Gospel Story Finder

After Paul got ready for bed, he sat on Mommy’s lap in the rocking chair in his room. Mommy held Paul close as she told him the news. “The doctor says you need to have another surgery on your ears,” she said. “He thinks your ears will be all better after that.”
Paul fiddled with the buttons on his pajamas. He had had surgery before. The medicine made him feel sick, and he had to wear a big, white bandage around his ears until they healed. With his head bandaged, he couldn’t ride his bike or play on the swings. Paul started to worry, but then he had an idea.
“Mommy, can we ask Heavenly Father to bless me?” Paul asked.
“That’s a good idea,” Mommy said.
They knelt on the floor and Mommy prayed, “Heavenly Father, please bless Paul that he will be comforted during his surgery. Please guide the doctor’s hands so he can help heal Paul. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
A warm, peaceful feeling filled Paul up inside. He was still a little nervous, but he knew that he would be safe.
A few days later, Paul went to the hospital for his surgery. He put on a hospital gown and talked to the doctor. Paul liked the way the doctor told him what was going to happen so he wouldn’t be as scared. He liked to think of Heavenly Father guiding the doctor’s hands to make his ears better. Paul and Mommy said another prayer, and Paul felt the same warm feeling inside. Mommy still looked a little worried.
“It’s OK,” Paul told her. He gave Mommy a hug. “Remember, we said a prayer.”
Mommy smiled at Paul. “You are right. Heavenly Father will bless you.”
When Paul woke up from his surgery, Mommy was sitting beside his bed.
“Hello, Mommy,” he said sleepily.
Mommy smiled. “Hello, Paul! How do you feel?”
“Pretty good,” Paul said. “Are my ears OK?”
“Yes,” Mommy said. “Our prayers were answered. The doctor said that everything went well, and your ears will get better.”
Paul smiled. “I knew it, Mommy,” he said. “Heavenly Father answered our prayers.”

