Gospel Story Finder

When I was 16, I participated in a student foreign-exchange program for a year. I went from my home in Ukraine to a small town in Arizona, USA, where I stayed with a Latter-day Saint family. I had never heard of Latter-day Saints before.
The exchange program didn’t allow the family to preach to me, and I wasn’t allowed to meet with the missionaries. But I chose to attend church with my host family and participate in all Church activities.
I felt the Spirit with that family, and I felt much love at church. At that time I didn’t know that what I was feeling was the Spirit, but my heart was touched.
When I returned to Ukraine, I missed that feeling very much. I remembered how my life was when I went to church and lived gospel teachings. I realized what was missing, but there was no church and no missionaries where I lived, so I thought I would never have that feeling again.
About four years later, however, some missionaries knocked on my door. I was so happy to see them. While they were out working, they had listened to the Spirit, which led them to my house. I’m so grateful they were obedient. I was baptized and confirmed soon afterward.
Since then I have been sealed in the Stockholm Sweden Temple to my husband, a returned missionary who is from Russia. And now there’s a temple in Kyiv. We plan to attend regularly.
The temple is the most amazing place on earth. It is a place where you can be close to Heavenly Father. I feel so grateful that in the temple we can receive one of the greatest gifts given to us by Heavenly Father: to be sealed as families for eternity.
I am grateful to the members of that Latter-day Saint family who helped me feel the Spirit, starting me on a journey that would lead me to a family of my own that is sealed together forever.

Bishop Brown’s call to the Presiding Bishopric came in September 1961 while the Brown family was living in Chicago, Illinois. Bishop Brown arrived home late in the afternoon of the 28th. The Office of the First Presidency in Salt Lake City had been trying to reach him for several hours, but he had been out of contact with his home and office. What did they want with him, he wondered? Perhaps with some misgivings, Victor Brown dialed the operator and was connected with Salt Lake City.
“Are you coming to conference?” asked the voice on the west end of the line. General conference was scheduled to begin the next day in Salt Lake City.
“No, I hadn’t planned to,” was the reply.
“President McKay would like to see you. Can you be in his office at 8:00 in the morning?”
Securing plane reservations on short notice was no problem. He was assistant to the director of reservations for United Air Lines in Chicago. Early the next morning Victor Brown was climbing the front steps of the Church Administration Building. While in President McKay’s office, he was called to serve as second counselor to a new Presiding Bishop—John H. Vandenberg.
Victor Brown thought of the future he had anticipated with United Air Lines. He had moved up the executive ladder over a 21-year period and had reason to believe that further promotions lay ahead. Greater financial rewards also were very likely.
He had dreamed of success in the business world ever since the days when he had waited on customers and run errands in his father’s store in Cardston. Now could he give up the career he had worked hard to build and devote his entire time to the Church? He knew there was only one answer. He could.

I went through a rough patch my senior year in high school when I wasn’t making great choices. I remember seeing my mom crying, and I wondered if I’d disappointed her. At the time, I worried that her tears meant she’d lost hope for me, and if she didn’t feel hope for me, maybe there wasn’t a way back.
But my dad was more practiced at zooming out and taking the long view. He’d learned from experience that worry feels a lot like love, but it’s not the same. He used the eye of faith to see that everything would work out, and his hopeful approach changed me.
When I graduated from high school and went to BYU, my dad sent letters reminding me of who I was. He became my cheerleader, and everybody needs a cheerleader—someone who isn’t telling you, “You’re not running fast enough”; they’re lovingly reminding you that you can.

Emmeline also embraced this command. She understood that what the Lord said to one, He said to all (see Doctrine and Covenants 25:1, 16; 82:5). Even before her baptism at age 14 in March 1842, Emmeline had shown a love of learning and a talent for writing. Shortly after her baptism she finished her last term of formal education in Massachusetts and began teaching. After emigrating to Nauvoo, she taught in the common school system there. As Emmeline’s faith led her to join the Saints in other locales, including Winter Quarters and Utah Territory, she continued her educational and literary pursuits, in large part through her involvement in the Relief Society.

