Gospel Story Finder

The first cornerstone of my testimony was laid a long time ago. One of my early recollections was having a frightening nightmare as a small child. I still remember it vividly. I must have screamed in fright during the night. My grandmother woke me up. I was crying, and she took me in her arms, hugged me, and comforted me. She got a bowl of some of my favorite rice pudding that was left over from dinner, and I sat on her lap as she spoon-fed me. She told me that we were safe in our house because Jesus was watching over us. I felt it was true then, and I still believe it now. I was comforted in both body and soul and went peacefully back to bed, assured of the divine reality that Jesus does watch over us (Ensign, Nov. 2000, 53).

I had just gone to the temple for the first time the day before I read the article “I Loved Going to the Temple” (May 2010). She had all the same feelings I did, and I’m glad to know that she loved going to the temple, too.

The prophet who sits with us today could tell us of such togetherness, when at the time of his overwhelming apostolic calling he was consoled by his Camilla, who met his anguished, sobbing sense of inadequacy and, running her fingers through his hair, said, “You can do it, you can do it.” He surely has done it, but with her at his side.

Clusters of small orange berries decorate mountain ash trees in autumn. Birds perch on the branches and gobble up the tasty seeds. The seeds will not sprout until they have passed through a bird’s stomach. By the time the bird drops the seeds, it may have flown many miles.

About 20 years ago I was assigned to go to Montevideo, Uruguay, to tour the mission and dedicate the first chapel built in that city. During the previous year President David O. McKay had broken ground for that chapel, hoping that he could return and dedicate it. Other duties prevented his doing so, and hence I was sent.
After our dedicatory service an Italian sister came up to shake hands. Before doing so she held out her right hand and asked me to look at it. I did but saw nothing unusual about it. Then she called my attention to a scar in the palm of her hand and explained:
“When President McKay was here to break ground for our chapel,” she said, “I had a cancer in the palm of my hand. The doctors could not help me, and the cancer was spreading. I felt impressed by the holy Spirit that if I could just touch President McKay’s hand, my cancer would be healed.
“Many people went forward to greet the President, and because there were so many, I became discouraged. But my prompting continued. I felt it was the Holy Spirit urging me on. I did meet the president. My right hand was heavily bandaged, so I had to shake hands with my left hand.
“When I returned home I took the bandage off and to my great delight saw that the cancer was already drying up. I now show you this right hand, all healed, and I want you to tell President McKay about it.”

Throughout his life Joseph F. loved his father with a special kind of devotion, a devotion prompted by the choice relationship that can exist between father and son. His last memory of his father, as Hyrum rode off to Carthage, was vivid. “Without getting off his horse,” President Smith related later, “father leaned over in his saddle and picked me up off the ground. He kissed me goodbye and put me down again and I saw him ride away.” This experience was to be followed by days of uncertainty and then a night of terror. “I remember the night of the murder … when one of the brethren came from Carthage and knocked on our window after dark and called to my mother, ‘Sister Smith, your husband has been killed.’” This occurred when he was only six years of age. As a mature man he still remembered the uncertainty and terror of that night.

