. But you can talk and listen all you want.”

The panel discussions had everyone’s interest. All the participants were given slips of paper. They could write any question they wanted discussed without a name attached. They put all the questions into a hat and then the stake president, several bishops, and Young Women leaders would attempt to answer the questions as they were drawn at random. The panel did reserve the right to refer the question to someone more knowledgeable or simply not answer.
“All the questions were interesting,” said Jaran Rosaker, Oslo Third Ward. His friend, Tarjei Gylseth agreed, “And they gave good answers as well.”

The need for happiness is a paramount need—lasting happiness, not fleeting happiness. True happiness comes from knowing one’s purpose in life and in fulfilling it. When I served as a mission president in Scotland, two of our fine sisters taught a man in his 80s, and he was baptized. In a testimony meeting soon afterwards, he stood and gave thanks that he now had purpose in life. “I was waiting to die when the sisters knocked on my door,” he said tearfully. Before long, he was called as counselor in the ward Sunday School presidency, and later as Sunday School president. He had great joy and happiness in his church service and made many new friends. A year or so passed and he visited Salt Lake City, made more friends, and gained more experiences, including going to the temple for the first time. When he did step from this life a few months after his return to Scotland, what a full and purposeful life he had had—and all within two years.

A few days ago I was called to the hospital bedside of a mother in the terminal stages of a serious illness. She passed away a short time later, leaving her husband and four children, including a little boy of six. There was sorrow, deep and poignant and tragic. But shining through their tears was a faith beautiful and certain that as surely as there was now a sorrowful separation, there would someday be a glad reunion, for that marriage had begun with a sealing for time and eternity in the house of the Lord under the authority of the holy priesthood.

Every man who truly loves a woman, and every woman who truly loves a man, hopes and dreams that their companionship will last forever. But marriage is a covenant sealed by authority. If that authority is of the state alone, it will endure only while the state has jurisdiction, and that jurisdiction ends with death. But add to the authority of the state the power of the endowment given by Him who overcame death, and that companionship will endure beyond life if the parties to the marriage live worthy of the promise.

When I was much younger and less brittle, we danced to a song whose words went something like this:
Is love like a rose
That blossoms and grows,
Then withers and goes
When summer is gone?
It was only a dance ballad, but it was a question that has been asked through the centuries by men and women who loved one another and looked beyond today into the future of eternity.
To that question we answer no, and reaffirm that love and marriage under the revealed plan of the Lord are not like the rose that withers with the passing of summer. Rather, they are eternal, as surely as the God of heaven is eternal.
But this gift, precious beyond all others, comes only with a price—with self-discipline, with virtue, with obedience to the commandments of God. These may be difficult, but they are possible under the motivation that comes of an understanding of truth.
Brigham Young once declared: “There is not a young man in our community who would not be willing to travel from here to England to be married right, if he understood things as they are; there is not a young woman in our community, who loves the Gospel and wishes its blessings, that would be married in any other way.” (Discourses of Brigham Young, p. 195.)
Many have traveled that far and even farther to receive the blessings of temple marriage. I have seen a group of Latter-day Saints from Japan who had denied themselves food to make possible the long journey to the Hawaii Temple. In London we met those who had gone without necessities to afford the 7,000 mile flight from South Africa to the temple in Surrey, England. There was a light in their eyes and smiles on their faces and testimonies from their lips that it was worth infinitely more than all it had cost.
And I remember hearing in New Zealand the testimony of a man from the far side of Australia who, having been previously sealed by civil authority and then joined the Church with his wife and children, had traveled all the way across that wide continent, then across the Tasman Sea to Auckland, and down to the temple in the beautiful valley of the Waikata. As I remember his words, he said, “We could not afford to come. Our worldly possessions consisted of an old car, our furniture, and our dishes. I said to my family, ‘We cannot afford to go.’ Then I looked into the faces of my beautiful wife and our beautiful children, and I said, ‘We cannot afford not to go. If the Lord will give me strength, I can work and earn enough for another car and furniture and dishes, but if I should lose these my loved ones, I would be poor indeed in both life and in eternity.’”
How shortsighted so many of us are, how prone to look only at today without thought for the morrow. But the morrow will surely come, as will also come death and separation. How sweet is the assurance, how comforting is the peace that come from the knowledge that if we marry right and live right, our relationship will continue, notwithstanding the certainty of death and the passage of time. Men may write love songs and sing them. They may yearn and hope and dream. But all of this will be only a romantic longing unless there is an exercise of authority that transcends the powers of time and death.
Speaking from this pulpit many years ago, President Joseph F. Smith said, “The house of the Lord is a house of order and not a house of confusion; and that means … that there is no union for time and eternity that can be perfected outside of the law of God and the order of His house. Men may desire it, they may go through the form of it in this life, but it will be of no effect except it be done and sanctioned by divine authority, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.” (Gospel Doctrine, 1971–72 Melchizedek Priesthood course of study, vol. 2, p. 1.)