President David O. McKay (1873–1970) often related an account that occurred while he was a missionary serving in Scotland. He was feeling homesick after being in the mission for just a short time and spent a few hours sightseeing at nearby Stirling Castle. When he and his companion returned from visiting the castle, they passed a building where the stone above the door had a carved inscription of a quotation, usually attributed to Shakespeare, that read, “What-E’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.”
Recalling this experience, President McKay explained: “I said to myself, or the Spirit within me, ‘You are a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. More than that, you are here as a representative of the Lord Jesus Christ. You accepted the responsibility as a representative of the Church.’ Then I thought [about] what we had done that forenoon. We had been sightseeing; we had gained historical instruction and information, it is true, and I was thrilled with it. … However, that was not missionary work. … I accepted the message given to me on that stone, and from that moment we tried to do our part as missionaries in Scotland.”1
This message was so important and had such an impact on him that President McKay used it as inspiration for the rest of his life. He determined that whatever responsibility he had, he would do his very best.

Illustrations by Arthur Lin
“Let’s get more sticks!” Callie said to Marco.
Marco looked at the sky. “I have to go home. It’s almost sunset.”
“But we haven’t finished our fort yet!” said Callie.
“Sorry!” Marco called out as he jogged toward the backyard gate. “I have to be home before the Sabbath!”
Callie sighed. There were great things about being Marco’s friend, and there were hard things. Well, mostly just one hard thing. The hard thing was that they didn’t have very much time to play together. Even though they were in the same grade at school, they weren’t in the same class. They didn’t have the same recess. Plus, they both spent the Sabbath with their families. In Marco’s church, the Sabbath was Saturday. It started at sunset on Friday night. For Callie, the Sabbath was Sunday.
And the good things? There were lots of them. One was that Callie never had to worry that Marco would swear, try to get her to do bad things, or watch things that weren’t good. He and his family went to a different church, but they believed a lot of the same things Callie did. Like they believed in keeping the Sabbath day holy, even though they had it on a different day.
Callie set down her armful of sticks and went inside.
“Did Marco go home?” Mom asked.
“Yeah,” Callie said, slumping into a kitchen chair. “We hardly ever get to play.”
“Maybe you two can get together Friday. It’s a school holiday,” said Mom.
“OK,” Callie said, cheering up. She would get everything ready so when Marco came over, they could start working on the fort right away.
During school later that week, Callie’s teacher made an announcement. The whole third grade was going to watch a movie together.
“Yes!” Callie said. She put her lunch box into her backpack and went into the common area between the classrooms.
Everyone found a place to sit on the floor, and the teachers turned off the lights. Callie got excited as the movie began. It was about some boys building a fort in the woods, just like she was building a fort with Marco! If we ever finish it, she thought. She shook her head and focused back on the screen.
But as the movie went on, Callie noticed that some of the words in it weren’t very nice. She started to feel more and more uncomfortable. She didn’t know what to do.
Just then, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Marco! He had crawled all the way through the crowd of students to talk to her.
“Callie, I don’t think we should be watching this,” he whispered. “I think we should go ask our teachers if we can read instead.”
Callie breathed a sigh of relief. It felt good to know someone else felt like she did. “Yeah. I don’t like this movie either.”
She and Marco stood up and tiptoed around their classmates until they reached their teachers. Marco went to his teacher, and Callie went to hers. She asked if she could read a book instead of watching the movie, and her teacher said yes.
As Callie went into her classroom to read, she saw Marco doing the same thing. He gave her a thumbs-up and a smile. Callie smiled back. Having a true friend was even better than having a finished fort.

The origin of the celebration, however, is a bit more serious and dates back to the seventeenth century. Because King James I was disliked by some people for his religious intolerance, a plot was formed to blow up the House of Parliament when he and his chief ministers would be there. The man in charge of igniting more than twenty barrels of gunpowder in the cellar was Guy Fawkes. Although plans were carefully made, the plot was discovered, and on November 4, 1605, Fawkes was arrested.
Even though he was severely punished to try to make him reveal the names of his coconspirators, Fawkes refused and was subsequently convicted and later executed opposite the parliament building on January 31, 1606. The discovery of the Gunpowder Plot, which saved the King’s life and left the House of Parliament standing, is still celebrated each November 5, the day the House of Parliament was to have been blown up.