“Don’t you think that ice ax is really more than you need for a little snow hike?” Steve chided. “Where do you think we are—on Mount Everest?”
Billy looked at his ax and shrugged. “How do we know what’s ahead?”
Steve and Billy were up early on the Saturday morning of their outing. Every year they went on a winter camp-out in the mountains.
The boys gradually snowshoed upward. It had snowed heavily overnight, and they watched the sun come up, glistening now on the fresh powder. Every few minutes they stopped to catch their breath because of the steep ascent.
“Boy!” panted Steve. “It’s easy to get winded at this altitude.”
The ski slope lay within yards of the route the boys had chosen through the trees, but no skiers were up yet. Stopping to rest, they heard the ski patrol fire several shots. If the snowpack were unstable, the rifle shots would cause an avalanche, then the snow could settle before the skiers started their runs. Usually it was only a precautionary measure, as the snowfall was most often wet enough to pack down. So the shots ordinarily just signalled the start of the skiing day.
But today was unusual.
The boys sensed the avalanche before they heard it. Then its low rumble reached their ears, and they looked up before they’d even had time to think what it was. When they saw it above them—rolling, tumbling, and spraying like a tide—their minds went blank. Soon they were running—Billy to the left toward a dense group of trees and Steve back down their upward trail.
The avalanche reached the trees just a second before Billy did. He sucked the white, snow-filled air into his lungs and dived against a tree trunk, barely able to see it. The weight and pressure of the tumult pulled his legs out from under him, and desperately he swung his ax toward the tree—it caught!
Another wave hit him. Swallowing snow with each breath, he slowly pulled himself up and grasped the trunk with one arm. Then he grabbed at the branches above him and pulled with all his strength. Waves of snow engulfed him and he had to bury his nose against his sleeve to breathe.
Climbing higher into the tree, he was soon out of the worst of the cascading snow. But Steve! Where’s Steve? he wondered frantically. Looking down from the tree was like looking through dense, white snow rapids.
Thirty feet downhill, Steve had plunged into an air pocket and fallen just as the avalanche overtook him. Like a giant fist, it had punched the air out of his lungs, tumbling him feetfirst, headfirst, and then sideways. Finally he tried swimming motions and managed to stay near the top of the engulfing snow.
His face burned and ached, and in panic he stopped swimming and put his gloves over his face for protection. Now he was tumbling faster, like a feather in a tidal wave. Then the speed of the advancing snow slowly decreased … And finally there was nothing but a deathly silence.
Steve tried to push the snow away from his face, but it was too heavy to move. All he could see was darkness, and all he could feel was a tremendous weight pressing in from all sides.
When the last of the flying snow had sifted down, the air cleared and Billy could distinguish between the snow mass and the air. He stared below him at the clean, brilliant snow that measured five or six feet higher on the tree trunks now than it had before. There was no sign of Steve. “Oh, Heavenly Father … ,” he started to pray, but then decided there was not time for that.
Billy dropped his ax and saw the heavy end disappear into the powder. Then he climbed down the tree and sank up to his shins in the freshly churned snow.
He’d stumbled twenty yards when a ski patrolman came gliding slowly through the trees, stopping in amazement when he saw Billy. “You mean you were on this hill all through that avalanche?” he asked incredulously.
“I was up in a tree back there. But my friend, Steve … he’s lost in it somewhere.”
Instantly the patrolman was unclasping his skis. “Where did you see him last?” he asked.
“By those trees. He tried to outrun it.”
The patrolman shook his head and spoke angrily, as though Steve should have known better. “No one can outrun an avalanche. That snow moves 200 miles an hour!” He leaned one ski against a tree and took up the other to use as a probe. “You use the handle of that ax. Push it into the snow and call out if you hit anything. It just might be your buddy.”
“How long could he live buried in this?”
The patrolman was driving his ski into the snow every two feet. “Maybe an hour … maybe not … there’s not time to discuss it.” His voice was gruff, and he didn’t raise his eyes from the snow.
“Oh, please, Heavenly Father, let Steve be alive and help us find him.” Suddenly Billy realized that he was praying aloud and had been praying aloud all along. In a flash he understood that there is always time to pray.
A short time later the patrolman stopped to rest for a moment to catch his breath. Then in a rough voice he ordered: “Let’s keep going. There’s still a chance.”
With the next thrust, Billy drove his ax handle into the snow and stumbled sideways. Struggling to his feet, he pulled on the axhead. But it held fast. He pulled harder and still the ax stayed in the snow. “Hey!” he shouted to the patrolman.
Together they pulled the axhead, and when it surfaced, Steve’s bare hands were holding tightly to the spike.
Falling to their knees, they dug furiously, forcing the mountain to release its victim! The snow was bloodied. Steve’s face and hands were cut, scraped, and bleeding. But he was alive! He gasped the cool, fresh air, and his bluish face flushed red.
Billy trembled now as the realization of the near-disaster washed over him. He slipped down to sit in the snow next to Steve, and as he did, he saw the tight-lipped patrolman start to grin.
“What’s the matter, kid? Didn’t you know about the power of prayer? In my job, we use it all the time.”