“Breathe deeply and exhale slowly,” his mother had said on their way to church. That’s what he did now. Then he breathed in again and tried letting the air out in short spurts.
“Why am I so scared? I’m not. I can’t be. I’ve got to get it together.”
He fingered his Book of Mormon and then pulled out the worn paper. He unfolded it carefully because the creases looked ready to tear.
“Brothers and Sisters, I’m happy to have this opportunity to speak” wasn’t a very original way to begin. He folded the talk, stuck it in his pocket, then took it out of his pocket and put it back into the front of his Book of Mormon. What was that joke about seeing a Nephite? Maybe he should begin with that instead.
“Brothers and Sisters, have you ever seen a Nephite? Well, if you could see behind the pulpit, you’d really see a good one. My knees are really trying to knock each other down!” No, his father would never tell a joke like that. He’d just stick to the words on the paper. It would be better not to take any chances.
He took out his hanky and wiped his hands. Why wouldn’t they stop trembling? He just had to stop his body from shaking or his voice would shake too.
“Brothers and Sisters, I’m happy to be here today. I’m happy to have this opportunity. When the bishop, my dad, asked me to speak, I …” Dumb! Why hadn’t he thought of a better introduction?
It’d been three years since he’d spoken in front of people. Three whole years! Since that time he had always avoided it somehow. But the memory of his last experience had dimmed with time, and he wanted to learn to get up in front of people, so he’d said yes. Now the memory of that former talk seemed painfully fresh again. There he was, struggling and stuttering. He could remember that talk even now. But back then, when he’d seen all those faces, the talk he’d memorized had vanished. It had simply evaporated. “But I didn’t have my notes with me that day,” he thought. “That was my downfall. I hadn’t taken my notes because I wanted to look super-intelligent. Besides, Dad never uses any. But now I’ve got notes, so there won’t be any problem.” If there would be no problem, he wondered, why was he so scared?
Announcements over, his dad sat down a few seats from Jack and cleared his throat. Jack looked at his dad’s profile so much like his own. “But that’s where the similarity ends,” Jack thought. “Dad’s such a powerful speaker.” His father’s talks were always rich with experiences and stories. “I don’t have one story in this talk,” Jack thought. “Everyone will fall asleep. Well, better if they do.”
His father, sensing Jack’s gaze, looked over, smiled, and nodded. Jack smiled back, tried to swallow the frog in his throat, and took out his notes again. “If I were more of a ‘chip off the old block,’ I wouldn’t be worrying like this.” But then he made a tight fist. “I don’t need to be just like Dad. I don’t need to be outgoing and dynamic. I can be just as good as myself.”
He lowered his head and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It wouldn’t do to have the wetness fog up his glasses. Then a thought came to Jack that made him shudder. He pushed his toes hard against the soles of his shoes. “What if I break down? What if I break down and cry or something? Cry, out of pure fright. No, I wouldn’t do that. I know I wouldn’t. Brothers and Sisters, I’m happy. …” It would just take eight and a half minutes. For eight and a half minutes he could surely control himself. “Maybe my voice will crack a time or two in those eight and a half minutes, but I don’t think I’ll really break down, at least I hope …”
Sister Carlson was leading the sacrament hymn now, and Jack opened the hymn book and thumbed through it for the hymn. He hadn’t heard the page number. When he had finally looked in the index and found “Come, Follow Me,” he joined in on the last verse. But something was wrong with his voice. It wasn’t clear and deep. It was hoarse and timid. “I don’t have a voice. How can I give a talk without a voice?” He cleared his throat, coughed, and then tried to sing again. This time he was relieved to hear his voice clearing up a little.
“The Word of Wisdom is important for us to follow because …” The words to his talk were flowing through his mind now, but not in order. They were all jumbled. He sang a few more words and then breathed deeply in and out again.
After the sacrament Jack saw his father shuffle a few papers, smile over at him, and walk to the podium. “This is it,” Jack thought. “Dad’s going to introduce the speakers now and I’m first. At least it’ll be over within eight and a half minutes from now.”
His father’s rich, bass voice echoed through the chapel. Dynamic, a powerful speaker. The congregation was staring up at the podium. In a moment he, Jack Miller, would be up there with everyone staring at him, expecting so much. There was a thickness in his chest and a slight pain. A heart attack. Maybe he’d have a heart attack.
“I can’t get up there! I can’t do it! I don’t even think my legs will hold me when I stand up. I think I’m going to be very sick any minute. I’ve got to tell Dad I can’t. I … no, I’ve got to do it. I’ve just got to.” It didn’t make any sense. Where was his great self-image? This morning in front of the mirror, he’d read his talk without a single error. He’d even used his hands, and he’d been in perfect control.
“We have a little problem tonight, Brothers and Sisters,” his father was saying. “It seems we were unwise in calling as our main speakers Brother and Sister Emery. We hope our asking them to speak didn’t start Sister Emery’s labor, but whatever the cause, a little spirit seems very anxious to join our ward family. I just received a note that the Emerys are at the hospital right now.” Everyone chuckled. Everyone except Jack. “Therefore, his father turned and smiled at him. “We’ll tell our youth speaker, my son Jack, that he can have all the time he wants. I’m sure he’s happy about that.” The congregation chuckled again as Jack felt the heat rushing to his head. He had been so concerned about his own talk that he hadn’t even noticed that the Emerys were missing. “There goes the eight and a half minutes,” he thought.
“Then maybe we’ll ask a few members of the ward here tonight to say a few words,” his dad continued. “But before my son speaks, I’d like to say a few words about something I’ve been thinking about quite a bit lately—the priesthood.” His father confidently placed one hand on the pulpit and put the other in his pocket.
Jack put his head in his hands. Oh no, this couldn’t be. He’d have to follow his dad. This was even worse than he’d thought. “Now I know I can’t do it,” he cried to himself. But what was his father saying?
“In our family we have someone who has used his power of the priesthood and magnified it. But then, even when he was small he believed in the power of the priesthood.” The warmth rushed to Jack’s head again as he realized his father was talking about him. “I have a special story about Jack that’s important to our family, and I’d like to share it with you. It’s special because …”
Jack looked up to see why his dad was pausing so long. He saw that his dad had taken his hand out of his pocket and was grasping the podium.
“It’s special because …”
“Not that story, Dad. Please. You can’t ever get through it.” Jack was writhing in his seat now, but not for himself. He knew the story well. His dad had blessed him after the automobile accident, and it had saved his life. But his dad had never tried telling it in public. Why now?
“My boy was only three, but he asked for a blessing …” Bishop Miller’s voice was coming out in spurts and his fingers were turning white. This time the pause was longer. “You’ll … you’ll have to excuse me. I shouldn’t try to tell this story. I …” Two more times he began the story, but emotion overcame him. Two more times he stopped, each time pausing longer than before. “I’m sorry … I … The doctors had said …” His father stood at the podium silently now, unable to control his voice. Jack sat behind him on the edge of his seat, grasping the arm rests. He had only one thought: “I’ve got to help Dad.”
As if all emotion had transferred itself, Jack felt curiously calm as he stood up straight and walked the few steps to the pulpit. There he put his arm around his father. “Bishop, I mean, Dad, let me finish the story for you.” His father turned to him in surprise, the tears still trickling from underneath his glasses. Then he nodded with relief and sat down.
It was strange how courageous he felt as he told the story that was so important to their family. Some of the members of the congregation wiped their eyes at its finish. But, now, it was Jack’s turn to pause. What would he say now? Speaking on the Word of Wisdom just didn’t seem appropriate anymore. He opened his Book of Mormon to his notes and stared at them. Then he looked above them to a scripture he’d underlined on that page of his Book of Mormon: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents.” (1 Ne. 1:1.) Immediately he read the scripture aloud for he knew now what he would talk about. He looked down into their faces. There was Sister Jackson, the Wade family, and good old Brother Price, their home teacher. There were the Smiths and the Jacksons, and there was his own family, with his mother beaming at him. He became excited to tell them all. He wanted to tell them his feelings.
“Sometimes, to tell you the truth, I’ve been a bit rebellious about having a father who is bishop,” Jack said. “Everyone expects so much. But now I, Jack Miller, having been born of goodly parents, would like to tell you what it means to have a dad like mine who honors his priesthood and loves others.” He looked back at his father who was smiling widely. “This is my chance to get even with him for all the stories he’s told about me and others in his talks.” The congregation laughed, and Jack heard his father’s deep chuckle behind him.
He confidently placed one hand on the podium and the other in his pocket as he continued. His voice echoed through the microphone with a mellow, subtle power. The Spirit warmed within him and he, Jack Miller, became a speaker.