A small green lizard darted in and out of the crevices in the crumbling old stone pier that jutted out into the Red Sea. The hot, glaring desert sun made its body glisten. The lizard stopped suddenly, and its yellow eyes watched Abu Ibn (son of) Hassan putting his catch of five fish into the net bags that had been slung over the sides of his donkey. He had caught three kanad, a type of mackerel, and two small hamur, which looked like sea bass.
Abu hoped these fish would help his father get more money at the suq (marketplace) in town ten miles across the Saudi Arabian desert.
For a few moments Abu stood beside his donkey and listened to the tinkling sound of small bells coming from the village, a tiny gathering of stone houses for fifty-two fishermen and their families. Every family owned a donkey, and every donkey except Abu’s had a bell on a thong tied around its neck. Abu’s father had a large family to feed. There never was any extra money for a bell. Abu dreamed of the day when his father would sail home with his dhow (boat) stacked high with fish. Then there would be money for a bell—maybe even a brass bell.
When Abu arrived home, his mother and sisters were full of news.
“We have a new fisherman in the village,” his mother told him.
“He owns a camel,” one of his sisters said.
“Yes, he must be rich!” another sister added. “His name is Rathman, and he is building a house. He doesn’t seem to have any family, but his new house will be bigger than any around here. He brought men from the town to help him.”
Abu ran outside and kept running until he came to where the new house was being built. The workmen were already putting up the walls. The floor would be dirt, and the roof would be made of thatched date palm leaves.
“Is-salaam alaykum (Peace be upon you),” Abu greeted one of the workmen.
“Wa-alaykum is salaam (And upon you be peace),” the workman answered.
Abu was impressed with the size of the new house. He was about to step inside when a harsh voice shouted, “Boy, get to where you belong! Don’t bother the workmen!”
Abu turned and met the angry eyes of Rathman. He had a great hooked nose, a thin-lipped mouth, and his legs and arms looked like old, dried sticks. Abu ran for home. His tobe (a long, shirt-like garment) hindered him, so he pulled it above his knees. His red kaffiyeh (headdress) fell off, but he didn’t stop to pick it up.
It was weeks before the excitement caused by the coming of the new fisherman subsided. Rathman’s dhow was the largest at the stone pier. His camel delivered his fish to the suq earlier and fresher than anyone else’s fish. It was learned that he was a friend of the sheikh (leader of the tribe) who lived in the big town.
Unlike the bells on the donkeys, which rang together and sounded like music in the village, the bell on Rathman’s camel was large, and it clanked and clunked when the beast moved. The camel held its head high, as though it was too proud to look at the lowly donkeys. Each time the fish were taken to the market, the camel would race past the donkeys, carrying not only a bigger load of fish but also Rathman on its back. The donkeys would have to plod along, trying to avoid the sandy dust that the camel kicked up. The fishermen walking beside their little animals would have to listen to Rathman’s mocking laughter.
At the pier, Rathman crowded his fishing dhow into the best place. He walked around the village as though he were a sheikh himself.
One evening Abu’s father told his family some bad news. “Rathman has ordered that the bells be taken off all the donkeys.”
“Why?” Abu’s mother asked.
“He said that the sound of our donkey bells keeps him from hearing his camel bell,” Abu’s father explained.
“But, Father, the men are not going to do it, are they?” Abu asked.
“They must,” his father said, “or Rathman may go to the sheikh, and the sheikh could punish us.”
The next day the bells were taken off the donkeys. The village was a sad and silent place. For weeks nobody sang or laughed. All that could be heard was the ugly sound of the camel’s big clanking and clunking bell.
Then one day after Rathman took his fish to the suq, he was late getting back to the village. The people saw him walking home across the desert without his camel.
One of the fishermen found enough courage to ask what had happened. Later he told Abu’s father, “Rathman’s camel stepped on a stone and fell. It strained a muscle and refuses to move.” The fisherman started laughing. “Rathman smells awful. The camel got angry and spat on him!”
All the villagers treated Rathman’s trouble as a big joke. Rathman stayed in his house, but he could hear the people laughing. Nobody offered to help him.
Abu felt sorry for him and spoke to his father about it. “Shouldn’t we try to help Rathman get his camel back to the village?”
“After the way he has treated us?” his father asked.
“But we are taught to be good to our enemies,” Abu said.
His father looked at him with a worried frown, then walked away.
Early the next morning Abu loaded his donkey with a bag of water and a bag of hamdh bushes for the camel. A few villagers looked curiously at the goatskin bags as Abu started through the village.
There were no dunes between the village and the town. At this time of the year the flat sand was abloom with zahra hamra, a beautiful pink flower. Abu enjoyed walking among the blooms while looking for Rathman’s camel. When he found the injured animal, Rathman was sitting beside it. The man didn’t speak to Abu, even when the boy started to feed and water the camel.
Suddenly Abu saw a long line of donkeys coming toward them from the village. When the fishermen and the donkeys arrived, Abu saw that the donkeys were hitched together and that they carried ropes and an old dhow sail.
“I told the men what you said—about being good to our enemies,” Abu’s father told him.
After tying the camel’s legs together, the men maneuvered it onto the sail and dragged it back to the village.
Rathman didn’t thank them, and the fishermen grumbled a little. Then, a week later, they found a small basket full of new donkey bells in the middle of the street. On top was a solid, shining brass bell marked, “For Abu.”