When I decided that I wanted to be baptized, my family wasn’t really excited about it. Although my mother and one of my brothers attended my baptism, other family members rejected me because we no longer shared the same religion.
In the beginning, this was quite hard, and I felt more alone than ever. But after a while, one of my cousins decided to become a devout Hindu, which was also different from what the rest of our family practiced. He respected my choice to join the Church because he had made a similar one. Because of his example of love towards me, some of my other family members stopped shunning me.

As I said before, we just cannot imagine or calculate in any way what a great influence for good we would have in the world if every holder of the priesthood would magnify his calling, and how much happier and more successful each individual would be if he would always choose the right. How sad it is to see one who would rather be popular than do what he knows is right. I have in mind and remember so well a good member of the Church who was elected to the legislature but who wanted to be a good fellow, popular with everyone. He, wanting to be popular, let down his standards and took one drink at a social and then another. It happened again and again. He began drinking with the fellows at lunch and at dinner. And then, unintentionally I am sure, and contrary to his greatest desire, he became an alcoholic and lost the support of his constituency and the respect of his friends and family who loved him and sorrowed for him. He died an early death as an alcoholic. What a sad situation—all because he sought the praise of men more than the praise of God.

In my heart of hearts I wanted to serve a mission. But I was in love. Sure I know guys usually leave girlfriends behind, but Chris was different. She was a cheerleader in our high school, blonde, beautiful, with a clever personality, and not stuck-up. I had a crush on her when we went to high school in Nebraska but didn’t have the courage to ask her out until we met in college. She was a year older than I.
For a guy in high school to win an older woman is nearly hopeless. It gets easier in college where you can’t tell how old a guy is by the books he carries. So I asked her out. My heart raced when she agreed to a date. Friendship quickly blossomed into romance. I felt my life was now complete and nothing else much mattered, even a mission call.
Then we argued about something really important. I can’t remember what right now, but I know it was life-or-death because of how angry I felt about it. I did not sleep that night. I continued to sulk without relief. Something had to change, and I was pretty sure it was not me.
In a physics class the next day, as Professor Hill talked about light, I wanted to collapse with some distant galaxy into a black hole. Maybe light was what we had lost. Radiant, burning light. This is how I had felt in the beginning when I was with her—like stars exploding in the skies. But now I felt uncertainty, darkness even. For the first time I longed for what I had been hearing about in religion class—pure love, selfless but fervent caring. I thought of Christ and how he felt for the little children. I knew he was the source. And I knew prayer would help.
I had always said my prayers at night. It was a childhood habit. But, unfortunately, they had become routine. It was more like brushing teeth than communion with deity, a way to prevent spiritual cavities. Please bless … please bless … please bless. Night after night I had been describing to the Lord exactly how I thought my world should be ordered.
But that day in physics I realized my whole world was turned inward. I knew that to escape the confusion I must find a way to reach out to other people. But how? I could not even reach out to my girlfriend. Instead I had tried to annex her personality into my own, to possess it, to lock her up inside me. The problem needed more maturity and strength than I had. All of the routine prayers in the world wouldn’t be adequate. I needed a prayer of faith like Enos offered in the wilderness.
So there in the wilderness of 200 physics students, I looked down as if at my textbook, and with one hand shielding my eyes, offered a simple, heartfelt prayer. My idea was to prepare the Lord for what I would be asking later, to humbly and sincerely bring him up to speed on what I had been feeling. But as I opened my heart the feelings gushed out. I told him everything. Tears trickled from my chin and wet the book. Then, suddenly, a profound peace washed through me. And with it came light, illumination, an unmistakable understanding.
I knew missionary work was the key. I needed a mission more than the Lord needed me to be a missionary. I needed to put aside my own problems and help those who were wandering in darkness worse than my own. I had learned to pray about problems. But those who lived in the dark did not pray because no one had told them they could.
After class I called my bishop.
That evening I met Chris to study in the library. I felt calm as I explained the events of the day and my determination to go on a mission. She was supportive and complimentary. As I looked at her, I considered the real possibility that she would not be waiting when I returned. But peace replaced jealousy. I knew nothing could keep me from my mission.
For two years I wrote to her. Weekly at first, then less often. When I returned, we visited. I told her of the people I had met and the lives I had watched change. She told me about her studies of South and Central America. She had developed such a love for the people of those countries that she now wanted to serve a mission. It was the last time I saw her for several years.
The selfish emotions which had consumed me before were gone, replaced by a desire for service, a love for others, and a powerful new faith in the Savior.
Back in school, I met Julie. She was blonde, beautiful, clever, and someone who cared about other people. More surprising, she was attracted to me. We were married in the spring. I can say with conviction that the Lord knows better than we do how our lives should be ordered. The self-centered existence I would have chosen for myself cannot compare with the blessings that have followed obedience and service.