There could have been serious contentions in a community not far from here. But a group of neighbors, in unity, solved a problem before it became serious. A lovely young lady told the following story at a stake conference. She said, “I am a convert from upstate New York. My parents wanted their children to have eternal marriages. There were no Latter-day Saint members to marry in our little branch, so our family moved to Utah.
“Eventually I found myself a husband. He was the president of the local motorcycle club—black leather jackets and motorcycle boots. We rode together—perhaps not what my mother had hoped—but by that time I had wandered from the Church.”
She reported: “We moved into a house. Often our friends would gather there. I’m afraid our neighbors were quite uncomfortable with us. At least one neighbor would take her children into the house when we were roaming about.
“But do you know what our neighbors did? They mowed our lawn and fixed things up because we didn’t have a mower. They would bring flowers when there was illness, and quite often they would bring food to our home. Our little daughter was included in the activities of the other children, including a party on her birthday.”
As she and her husband attempted to thank their neighbors, they replied, “Well, we all like to help each other.” They were made to feel welcome living next to unified and loving neighbors.
She continued, “About ten months later, we traded our black leather jackets and motorcycle boots for the white clothing and slippers of the temple. As we knelt across the altar from each other and looked around that room, there were our neighbors, those who had been mowing our lawn and making things better for us.”
Now they were truly one. She reported to me there is still a wonderful feeling of unity in their neighborhood and ward. It wasn’t temporary.