It was a hot summer day on my mission. My companion and I had been walking all over the streets of St. Petersburg, Russia, hoping to find new investigators. That evening we met an elderly man near our home and began talking with him. Although he did not express any interest in the gospel, we both felt impressed to give him a copy of the Book of Mormon. Inside the book we wrote our good wishes for him, our testimonies, and our contact information.
Later that same evening, unbeknownst to us, a young man by the name of Ilya was out with his brother. While walking along a dimly lit underground street, Ilya spotted a glimmer of gold on the cover of a book on the ground. Stooping down to get a closer look, he read the gold letters embossed on the book—The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. He picked it up and carried it home.
The next day my companion and I were pondering how we could find new investigators. Thoughts flew through my mind: “We are trying our hardest searching for new opportunities. Where are the results? Maybe we need to change something we’re doing.”
A moment later the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end asked, “Is this an elder? I found your lost book in the subway crossing. I want to return it.”
I immediately glanced at the shelf where my scriptures lay. “I don’t think I lost my scriptures in the metro,” I answered. “No, I did not lose my copy of the Book of Mormon, but you can have it and read it.”
The young man said his name was Ilya and explained that he was originally from Orsk, Russia, and had come to St. Petersburg to work.
“I would like to learn more about this book and your church,” he said. “May I meet with you?”
I jumped with excitement. It wasn’t every day that potential investigators called asking to set up a meeting to learn more about the Church.
“Of course we can meet, Ilya!” I responded joyfully.
When we met with Ilya, he listened attentively and asked questions. We were glad that he was so receptive to the gospel.
At one point during the lesson, I opened Ilya’s copy of the Book of Mormon. As I turned to the opening pages, I glimpsed some familiar handwriting—my own! I realized this was the same book we had given to the elderly man the day before. Apparently the man had discarded the book, which was soon discovered by Ilya. I was filled with gratitude that my companion and I had chosen to leave the book with the elderly man, even though at the time we didn’t understand why.
It wasn’t long before Ilya chose to join the Church. He began to enthusiastically share the message of the gospel with his relatives and friends as well.
I have learned that Heavenly Father knows when a person is ready to receive His word. He requires us, as missionaries and members of His Church, only to fulfill His commandments and submit to His will as we seek to share the gospel. In this case God knew that although the original recipient of our Book of Mormon would overlook its value, Ilya would not (see 1 Nephi 19:7).

One Sunday when I was twelve years old, I was sitting on the front row with the deacons at the missionary farewell of President Benjamin J. Bowering. In his talk, President Bowering said, “There has never been a time in my life when I have not known that the gospel is true.” The minute I heard him say that, I realized that I felt the same way. At that moment, the stirrings of the Spirit and the strength of my testimony became evident to me, and those feelings have stayed with me all my life. Because of that talk, I recognized what I had—a testimony of the gospel.