The last half kilometer to Steve Davis’s house was really rough road. It was a private lane that left the main road and ran through a swamp. And when it rained, which was often, the road became part of the swamp. If you wanted to get to the end of that lane you parked your car and walked, as Steve and his dad always did. It was a pretty enough place, with lots of sunlight filtering through the tall pine trees, but no prettier than a lot of places you could visit more easily. It was a half kilometer you walked only if you had a good reason.
Steve and his father were inactive members of the Church. They lived about 48 kilometers from the chapel where they were supposed to attend. Forty-eight kilometers and a half kilometer of bad road.
Steve Davis and his father were members of the Brooksville Ward, Tampa Bay Florida Stake. And although 17-year-old Steve hadn’t been coming to church for a while, he still had some good friends in the priests quorum. He had enjoyed a lot of wonderful times with them. They hunted rabbits in the woods and netted fish in the bay. Once they had netted a small shark. They also played softball and basketball together.
When it was starting to look like Steve might just stay inactive, a call came from the stake leadership. Each Aaronic Priesthood quorum in the stake was to choose someone to reactivate. Steve’s quorum, which consisted of Joe Beggs, Billy Mantooth, and Dennis Hunter, had no trouble choosing. They wanted their good friend back with them on Sundays. They had also been missing him on their basketball and softball teams.
The stake suggested that quorums visit the person they had chosen at least once a week. Fine, but there were the 48 kilometers—and the half kilometer of bad road. That didn’t seem like much of a problem to these young men. So every week they traveled the 48 kilometers to his lane and then the half a kilometer of mud to his house. Usually they walked down the lane. Occasionally they took a chance driving that half kilometer—but only when the ground was dry.
Steve had been wanting to come back for some time, but after being away for a while it isn’t always easy. Still, each time his friends showed up it started seeming more and more possible.
It wasn’t always easy for the visitors either. Billy Mantooth would remember afterward, “It really seemed like the devil was working against us. Things would always come up so we’d feel we couldn’t go to his house, but we’d end up going anyway. Sometimes we wouldn’t get there until ten o’clock at night, but we’d go.”
Once there they expressed their love for Steve but didn’t exert any pressure on him to attend his meetings. “They told me everyone missed me, but they didn’t try to force me to come,” Steve remembers.
It was obvious that these young men really cared. Just how much they cared became evident one night when they decided they could drive up the lane even though it had been raining and the surface was very muddy. They were half right. They drove to the house okay, but on the way out their vehicle slid off the road into the deep mud. Steve and his dad came to help them. Finally, about 3 A.M., they got the vehicle out. By then they all looked like lumpy mud statues. The visitors were so dirty, in fact, that they had to take off their muddy clothes before they climbed back in the vehicle. But if their faces were covered with mud, it just made their smiles stand out more. The four young men who rode home in their underwear that night were very tired but very happy. They could tell they were making a difference with Steve. And the next week they were back again. They were not young men to be conquered by a mere half kilometer.
Steve was happy too. One Sunday not long after that memorable night, he showed up at church, and his father was with him. Their attendance was a little irregular at first, but the friends kept visiting them until old habits of attendance were reestablished.
Steve says, “I love them all. I’ll always be grateful to them. If it weren’t for them, I’d probably still be inactive. My whole life will be different because of what they did.”
A half-kilometer lane is not very long, especially compared to a 48-kilometer drive. But often it’s the half kilometer added at the end that keeps us from going the 48 kilometers. It’s just the sort of thing that makes most of us decide to do the job tomorrow, or next week, or sometime when it doesn’t look like rain. But Steve and his dad will always be grateful for friends who made that extra effort—one half a kilometer long.