As a junior in high school, I thought that my dark blond, shoulder-length hair meant everything. My morning included nearly 30 minutes of trying various hairstyles until the right one looked nearly perfect. I did this every morning—until one day when my routine changed forever.
The day began like any day. I woke up, washed my face, and put my contacts in. Then I sleepily glanced in the mirror and caught sight of something terrible—a small bald spot on the top of my head. I looked closer and ran my fingers across it to make sure my morning eyes were not fooling me. They weren’t.
I began to panic, and in tears I searched for my mom. Together we discussed the possibility my hair got caught on something while I was sleeping. Or maybe I was not eating enough vegetables. But with no definite answers I finally parted my hair to somewhat hide the bald spot and rushed off to school.
From that day on, I continued to lose patches of hair. These spots varied from the size of a coin to the size of a fist. I went to numerous doctors who examined every part of my head. I also spent a lot of time on my knees in prayer, seeking comfort and strength to handle what the doctors would tell me.
In September 2000 I found out I had an autoimmune disease known as alopecia areata. I can still hear my doctor’s voice when he explained this meant “total hair loss with no known cure.” Immediately my mind filled with thoughts of doubt, thoughts like “What’s next?” and “Why me?”
After seeing a specialist the next month, I shaved my almost-bald head. Without my hair, I felt like a completely different person. My sense of self plummeted, and it was almost impossible to drag myself to school. “What would everyone think? What would everyone say?” I wondered.
Scarves became my everyday hairstyle. Instead of spending a half hour every morning on my hair, I spent five minutes carefully tying a scarf around my bald head. The scarves were colorful and comfortable, but they weren’t my hair. At one point I tried wearing a wig the same color as my hair. This only brought constant worry of it falling off in front of everyone at school. I went back to scarves.
School was a challenge. I knew my Heavenly Father loved me and I could count on Him to be there when everyone else was turning away. But that was hard to remember when my peers gave me quick, odd glances. It was also hard when rumors began to spread, and I knew I was the topic of conversation. I didn’t understand why, of all times in my life, I had to deal with this during high school—a time when I wanted so much to be accepted and liked by those around me.
I made it through my senior year only because of certain things I made myself remember as I walked the halls of my high school. Each morning I prayed and thanked the Lord for the blessing of being alive and for the beauty around me. I prayed for strength to endure the day ahead and to remember I was loved by many. I also thanked my Heavenly Father for the things I was learning from this experience. It seems simple, but it made a difference. Whenever someone gave me a funny look or made a cruel joke, I simply remembered my motto, “It’s just hair. It really doesn’t matter.”
I knew I had no control over what was going to happen with my hair, but I also knew I had complete control over how I was going to face it. I could make it a blessing and an opportunity, or I could look at it as a punishment and simply give up.
It has been almost three years since the morning I found the small bald patch on my head. In that time I have had to shave my head five times because I still have small patches of hair. Each time I have shaved it with a little more enthusiasm and appreciation for life.
I know I couldn’t have done it alone. The Lord has become the one I trust. He does not judge me or laugh at me; I know He loves me just as much without hair as He did when I had hair. I have also relied on the love and support of my family.
I know we are all children of God with divine potential. We are all here to learn and grow in different ways with different challenges. We have a Heavenly Father who loves us for who we are and for what we can become. He is there in our darkest hours. I am thankful for the atoning sacrifice of the Savior Jesus Christ and for the comfort the Atonement brings. I know He lives and has suffered and endured even more physical and spiritual pain than I have felt and will feel in the future.