Jason lay by the hearth, doing his homework in the firelight. But he couldn’t concentrate. The image of Mr. Rayburn’s ranch kept coming back to him, and with it the sight of the beautiful little pony the rancher had for sale. Only eighteen dollars, that’s all it would cost! he thought. But it might as well be five hundred. Jason’s father had gone to fight in the Civil War, and had left his ten-year-old son as the man of the house.
More than anything he had ever wanted before, Jason wanted a pony. But how will I ever get eighteen dollars of my own? he asked himself. All the other boys rode to school on horses. But Jason had to be up before dawn to milk the cow, feed the chickens, and then walk the long distance to school. When he wasn’t at school, Jason was busy at home, helping his mother on their farm.
Jason’s mother listened sympathetically when he told her about Mr. Rayburn’s pony. But when the boy finished, she just looked at him with a sad kind of smile. “Oh, Jason,” she said. “The pony sounds wonderful. But I’m afraid we don’t have any money to spare. We’re having a hard time now and with a new baby coming …”
“I’d forgotten for a minute about the baby. I hope it’s a girl. I’d like to have a little sister,” said Jason with a smile. “And maybe if I work extra hard, there will be enough money for a cradle.”
His mother hugged him close. “With you here to help, we’ll do just fine, Jason,” she said.
Later that night Jason climbed the ladder up to the loft where he slept. But before sleep came he couldn’t help thinking about the pony.
The next morning on his way to school, Jason saw a notice in the window of the general store:
Boys needed afternoons or evenings at the planing mill—10¢ an hour.
Ten cents an hour is a lot of money, Jason thought. I hope I can get that job after school.
The hours seemed to drag by until school was over. When the bell rang, Jason raced to the mill, but his heart sank when he saw the long line of waiting boys. At last it was his turn to apply for a job.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the man.
“Ten years old, sir. But I’ll be eleven in March. And I’m a hard worker,” replied Jason.
“I don’t think you’re old enough for a job here, son. Why don’t you try us next year?”
Jason did not move. “Please, sir, now that my father is at war, I’m the only man in the house. And I’ll work hard.”
“Well, if your dad’s away fighting, I guess we can find a job for you,” the man said.
Jason could hardly wait to tell his mother about his new job. “I know you’ll make me proud of you,” she said. “And since you’re working on your own time between school and chores, son, you may keep the money you earn.”
Jason jumped up with delight and hugged her. His chores weren’t so hard that night. In his mind he could just see himself up on the back of that little pony. It won’t matter if I don’t have a saddle. I’ll still be able to ride like the other boys, and they won’t laugh at (ridicule) me anymore, he thought.
Jason liked his work at the mill. But it became hard to study without falling asleep and even harder to get up in the mornings. As the weeks passed, Jason’s little pile of money grew. Each payday brought him closer to his goal. However, it was nearly time for the baby to be born and Jason knew that he would soon have to quit working at the mill because his mother would need more help at home. Every night when he went to bed he wondered how long he would be able to work.
The next payday Jason counted his savings. He had $19.10, and in his mind he could see the little pony in their barn. He was so busy thinking about the pony that he almost bumped into a buggy parked in their yard. He looked up and his heart leaped. It was Dr. Frank’s. The baby must have been born! He raced toward the house. Then he suddenly got sad. The cradle! Mother still didn’t have a cradle for the baby. But it really wasn’t his fault. Mother had said he could keep the money he earned. Still, he felt a little selfish. He opened the door slowly and peeked in. His grandmother was in the kitchen.
“Grandmother is it a boy or a girl?” he asked.
Grandmother smiled and put a finger to her lips, “Shh, your mother is asleep. Come and see your baby sister.”
Jason approached timidly. He had not been this close to a newborn baby before. She lay curled up in the laundry basket, wrapped in layers of blankets.
“Oh, Grandmother she’s so tiny,” he whispered.
“Your mother has named her Jenny. She looks a little like you did when you were a baby,” said Grandmother.
Jason bent down to look at the tiny fingers. They moved when he touched them and curled themselves around his larger finger. He frowned. He was the man of the house, and this little baby was partly his responsibility. How could he think of buying a pony when Jenny had no cradle?
“Grandmother I’m not very hungry. I have something important to do. Please tell Mother I’ll be back soon.”
Jason ran outside and didn’t stop till he came to the general store. Mr. Wright, the proprietor, also did woodworking as a hobby.
“Mr. Wright! My mother had a baby girl. How much would you charge to make me a cradle for her—one that rocks?”
“Well, since you’re a working man,” the storekeeper said with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll make a real nice one for you for nine dollars. I can have it ready by Friday.”
“That’d be fine,” said Jason. As he turned to leave, he saw some baby clothes inside a showcase. “How much is that pretty little gown?” he asked. “I want to get that for Jenny too.”
All the way home Jason whistled a jaunty tune. He was sure that the real man of the house couldn’t be any happier about the new baby than her big brother was.

Several years ago my oldest grandson who had been a deacon for a year came to me and said, “Grandpa, I have been a hundred percenter ever since I was ordained a deacon a year ago.” I said, “What do you mean by a hundred percenter?” Of course I knew, but he responded, “I haven’t missed a sacrament meeting, Sunday School, or priesthood meeting since I was ordained a deacon.”
I congratulated him and said, “John, if you will continue to be a hundred percenter until you are old enough to go on a mission, I will finance your mission.” He smiled and said, “I’ll do it.”
I thought I was perfectly safe, but he set about to be a hundred percenter. I remember on two occasions how he disciplined himself in order to accomplish his undertaking. One time his uncle invited him to go for a trip with him and his boys where they would be gone over Sunday. John said, “Is there any place I can attend my meetings on Sunday?” and as he was told there was not, he said, “No, I can’t go. I am going to be a hundred percenter,” and therefore sacrificed a lovely trip to the ocean and an island on which they were going to celebrate.
Another time near a weekend he broke his leg. The first thing he asked his doctor was, “Will I be able to attend Church on Sunday? I have to be a hundred percenter.” He came, of course, on crutches.
When he became 19 years of age, he said, “Grandpa, I have been a hundred percenter ever since we made that deal.” I was very happy to finance him on his mission. This achievement has been a great influence in his life. It is not so difficult for him to discipline himself and do those things which are right for him to do and which will bring him success.