Sam threw open the door of his room and stood there. He couldn’t see anything wrong with it. His ball and bat were in the corner right where they should be. His bird’s nest was on the dresser. His extra lumber was under the bed. The bag of nails, the saw, hammer, the screwdriver, the sandpaper, and the glue were all neatly stacked on the floor. Even the three cartons full of interesting bits and pieces of things he had collected were piled neatly along one wall. The sign saying Save More at Our Store that the grocer had given him was taped to the wall opposite the window.
He kept his flowerpots in cartons on Eddie’s bed during the day, because that was the only place the sun could reach them, and he kept his moon maps and unstrung guitar on Fred’s bed. Then at night he carefully put everything out of the way so that both Eddie and Fred could get into their beds.
But now Sam was puzzled. His mother had told him that he must get rid of some of his things. And the more he stood and looked into their room, the more he could not see one single thing that he could throw away.
“If you want to get a racing set,” she explained, “you must make room for it.”
“I can put the set on Fred’s bed in the daytime,” he said.
“Fred already has the guitar and moon maps on his bed,” his mother replied.
“Well, what about Eddie’s bed then?” Sam asked.
“Did you forget that your boxes of flowerpots cover Eddie’s bed?”
“Yes,” Sam said, “I guess I did.”
“The only place for the racing set is on your own bed during the day and under your bed at night. You’ll just have to get rid of some of your other things.”
Sam sighed. His paper route earnings had finally brought him enough money for the racing set pictured in the catalog. But sharing a room with two brothers had made space precious.
Sam started to work on the three cartons. He couldn’t remember what was in them, and he didn’t want to throw away anything that was important. In the cartons he found some little houses left over from a building block set, some old lead soldiers that had been his father’s, an umbrella with the cover gone, and more foil flowerpots.
“Those shiny pots,” he said. “I wish they were pits. Pits,” he said again. “That’s it! Pits!” And he began to work harder.
His mother came to the door and said, “It’s time for lunch, Sam.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Sam replied. But he went right on with his work and forgot all about lunch.
Soon Eddie and Fred came into the room. “What are you doing?” Eddie asked. “Why is that stuff all over my bed?”
“Don’t worry, Eddie. I’m going to take it all off your bed soon. But for now you two go out and play. I’m busy!”
Sam hammered and nailed and sawed and glued and tied. Before long the doorbell rang. Sam dropped everything and ran to answer it.
“Sam Harding?” the delivery man said.
“Thank you,” Sam told him. Then Sam took the box and headed down the hall toward his room.
“Wait,” Mother called. “Be sure there’s enough space in that room for everyone! I haven’t seen you make one single trip to the trash to throw out anything.”
“I’m not throwing anything out,” Sam said.
“I’m not having any old racing set on my bed!” Fred insisted.
“Don’t worry,” Sam replied. “When I get this finished, I’ll show you.” Then he went into their room with the box under his arm.
An hour later Sam called, “You may all come in now.”
On a platform made from the lumber that had been under Sam’s bed, the new racing set gleamed. Sam had nailed the small houses from the building blocks set to the planks. The soldiers stood guard at the gate.
“How did you make the gate, Sam?” Fred asked.
“I made it from the umbrella spokes.”
“What are these?” Eddie wanted to know, pointing to the flattened foil flowerpots.
“Those are racing pits for the mechanics,” Sam answered. “See the mountain? That’s that old mossy rock. The raspberry boxes are the grandstands—you know, for the spectators.”
“Why do you have those little bales of straw there near the curves?” Mother asked.
“To protect the people,” Sam answered. “I made them out of my bird’s nest and some string.”
The three cartons were arranged around the platform.
“Those are our seats,” Sam explained. “We sit on them to race the cars.”
“Even the moon maps are gone from my bed!” Fred exclaimed.
“Look up there,” Sam directed. He had taped the maps to the ceiling. “The moon belongs up in the sky anyway.”
“Let’s race!” Fred shouted as he sat on the carton with his name on it.
“You did a good job, Sam,” Mother laughed. “I didn’t think you could do it without throwing away some of your treasures.” She was quiet for a minute, then she continued. “I have a box on my closet shelf that I keep thinking I should throw away, but somehow I can’t do it.”
“I know just how you feel, Mom,” Sam sympathized. “If you ever need an expert to help you, let me know!”

Matt Bezzant learned about repentance during a service project at a nursery school. He would let the children clean the walls of the nursery as well as they could with the tools he gave them, and then he would come along afterwards to help them make the wall clean all the way. Cleaning the walls was like repentance, he said. “You do all you can to clean the wall, and God gives you the tools for that; then He does the rest.”