We’ve found this to be true in our own family. When we were first married, Ed would occasionally come home upset about something that happened at work. As he walked in the door, Ann would immediately wonder what she had done to make him irritable. It took many reassurances for her to understand that Ed wasn’t angry with her. We have noticed a similar reaction in our children when the two of us have been disagreeing about something. They seem to feel an element of responsibility for our problems.
By the same token, they seem to feel peaceful and secure when we are on good and friendly terms. And they’re more cooperative and considerate when that’s the feeling of our marriage.

May I share a story of one of our dear sisters. She wrote:
“In our home were alcohol, drug abuse, two divorces. I was living in spiritual darkness with two tiny children, when ‘angels of mercy’ came one more time. Each month I peeked out my window as the visiting teachers tried to visit me. I hid myself quietly until they left. They never gave up, and I am so glad and thankful. I learned that God’s love never stops!”
This sister is now an endowed member in full fellowship and full of happiness and joy!

Some years ago an assignment took me to one of the islands of the South Seas to dedicate a newly completed chapel. That evening, as I approached the building with some of the local leaders, we were surprised to notice that the building was completely dark.
As we entered the building and saw all the members sitting in the chapel, we inquired about the absence of lighting. The bishop informed us that earlier in the afternoon the building supervisor had inspected the building to make sure all was in readiness for the dedication. But now, as the time approached to begin the services, for some reason there were no lights, even though lights were aglow in nearby homes. All possibilities for correcting the problem were checked without success, and so the local leaders and I decided to proceed with the dedicatory services.
As the program proceeded, illuminated only by a kerosene lantern in front of the chapel, I felt sure that this would be the first dedication performed in darkness in the history of the Church!
I’m sure all those good brothers and sisters in the congregation joined me with a silent prayer in their hearts to ask the Lord to bless us with light so that the chapel could be dedicated.
One by one the speakers spoke—in the dark. The choir sang beautiful anthems—in the dark. As the concluding speaker, I, too, gave my talk in the dark. Then, as I asked the congregation to unite with me for the dedicatory prayer, the lights in the chapel suddenly flickered on. How grateful we were to the Lord for this special blessing! I was overcome with emotion and felt meek and humble that we had been so blessed, but the illumination of the chapel could not compare with the light of love in our hearts for this great blessing in answer to our prayers.
Yes, the Lord blessed us, even as our faith was tested and as we prayed with hope.

I recently became employed in Bengaluru, India, a city that is far from my hometown of Chennai. I enjoyed my new job; however, going to a new branch was a different feeling. I felt like a stranger, and I missed my home branch. Then I read the article “Making Any Ward ‘Home’” in the January 2008 Liahona. I felt comforted, and I started introducing myself to many members. I received a calling and made new friends. Most importantly, I know better why I come to church. Now I look for new faces and reach out to them. Thank you for the article.
Joseph Isaac, India

These powerful truths were life-changing for my friend Jen,12 who as a teenager caused a serious car accident. Though her physical trauma was severe, she felt exquisite pain because the other driver lost her life. “Someone lost their mom, and it was my fault,” she says. Jen, who just days before stood and recited, “We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us,”13 now questioned, “How could He love me?”
“The physical suffering passed,” she says, “but I didn’t think I would ever heal from the emotional and spiritual wounds.”
In order to survive, Jen hid her feelings deeply, becoming distant and numb. After a year, when she was finally able to talk about the accident, an inspired counselor invited her to write the phrase “I am a child of God” and say it 10 times daily.
“Writing the words was easy,” she recalls, “but I couldn’t speak them. … That made it real, and I didn’t really believe God wanted me as His child. I would curl up and cry.”
After several months, Jen was finally able to complete the task every day. “I poured out my whole soul,” she says, “pleading with God. … Then I began to believe the words.” This belief allowed the Savior to begin mending her wounded soul. The Book of Mormon brought comfort and courage in His Atonement.14
“Christ felt my pains, my sorrows, my guilt,” Jen concludes. “I felt God’s pure love and had never experienced anything so powerful! Knowing I am a child of God is the most powerful knowledge I possess!”