My grandfather loves to tell my brothers and me stories about events in his life. Many of them are funny, others are scary, and I love them all. But the greatest story my grandfather ever told me has affected my testimony and my faith in the Church greatly. I still cry when he tells the story—even when I just think about it.
Before I was born my grandfather was a recent convert to the Church after many years of opposing it. He was a construction worker and would work on many sites, including the construction of large buildings.
Just one week after joining the Church, my grandfather was working on a building while 30 feet up in the sky. He was trying to get to one end of the building to do some work on the roof. In order to get to where he needed to go, my grandfather had to walk on a high beam hanging out over the ground. When my grandfather got about halfway onto the board it snapped, and my grandfather plummeted 30 feet onto the ground.
He was rushed to the emergency room. His neck was broken in three places, a lung was punctured, and a kidney was torn in half. Other parts of his body were ripped and bleeding. The doctors said he wouldn’t survive long enough to see the next day. During the whole ordeal my grandfather was still awake and in excruciating pain. He was sinking closer to death every second. Finally, my grandfather said he needed a blessing from a man with the priesthood.
Fortunately, a man who had helped my grandfather grow stronger in the Church had stayed home from work that day. When he received a call from the hospital stating that he was wanted there, he rushed to the emergency room and asked my grandfather what he needed.
My grandfather said, “I need a blessing.”
The man told him the doctors had said there was nothing more they could do to help my grandfather. But my grandfather shook his head and repeated that he needed a blessing. Finally the man agreed and gave my grandfather a blessing.
After the blessing, my grandfather relaxed. The pain finally having left him, he fell asleep. Several days passed, and my grandfather was released from the hospital.
When he went back for a checkup, his doctor had some surprising news. “You are a walking miracle,” he said. My grandfather had fully recovered from his deadly drop with no negative effects other than a few scars. The blessing from God that one man gave to my grandfather had saved his life and restored him to health.
When I first heard this story, I was too young to understand, but now that I am older, I understand it completely, and it has helped my testimony grow stronger. I know for a fact that through the priesthood, the Lord can heal those who truly ask for it in faith.
I will never forget the story, for I live with the walking miracle—my grandfather.

When I was a child, my family traveled to the Tokyo Japan Temple. The 12-hour car trip was long, but we were grateful for the time we got to spend together, and we spent the drive discussing our excitement about going to the temple.
At the time I wasn’t yet 12 years old, so I was only able to enter the temple lobby. But the sacred nature of that space filled my heart with the warmth of the Spirit.
I could have stayed in that lobby forever. So when it came time to return home, tears started streaming down my face. The temple quickly grew smaller and smaller in the distance as we drove away, and I already missed the strong Spirit I had felt inside.
I was determined to return one day. If the Spirit was that strong in the lobby, I couldn’t wait to experience what it felt like to actually go inside and perform ordinances. I wanted to do whatever I could to prepare to go inside someday.

Fire has been used to describe a wide range of things, from romantic love to a “burning” testimony. Another common association with fire is anger. Ever heard of someone being described as “hotheaded” or as having a “fiery” temper?

Anger, like fire, can appear suddenly and without warning. Both can destroy anything they touch. Yet there’s something intriguing about fire. If you cut off its access to fuel, the flames vanish. The same principle applies to anger.

Object lesson time!

Supplies
Baking soda (aka sodium bicarbonate)
Vinegar
Tall drinking glass (see-through is more fun to watch, but not necessary)
Measuring spoons
Candle and flame source

Explain to your family that in this object lesson, fire represents anger. Ask somebody to read the following story by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008). As they read the story, light the candle.

“Many years ago I worked for one of our railroads. A switchman was aimlessly strolling about the platform one day. I asked him to move a car to another track. He exploded. He threw his cap on the pavement and jumped up and down on it, swearing like a drunken sailor. I stood there and laughed at his childish behavior. Noting my laughter, he began to laugh at his own foolishness. He then quietly climbed on the switch engine, drove it over to the empty car, and moved it to an empty track.”1