On another occasion, a bishop in South America asked if Elder Kimball could bless a dying man in the hospital between stake conference sessions. They raced to the hospital and ran up the stairs and down the hall. As they entered the room, the bishop recalled, “There was an amazing change. Elder Kimball seemed to have all the time in the world.” They visited unhurriedly, administered to the man, and took their leave. Once out the door, they ran to the car and sped back to the conference.

Colly Creek Ward
The Colly Creek Ward, Topeka Kansas Stake, challenged the Primary children to bring their scriptures every Sunday. They placed an anchor on the bulletin board and started making a paper chain connected to the anchor. The name of each child who brought his or her scriptures was written on a paper link every Sunday. Soon the chain grew to reach the back of the Primary room! This activity reminded the Primary to be “anchored” in the scriptures.

The bell rang, and I darted out of the classroom.
“Hey! Andrew! Andrew Hinton, stop right there!”
I was weaving in and out of the crowded hall like an all-star halfback. Normally I wasn’t this talented, but when Helen chased me, it was as if I gained extra speed.
“Andrew Hinton—just wait until I get my hands on you!”
When I turned to see if the towering figure was still chasing me, I tripped over Tommy, who had stooped to pick up a book. “Oof!” I went crashing over the top of him. “Are you OK, Tommy?” I asked.
“Yeah, how about you?”
“I’m all right as long as Helen doesn’t catch me.”
Tommy shivered, and his eyes got wide. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story. I have to go.” I turned to run. “Ahhh!” I was staring at Helen’s throat. She glared down at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, hi, Helen,” I said with a weak grin.
She squinted her eyes as she loomed over me like a storm cloud about to erupt. “Why did you groan and say, ‘Oh, no—not Helen the Giant!’ when Mrs. Haynes assigned us to be partners in the science project?” she demanded, still squinting.
“I didn’t say that, Helen,” I said, even though it wasn’t the truth.
“Yes, you did.” Her stare was like a hot laser beam.
“OK, maybe I said it, but I really didn’t mean it.” I smiled sheepishly.
“Yes you did.”
“Well … but I meant it in a nice way. …”
She shook her head. Her fists were now clenched at her side. “I guess there’s only one thing left to do then,” she said, pushing up her sleeves.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and braced myself for the worst.
To my amazement, she said, “I’ll go tell Mrs. Haynes that you want a different partner.”
It took a second for me to understand what had happened. When I opened my eyes, she was already trudging away. Why didn’t she slug me? I wondered. Then I surprised myself by running after her. “Hey, Helen! Wait up!”
She turned around, her face puffy and red from trying not to cry.
“Why didn’t you hit me or something?” I asked.
“Hit you? Why would I do that? I’ve never hit anyone.”
I scratched my head. “But what about all those stories about you hurting people?”
“Huh?”
“You know, like the one about your scratching up Billy Snead’s face?”
She laughed and shook her head. “He was riding by me on his bike and calling me names. When he finally turned to look where he was going, it was too late—he crashed into a rosebush. I tried to help him, but he ran off screaming.”
“Yeah, that sounds like something Billy would do,” I laughed. “But why don’t you just ignore people when they joke about you and tease you?”
“I try, but it still hurts my feelings. I can’t help it that I’m this tall.”
“I guess you can’t. I never really thought about it that way.”
“Tommy Clark can’t help it because he’s short,” she added, “yet people pick on him too. And what about Tara Phelps? I’m sure she’d rather talk without stuttering.”
I nodded.
“And you can’t help it if your ears are too big,” she said.
“Well, yeah, I mean that’s—Hey! Wait a minute!”
“It doesn’t feel very good, does it?” Helen asked with a half smile.
“No, it doesn’t,” I admitted. I was beginning to understand. Just because someone looks, talks, or acts differently doesn’t mean that they should be avoided or be made fun of. I hesitated. “Uh, Helen, if you’re still interested, I was wondering if you’d like to stay as my science partner. I mean, if you don’t mind having a partner with big ears. …”
“Sure, why not? Maybe you’ll hear something from down there that I can’t see from up here.” She grinned.
I grinned back.

Another family invited their eighteen-year-old son’s friend who needed a home to stay with them for a year while he prepared for a mission. They provided an environment of emotional support and spiritual example and enabled him to earn his own money for his mission. On his mission he grew in maturity, self-esteem, and confidence. Since his mission, with self-reliance, he has gone forward to strengthen others.