Then he recalled the words of President Mohamed Siyad Barre. He had told the students before they were sent out to participate in this literacy campaign, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aqoon baro (If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn).”

Haroon had been sure he had much to teach the nomads. He was eager to take the skills of reading and writing the Somali language to the nomads who made up over 70 percent of the Somali people.

In August of 1974 the literacy campaign was taken to the nomads in the bush country. All schools, except technical schools and the senior classes, were closed for the year. Students fourteen years and older were sent into the bush to teach the nomads to read and write Somali.

Thousands of students were assigned to various sections of the nation. Haroon was one of these. He had stepped up to the official handing out the supplies. “Nabad miyaa,” he greeted.

“Haah waa nabad weeya,” came the cheerful answer. “Here is what you’ll need, Haroon: a blanket for cold bush nights; a folding blackboard that is also a box for the eraser, pens, pencils; a textbook; and a class register. Nabad gelyo. llaah ha ku barakadeya. (Go in peace with God’s blessing).”

Haroon began with great confidence, but he found the nomad chief was not interested in learning anything from a city youth who knew nothing about camels. Only the children and some women attended classes—sometimes.

Haroon longed for the comforts of his father’s house, especially plenty of water for showers. He longed for a chance to talk with friends, for most of the men here ignored him.

Just when he felt especially low in spirit, he met Osman, a former schoolmate, traveling with another group of nomads. Osman was bubbling with enthusiasm about the literacy campaign and all that he was learning from the nomads. “I even helped load the camels for this move,” he said with a grin. “I’d never touched a camel before. And what do you know?” Osman continued, stroking the flank of the animal near him. “This animal actually obeyed my command to get up after we had put on its load.”

After they parted, Haroon reflected on Osman’s words and obvious enjoyment of his experience. I guess I’ve just been thinking of one part of the president’s challenge. I think I know so much the nomads should learn that I haven’t thought about learning anything from them. He softly repeated the president’s words, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aqoon baro.”

That night he moved closer to the men around the campfire. He was captivated by the stories Chief Abdi told of Somali heroes of the past. Just before he fell asleep, he thought, I ought to write those stories in Somali. But the next day there was no time for classes nor for story writing, for the clan had to move to find more pasture.

Haroon tried to be helpful. By the time they got settled in their new location, he was feeling as though he were almost a part of the group. However, he was also feeling sick with a fever. He did not complain, but when Chief Abdi heard about his sickness, he was concerned. He sent a young man to find a special plant that was used for a fever medicine. To Haroon he said, “Perhaps you want to return to your father. Life in the bush is hard.”

But Haroon was determined to remain, now as eager to learn as to teach. After his recovery, when the chief observed Haroon’s genuine desire to learn of the nomadic way of life, he became more friendly. He ordered his people to attend classes.

Sometimes in the afternoon when the youths gathered under the spreading branches of an acacia tree, the camels shared the shade. It was very different from the classroom in the city where Haroon had studied English. Here the blackboard hung on a tree. And the strong, acrid odor of camels hung on the dusty air.

Some of the nomads were keen students and helped others. Little children chanted the alphabet as they herded goats. They wrote the letters in the dust while goats nibbled whatever they could find.

One evening when the full moon shone over the settlement, Haroon read to the group a story the chief had told some weeks earlier. The men sat enthralled, realizing in a way for the first time that these marks could tell a familiar story.

Chief Abdi was thoughtful as Haroon finished. “That is good, Haroon,” he said. “If we write our history, our children will not forget. I must learn this writing also.”

He became an earnest pupil, and with his constant encouragement, others came more regularly.

Later in Mogadishu, there was a big celebration when Haroon and thousands of other boys and girls returned to the capital after eight months among the nomads. Crowds lined the streets to welcome them and to celebrate the completion of one more phase in the fight against illiteracy.