There are bodies all over the place.
And chassis. And engines.
The air shivers with the shrilling of sanders, punctuated by the stuttering chatter of impact wrenches. During a lull, you hear the distant hiss of a spray gun. Somewhere, a compressor begins to chug. The tang of fresh paint hangs heavy.
Look around and you see that this is more than just an ordinary body shop for patching crumples and dents. That tall, square shape in the open paint booth is a 1927 Studebaker. There is a classic red 1956 T-Bird just a few feet to your left. This shop in tiny Glade, Kansas, just south of the Nebraska border, is known across the U.S. for the quality of its auto restoration work.
Outside, in the bright Kansas sunlight, 16-year-old Dean Kester from nearby Phillipsburg alternately scrapes and sands at a patch of filler on a 1969 Camaro destined for the racing circuit. Unlike the nearly finished cars inside his Uncle Ron’s shop, this car is still a dull primer gray. But the process of restoration is under way, and what is there is solid and sound and shows great promise. Just like Dean.
Before they were brought here, each of the cars was just sitting somewhere, slowly deteriorating. Dean will tell you frankly that two years ago, he was sort of the same way.
Dean had been baptized at age eight, but he and his family drifted into inactivity. It didn’t help that he was the only LDS kid in his school.
“Everybody was giving me a bad time about the Word of Wisdom and going to church all the time. Because I wanted to be like my friends, I started doing everything they were doing. I did some stupid things.”
It all came to a head just before Dean’s 15th birthday. “I had a driving permit and then a restricted license when I was 14,” he explains. “One weekend my parents had gone to Salina to get some things. Everybody else was taking their cars out and driving around. I figured I wouldn’t get caught.” The car he totalled was the 1960 Falcon that he and his dad had spent two years restoring. That hurt even more than the fines and loss of his license.
“I don’t know,” Dean reflects. “I was just trying to be like everybody else and I messed up. That’s when Mom decided that we needed to do something. And so we started going back to church.”
“My mom did a great thing for me. I have to give her a lot of credit,” Dean acknowledges. It was in his small branch in Phillipsburg, Kansas, that Dean found the help he needed to start his own personal restoration process.
Dean also gives a lot of credit to Steve Horton, the former Young Men president who is now his branch president. “Brother Horton helped me out with learning what I did was wrong and how to repent and become worthy again.” The other members of the branch are great, too, giving him rides to activities, being friends and good listeners.
It wasn’t easy to get back into the church-going habit. “I was used to sleeping in on Sundays,” he says. So what has it all done for him? Dean grins as he says, “It’s done a whole lot. I feel a lot better about myself. I always told people I was this really great person so people would like me. Even when I was first coming back to church, I was saying that stuff. But then my mom helped me again. She said, ‘If you want people to think something of you, you’ve got to do it; you can’t just say it.’ And so I started trying to act the way I wanted people to think of me and to remember me.”
When you restore a car, the changes go deep. It isn’t enough just to sand and prime and paint. You go right down to solid, bare metal. What isn’t sound gets replaced.
For Dean, starting with bare metal has meant a number of things. He’s learned to live the Word of Wisdom. He’s learned to serve and is now first assistant in his priests quorum presidency, eagerly looking for ways to help activate other youth. Going to the temple to do baptisms for the dead has also been a real blessing for Dean. “That really strengthened my testimony,” he says. In fact, he has challenged his whole family—his dad, Vernon; his mom, Linda; and his brothers, Nathan and Kevin—to get ready to go to the temple as a family. And he keeps working on them.
“He’s changing all of us, getting us more and more involved in the Church,” says his dad.
None of this means that Dean is through working on himself, of course. For example, there’s the matter of school. “I’m not a straight-A student,” he laughs. “But I’m getting better. In the eighth grade I had that same old problem of wanting to be like everybody else,” he goes on to explain. “All the kids that I thought were my friends were just trying to get by. Well, when I started coming back to church, I decided that I wanted to be myself, so I started getting better grades. I’m just now getting out of the habit of doing only what I have to to pass a course I don’t like. But this last semester I did really great. It was one of my best report cards in a long time.”
As he openly answers questions about himself and his feelings, Dean continues to work on the Camaro, shaping and smoothing it, bit by bit—just like he’s shaping and smoothing himself with the help of people like his parents and branch president. Among the things he’s still working on are his own feelings about a mission. “I know I should go,” he says, “and I’m saving money for a mission.”
He’s quiet for a minute, working harder at a stubborn piece of body filler. The Kansas wind continues to ripple the rolling wheat fields on the other side of the road. The only sounds are the rasp of sandpaper, the metallic noises from inside the shop, the passing of trucks on the highway. Then Dean continues:
“Of course, two years ago, if somebody would’ve asked me if I was going on a mission, I would have laughed. But now, it’s like, sure, I want to go on a mission. I just don’t know when. By the time mission age comes, I’ll probably go.” The more he talks, the more you hear in his voice that he really does know. But it is a big step to come right out and say it.
And that’s okay. Dean has already taken some big steps. Like the Camaro, he isn’t finished yet. But he’s solid. And he’s taking shape. And he shows the promise of being a winner in the biggest race of all.