Sometimes I wanted immediate blessings from Heavenly Father. I thought He’d bless me with fewer panic attacks just because I went to church. But I’ve learned that it doesn’t work that way. I often have to push through the attacks and attend church before I can see His blessings.
Now I’ve realized I can also ask for help from my parents and medical professionals. I still have bad days, but they don’t control me. Instead, they help me prove to my Heavenly Father that I love Him and that I’ll fight through this challenge with His help.

I’m married to a non-Mormon. Though I sincerely want my husband to join the Church, I’ve found that I need not wait until then to have a marriage that is a little bit of heaven on earth. I’m happy at home, and so is my husband. But it certainly didn’t start that way.
For the first seven years Brent and I were married, I nagged him. Not a lot, but my husband certainly knew that he smoked too much, went out with his friends too often, didn’t spend enough time with me and the children, didn’t handle money very well, drank too much alcohol, and didn’t help enough around the house.
I had two things in my favor though. An earlier divorce had made me vow that I would never leave Brent and that he would never leave without knowing I loved him and wanted him to stay. Consequently, although he packed his bags a couple of times, he never walked out of the house with them.
The other point was that we both had loving natures and a deep regard for each other. Sometimes it got hidden by the anger we felt, but it was always there. Still, his lifestyle created frustrations for me. I realized that Brent wasn’t changing, and my frustrations were making our home life unpleasant.
One day in Relief Society we were told that the woman establishes the atmosphere of the home. That made me think, and I began looking for magazine articles and books to help me. I sat down with myself and analyzed what I was doing.
The first thing I realized was that seven years of nagging had produced no results; Brent knew by now what I didn’t like, so I might as well stop repeating myself.
Second, if I couldn’t change him I would have to change me and find ways to live cheerfully with what he was. I needed to work on my perfection, not his.
Third, I could never love him as I should if I was constantly thinking I might someday have to choose between him and the Church.
Fourth, I must let him take his rightful place as head of the family in all things, even decisions involving the Church.
From Relief Society lessons, Sunday School classes, personal scripture study, various books, and much prayer, I developed a plan.
I decided to begin by remaining cheerful when Brent stayed out late. Prayer was the key to this change. The first time Brent came home late to find me in a good mood, his reaction was, “What’s going on here?”
I told him I was wasting too much energy worrying about him and so was asking our Heavenly Father to take care of him because he had more influence on circumstances than I had. I also said that Brent had enough sense to keep himself out of trouble. He laughed, and within two months was phoning me if he planned on being out late. He was also coming home consistently earlier since he had a pleasant wife to come home to. It was hard. I had to discipline myself; when I couldn’t control my anger after he arrived home from drinking late, I learned to leave the house. But the results were worth it: our quarrels over Brent’s drinking were drastically reduced.
Encouraged by the good experience, I sought new ways to eliminate other points of contention.
I quit nagging Brent to take us on outings. Instead, I planned outings and family home evening for us, then invited him to come with us. Sometimes he did come, sometimes he didn’t. We were glad to have him with us, but went ahead without him if he was busy. I also invited myself along if he was going somewhere we would enjoy. If he said no, I didn’t let it bother me.
Even more important, I began finding ways to communicate my love to him. I began thanking him for every chore he had done and every compliment, gift, good turn, considerate action, and show of affection he gave me. I also started complimenting him on the way he dressed, on his sense of humor—on every good point I noticed. Needless to say, I began seeing more and more good things about him. The more I saw, the more my respect grew, and the more I loved him.
Slowly I learned to really think of him as the head of the house. I learned to go to him and ask for his help when I had a problem instead of accusing and blaming whenever I made a mistake. Doors of communication that had been shut for years began opening.
Then, carefully, I started asking his permission to go to church functions or take the children somewhere. At first he said, “Go ahead. You’ll do it even if I say ‘no.’” But by not doing things I knew he objected to, he eventually learned I honored his wishes and he took more interest in what we were doing.
And I worked on improving myself. Brent disliked to come home to unwashed dishes, so I resolved to have the dishes washed no matter what else was left undone. I also resolved to get more sleep so I’d be more pleasant to come home to. That would take more efficiency than I had. I studied, planned my schedule, and then replanned it. My children helped more willingly after I told them I needed their help in making our home a happy place. I lost some weight, dressed more neatly, and let my hair grow a little longer because Brent likes it better that way. I especially worked on forgetting what I wanted Brent to do for me and concentrated on what I could do to make him feel more loved.
It is now four years later and I am still working on all of these areas, but the blessings can’t be counted. Months ago Brent paid me the supreme compliment of saying he would never have had the confidence to recently start his own business without my support. Daily I feel loved and cherished.
A smile over the heads of our children, holding my hand as we walk down the street, his teasing to make me laugh, telephone calls to let me know he misses me, small gifts that say “I love you,” a lunch date without the children—all these things show me he loves me. And when he tells me he wants us to be married forever, I am completely happy.
He has changed greatly. He has quit smoking, he doesn’t drink as much, enjoys spending time with us, and takes one child at a time on a special outing every few weeks. He is a kind, loving husband and father, interested in what we do and think and feel.
Our love for him is possibly helping him move toward baptism. But if he chooses not to join the Church, the love and peace in our home and the growth and development I’ve experienced through trying to apply gospel principles is reward enough.