One day, my mother and I were driving home when a man on a bicycle came down a small hill. The biker suddenly swerved to avoid hitting an oncoming truck. In a split second that felt like an eternity, the sharp turn caused the man to lose control of his bike, fly over the handlebars, and hit his head violently on the road. We immediately pulled over. Panicked, I got out of my car and rushed to his side. His breathing was heavy, but he wasn’t conscious.
I immediately knew that this man needed a priesthood blessing, but I couldn’t help but wonder: could I do it?
In that moment, I recalled listening to the words of Elder Jefferey R. Holland when I was a young Aaronic Priesthood holder: “Young men, you will learn, if you have not already, that in frightening, even perilous moments, your faith and your priesthood will demand the very best of you and the best you can call down from heaven. . . .
“. . . The day may come—indeed, I am certain will come—when in an unexpected circumstance or a time of critical need, lightning will strike, so to speak, and the future will be in your hands. Be ready when that day comes” (“Sanctify Yourselves,” Ensign, Nov. 2000, 39, 40; Liahona, Jan. 2001, 47, 49).
Just as Elder Holland had prophesied, lightning struck that day on the road in the form of an unexpectedly injured biker. Had I not worked with the Lord over the previous years to overcome my fear of giving blessings in safer circumstances, we would’ve both been helpless in this potentially life-threatening situation. But with the Lord guiding and strengthening me, I knelt beside him and quietly whispered the words I felt impressed to say as I blessed him.
When I finished, I looked up and a sheriff’s deputy was standing next to me. He happened to be right behind us the whole time and had called for an ambulance. But the injured man quickly regained consciousness, insisted that he was fine, and rode off on his bicycle, passing the ambulance down the road. While I understand that not every priesthood blessing produces such immediate results, this was an experience I will never forget. I’m so grateful that when the time came, I was ready.

I joined the Church at age 15, and four years later I submitted my missionary application. At the interview with my stake president, he complimented me for deciding to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary. Then that inspired leader said something that made a profound impression on me: “Brother, from now on, strange things will happen in your life to try to get you to change your mind about your decision to serve the Lord.”
While waiting for my mission call, I was working as a trainee at Xerox. This work made it possible for me to obtain some of the things that I would need for the mission field and to help my mother with expenses at home. Things were going very well.
Unfortunately, “strange things” did begin to happen. First, my mother was assaulted and almost died from her injuries, but a kind Heavenly Father miraculously spared her life.
At that time, my mother, two younger sisters, and I were living in a rented house. We lived off my income and a small benefit that my mother received because of my father’s death years before.
Some people, including Church members, would ask, “Are you going to have the courage to leave your mother like this and go on a mission?” Hearing this question over and over began to cause doubts in my heart.
One day my stake president called and told me that my mission call had arrived and asked me to come to his office that evening so he could give me the much-awaited envelope from Church headquarters. I was both nervous and happy at the news.
On the same day, my manager at work asked to talk to me before lunch. When I entered his office, I was greeted in a friendly manner, and we talked for a few minutes about my training and what I had learned at the company. Then, that powerful man in the organization said something that was the dream of most of the people in the city: “You have done a good job here as a trainee, and we want to hire you and keep you on the team. What do you think?”
This was one of the most difficult decisions of my life. The seconds felt like eternity. It seemed that I could hear people asking me if I was going to abandon my mother without my financial support and go to the mission field.
Nevertheless, I remembered the things I had learned from the scriptures and my Church leaders, and in a very sacred way, I knew with an unshakable certainty that God wanted me to serve as a full-time missionary of His Church. I knew that He would take care of my family, that I could trust Him, and that everything would be fine.
I explained the situation to my manager, and his reply still echoes in my mind: “I thought that you were such a level-headed young man, and here you are throwing away the opportunity of your life.”
I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for his offer, and 28 days later I reported to the missionary training center in São Paulo, Brazil.
During my mission, the Lord provided for my family’s needs through Church friends and in miraculous ways. My mother’s health was restored and new job opportunities arose for my sisters and her.
“Strange things” really do happen when we decide to serve the Lord. Yet I would humbly add my testimony to the testimonies of thousands of others who have embarked in the service of God that missionary service has profoundly affected my life.