The schools opened and these youths returned to being students again. But there was a difference. The experiences in the bush had changed them and increased their appreciation and understanding about some of the problems their country was facing. Many now had a growing respect for the skills of the nomads who could survive in the harsh desert. They also had a greater appreciation for the Somali nomadic culture of their ancestors.

My family had an amazing mystery adventure in a cemetery. We felt like explorers—or detectives! We followed a map, looked for clues, and made it through lots of obstacles.
The mystery started when Grandma found a list of family members who were buried in a family cemetery. She wondered why her own grandpa wasn’t on the list.
Grandma knew he was buried there, but she had never visited the cemetery before because she lived far away.
“I wish we could help Grandma,” I said during dinner. I felt sad that Grandma couldn’t find out about her grandpa.
“I do too,” Dad said. “Maybe we can take a trip to the cemetery and find her grandpa’s headstone.”
I was excited to solve the mystery. My little brothers, Joseph, Hyrum, and Daniel were excited too!
First we had to drive a long way and do some detective work before we even found the cemetery. We stopped to ask a man if he knew where it was. Guess what! It was hidden down a road on his farm!
The cemetery was in the middle of a muddy field. It was surrounded by a cinder-block wall and covered with overgrown plants. We had to cut through vines just to open the gate.
It was like a jungle inside! Big trees filled the cemetery, and thorny vines wrapped around the headstones. We had to clear them off to read the names.
“Who is Marenda Ann Thomas Humphrey?” I asked, pulling plants off a headstone.
Dad ran over. “She’s your great-great-great grandmother!” he said. “Hopefully your great-great grandpa’s headstone is nearby.”
We looked and looked for his headstone but couldn’t find it anywhere. Mom and Dad cut and cleared vines. My brothers and I cleaned off dirt, bugs, and spider webs. It was gross! Some headstones had tipped over because tree roots grew under them. They were heavy, but we worked together to lift them up again.
We worked hard all day. When the sun was going down, Dad said it was time to go.
“I don’t think we’re going to find it today,” he said. He sounded pretty disappointed.
I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to find the headstone for Grandma.
“Let’s say a prayer,” I said.
“That’s a great idea. Heavenly Father can help us find it,” said Mom.
We said a prayer and looked one last time. Dad found a long wire and used it to poke the ground. Suddenly the wire hit something solid. Maybe a headstone?
“I think Dad found something!” I said.
We knelt down and cleared away vines and weeds. Under a thin layer of dirt, we found a headstone. The name on it was Rodolph Jackson Humphrey.
“Dad, do you know who this is?” I asked.
When I looked at Dad, he had tears in his eyes. “This is exactly what we were searching for! It’s your great-great grandpa’s headstone,” he said.
“Yay!” we all shouted.
I gave my brothers high fives. “I knew we’d find it! We just needed a little help,” I said.
Mom smiled. “That’s what prayer is for.”
It was tricky and fun searching through the cemetery. We had to overcome walls, mud, thorns, and vines. But it was all worth it to get to know more about my great-great grandpa.
I know that the Holy Ghost helped us and that Heavenly Father answered our prayer. And the best feeling of all was hearing Grandma cheer when we told her all about it.

Mom has always told me that Sundays are special days. They did not seem special to me, though. I didn’t get to play with my friends or have fun at the park. I thought Sundays were boring. Mom said that Jesus asked us to give Him just one day of the week for His very own. She said that there were many things that I could do to give Jesus His one day.
One Sunday when I was feeling especially restless, I decided I would try to give Jesus more of the day. I remembered that Grandma and Grandpa wanted me to send them a letter, so I sat down and colored a picture of Jesus for them. I put it in an envelope and got it all ready to mail. It made me feel good inside to think about how happy Grandma and Grandpa would be when they got my picture.
The next Sunday when I found myself with nothing to do, I decided to give Jesus more of that day, too. I looked at my Friend magazines and found some pictures of Him that I liked. I showed them to my dad, and he read me a story. It made me feel good inside to spend some quiet time like that with my dad.
Each Sunday after that, I found things that I could do to give Jesus His one day. Every time I do something special for His day, I feel good inside. Now I believe my mom. Sunday is a special day. It’s true that I don’t play with my friends or have fun at the park. I have a different kind of fun—the kind you feel inside your heart when you’ve given Jesus the one day of the week that He’s asked for: the Sabbath Day.