It was Elliott’s first day at a new school, and he was nervous.
Mom, I’m going to miss my old friends.
I know you will, but you can make new friends.
After arriving at school, Elliott sat down in a new classroom. A lot of the children already knew each other. They were talking and laughing. Elliott sat quietly.
At recess Elliott couldn’t find anyone to play with. He didn’t know whom to ask. A couple of the boys on the playground said something unkind to him. Elliott was not happy.
Elliott returned home from school feeling sad.
What’s wrong?
I had a hard day at school. You said I would make new friends, but I didn’t. Some boys were mean to me, and I didn’t even do anything to them.
I’m sorry you had a bad day. If you keep trying, things will get better. Maybe we should pray about this. What do you think?
OK. I really want to have a good time at school.
Day after day Elliott prayed for help so he could have good days at school. Some days were a little rough, but he slowly started to find friends to play with.
Elliott kept praying for help. After a few weeks, Elliott was playing with new friends every day. Even though some kids were not always nice, he wasn’t bothered by them as much. Elliott knew Heavenly Father blessed him so he could be happy at his new school.

I live in Chile and have been a member of the Church since I was eight. I have always known that I was in the true Church, and I felt I had a testimony of the Book of Mormon, but it was a borrowed testimony. Although I wanted to, I had never read the Book of Mormon all the way through. I had never read further than 1 Nephi.
On the night of July 4, 2002, my friend and I attended our Book of Mormon institute class. We stayed after class talking until we noticed that it had gotten late. We began walking home around 10:15, and when we got to the place where we were to split up, we stopped and continued to talk.
Two men passed by and asked us what time it was, but we were so involved in our conversation that we barely heard them. Suddenly they came back. One of them threw his arms around me, putting a knife to my neck. Then he let me go and threatened my friend. The other man asked us for money, and when we said we didn’t have any, they were furious. They demanded our jackets and backpacks.
I had wanted this jacket for a long time and had finally been able to buy it a month before. And I loved my backpack, which my older brother had given me. My friend had homework assignments in her backpack that she needed to turn in. I was really scared—almost frozen in place. It was the first time I had ever been robbed.
Without hesitation we gave them our things. But suddenly I said, “Wait! Please let me take out my Book of Mormon! It’s the only thing of value I have.” The thief gave me a strange look and let me take it out. Then they fled.
I hugged the book and didn’t care about anything else. I felt peace because I had rescued this precious book from two criminals.
That night I decided to show greater appreciation for this treasure of mine and for all the sacrifices made by the people who had brought it to light. I started to read it, and I began to feel an indescribable peace and a spectacular joy. All of a sudden it was worth so much more to me. I finished it two months later, and I finally gained a testimony of the book for myself.
I still don’t know where I got the courage to ask for my book back, but I’ll never be sorry that I did. I don’t harbor any ill feelings toward the men because through that experience I gained the testimony I desired.
That testimony helped motivate me to serve a mission. I am now home from serving in Argentina, where I was able to tell people about the Book of Mormon and share with them how marvelous this work truly is.