On a ski trip to a large resort, some friends and I decided to split up and check out the various runs. We planned to meet later for lunch and compare notes on the runs for the afternoon.
I rode several lifts and enjoyed different runs. It was a glorious day. A storm had just passed, and everything was fresh and white.
I traversed the mountain to a run which is used less frequently than others. It had a very long ski lift and there were few people in line. I was alone on my chair and I stretched my arms across the back of the chair to enjoy the sensations of the morning. The world seemed a very friendly place. The bright sun shone in a deep, blue sky. The trees were dark, almost black, and contrasted with the brilliant white of the snow. Now and then I passed over tracks made by a rabbit or some other small animal. The sun was pleasant on my face, and the cold, bracing air felt good in my lungs. I took long, deep breaths and involuntarily broke into a wide grin.
I was enjoying all that was around me and wished for someone to share it with. Then I thought of my Heavenly Father. It was through his plan that I’d come to this earth to enjoy these things. I thought of his love and concern for me and felt I should express my gratitude to him. I prayed aloud. I told Heavenly Father how good it was to have a physical body that I could exercise and sense the beauties of this world with. I told him how I felt about the colors around me, and the great feeling of the warm sun mixed with the cold air. I told him that I loved him and was happy that he loved me enough to give me these things.
I had been praying to express my happiness to my Heavenly Father, but I also realized that my prayer was an attempt to make him happy. I thought of my earthly parents and how they enjoy hearing about the fun, exciting things of my life. Wouldn’t it gladden my Father in Heaven to hear about my joy?
The rest of that day was very special. I spent much of it sharing with my Heavenly Father the things around me. The more I shared the more I appreciated. It was wonderful to know I had found another way to express my love for him.

The summers of my youth on the farm helped me appreciate and respect the world of insects and animals. I have always been fascinated by the industry of the honeybee. It is intent on its task to gather nectar. It looks for every opportunity to sink its tongue into the colorful and even not-so-colorful blossoms. It is not discouraged when it is not successful in finding nectar in a blossom, but seeks out its next opportunity with buzzing energy. While it is busy with the gathering of nectar, it in turn pollinates the blossoms to help them fulfill the measure of their creation. Finally, laden with success, it returns, and the nectar becomes the honey of the hive, nurturing not only itself, but the next generation of bees.
Now, you and I both know that the honeybee gathers nectar purely by instinct. It just can’t help it! Nevertheless, it also goes about doing much good.

Elder Rasband feels some of that hesitancy now as he approaches his new call as a General Authority Seventy, but he knows the answer: “Our Heavenly Father just needs us to go to work and share the healing and joyful message of His Son and of His Son’s atoning sacrifice.”

Several years ago I heard about a good brother who described his attitude as President David O. McKay gave the concluding talk of general conference. It was a sultry afternoon, and this was the fifth session he had attended. He was sitting in the balcony, and his mind had a serious wandering problem. He noticed a man sitting in the middle section who had fallen asleep with his head tilted back and his mouth open. It occurred to him that if he were in the roof of the Tabernacle, he could drop a spit wad through one of the vent holes right into the mouth of that sleeping man. What a glorious thought!

Following the meeting, he overheard two men talking about their feelings during President McKay’s talk. They were visibly moved by what they had heard. He thought to himself, These two brethren were having a marvelous spiritual experience, and what was I doing? Thinking about dropping spit wads from the ceiling!

During the next few years, Mormon missionaries seemed to be all over the place. Even my barber was trying to preach to me! Several sets of missionaries came to visit me. Feeling somewhat ashamed about my treatment of the two I had left standing on the doorstep a couple of years earlier, I began inviting them inside, on the condition that they “leave their books in the car, and don’t preach to me.” I always felt uncomfortable when they came, and I would not allow any discussion of religion.
How was I to make them leave without being extremely rude? How? Then I got an idea. Sure, why not? It should be easy. I would just prove that they were wrong. I would show these people that their doctrines were false, and I would do it with their own scriptures. The next time they came, I would be ready.
If I were going to prove them wrong, I had to know something concerning what they believed. How could I find out what they believe? That Book of Mormon the two lady missionaries gave me years ago. Sure! I had put it away in some drawer or box. I soon found it. What did it contain—the story of Joseph Smith’s life? A history of Mormonism? I didn’t know. But one thing I did know: when the missionaries next came, I would be ready for them.
I took the book to work, where I had some free time throughout the day. The first chance I had, I opened the book. Why, this didn’t appear to be about Joseph Smith at all! I noticed a page in the front showing interesting things to look up—the Sermon on the Mount on the American continent, Columbus, the Savior in the Americas. What was I getting into?
Not finding anything about Joseph Smith’s life story in the book, I picked up some missionary tracts at a gas station owned by a Mormon. I wanted to find out about this Joseph Smith. I read about Joseph’s First Vision. Somehow it seemed different from what I remembered hearing years before. I read about an angel named Moroni and some gold plates. Returning to the Book of Mormon, I began reading it in my spare time.
Something strange began to happen. My hostility began to disappear. Indeed, my desire to prove the missionaries wrong disappeared. My brief curiosity after first opening the book was replaced by a desire to know. What was this strange power that seemed to literally reach out and pull me toward this book? What was happening to me? I had to know.
I found myself using all my spare hours to search through the Book of Mormon. I found something else too: a promise by an ancient prophet named Moroni—a bold declaration that I could know the truth of the book by asking God to reveal it to me. Alone one day, I bowed down before my Maker, and, holding the Book of Mormon in my hand, I asked Heavenly Father what it was that was pulling me to the book. Immediately—almost before I had finished my prayer—a recollection of my past habits and hostilities flooded over me. I begged for forgiveness, having not recognized my wretched state until then.
The next few days were about the same—I tried to cope with an overwhelming desire to immerse myself in studying the Book of Mormon. Then it happened. It was a Thursday night before the October general conference of the Church. I came home from work with a peculiar feeling growing inside me—a feeling I had never before experienced. I did not know what to think of it. It slowly grew in intensity. What a marvelous feeling! I remember thinking, “If this is what it feels like in heaven, I wish I were ninety-nine years old and about to die.”
Then came the testimony—that sureness of the missionaries that had disturbed me in the past. I knew! Joseph smith had been in the presence of the Father and the Son. Indeed, he had been visited by angels. I knew. Yes, indeed, I knew.

In the Bamburi Branch of the Kenya Nairobi Mission, Relief Society sisters donated the money they would have spent on an activity and instead purchased kitchen utensils and other items the branch needed. After thoroughly cleaning the local meetinghouse, the sisters of the ward assembled for a time of reflection on the creation of Relief Society in 1842, using and discussing resources from Daughters in My Kingdom: The History and Work of Relief Society.
“The thought of being part of this worldwide organization of Relief Society is special,” said Irene Kioi, second counselor in the Relief Society presidency. “It gives me the assurance that [Relief Society] is ordained of God and not men.”

My family and other families who read the scriptures daily have found that the word of the Lord has a powerful effect in our lives. The first change we noticed was that the scriptures and other spiritual matters began to take a much higher priority in our lives. We thought about them much more often, and we missed them when we neglected them. We even found ourselves planning for deviations from the normal schedule so we wouldn’t miss reading the scriptures. One day my wife, Jean, and the children were planning to call for me at work at the end of the day so that we could travel to a nearby city to visit friends. When we realized that the children would probably be asleep by the time we returned home, we decided to take the scriptures in the car with us and read on the way.