I had an experience like yours. I wanted so much to be able to tell the bishop, but I thought he would have little respect for me as a member of his ward. I prayed about it for a long time. I was finally comforted enough by the Spirit to be able to tell the bishop about my problem. After I told him what I had done, he let me know that what I had done was wrong but that he still loved me and so does my Heavenly Father. He let me know that there is a way back and that is by repentance. Repentance is such a wonderful process. I beg you to give it a try. The Lord is waiting for you!
Name withheld

In the late 1940s, Elder Spencer W. Kimball, an Apostle since 1943, suffered a series of heart attacks. During the convalescence that followed, he stayed with friends in New Mexico. A Church magazine article later recounted an incident that occurred while he was there:
“One morning during this recuperative period, Elder Kimball’s bed was discovered empty. Thinking that he had taken a morning stroll and would be back in time for breakfast, his attendants went about their duties. But when he hadn’t returned by 10:00 a.m., they began to worry. A search began.
“He was finally discovered several miles away under a pine tree. His Bible lay next to him, opened to the last chapter of St. John. His eyes were closed, and when the search party came up to him he remained as still as when they first caught sight of him.
“Their frightened voices aroused him, however, and when he lifted his head they could see traces of tears on his cheeks. To their questions, he answered, ‘[Five] years ago today I was called to be an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, and I just wanted to spend the day with Him whose witness I am.’”13

The young men and women gazing up at the maple leaf, their backs momentarily to the towering present, are Latter-day Saints who call Ottawa their home. They are all Scouts and Beehives, because the priests and teachers, Laurels and Mia Maids, are away at a youth conference in Quebec.
But the young sightseers don’t feel bad about staying behind, because Ottawa is a place for all seasons, and there is nowhere they would rather be. Set in the vast Canadian forests, Ottawa offers miles of bike paths along streams and cataracts. Near at hand are Indian trails and all the myriad benefits of a national capital, including government buildings, parks, and every kind of national museum and gallery. Near the Parliament building runs the Rideau Canal, five miles of which become a well-groomed skating rink every winter, attracting Ottawa en masse to celebrate winter, Canadian style.
Within easy reach of Ottawa are countless miles of wilderness canoeing streams over which voyageurs once paddled and portaged. The Scouts often visit these streams on long, rough canoeing trips, working hard at having a good time and achieving the Chief Scout’s Award, Canada’s highest Scouting honor.
Today they meet at the Centennial Flame. Bubbling up through water symbolizing Canada’s linking rivers, natural gas bursts into a clear flame. First lighted on the midnight separating Canada’s first and second centuries of confederation, it lights the nation to a bright future.
Leaving the flame, the young people walk around the Parliament grounds, reliving Canada’s history, with the statues of great Canadian statesmen as their text.
Then it is time to watch the changing of the guard. Ramrod-straight guardsmen in scarlet tunics and tall bearskin busbies march and countermarch under the summer sun. Afterward, the group chats with one of the guardsmen and examines his busby.
Then comes a tour of the Parliament building. They visit the now-solemn-and-empty chambers of the House of Commons and the Senate, but an aura of political excitement and hot debate still hang over them. They stand silently in the sumptuous Library of Parliament. They walk through corridors of dazzling sculpture, carvings, and stained glass telling the story of a noble heritage and a free people.
Just as they emerge into the sunlight, a handsome Mountie rides up on a tall horse. In the conversation that follows they learn a little bit more about being a Mountie and he learns a little bit about being a Mormon.
Then they all say good-bye and go home to the thousand diversions that summertime Ottawa offers to young people.
But each of them will go through life with just a little greater sense of joy because they have stood under the castle on the winding river and the red maple leaf in the free breeze.
And the young men and women themselves will radiate the very special joy that the gospel awakens in the faces and hearts of God’s children everywhere.

When I was a small girl, only three years old, my brother, sister, and I had a live-in baby-sitter who had a little girl of her own. Because my mother was single, she had to work.
One day, while my brother and sister were at school, I was playing with the baby-sitter’s daughter. I found her sitting on the top bunk of her bunk bed. I knew my mother did not allow me to climb to the top bunk because it was dangerous. But I saw that she was eating goldfish cheese crackers, which I loved. I climbed up, received some crackers, and leaned back against the safety rail. It came unhooked, and I fell to the floor, landing on my rear end. I was shaken but would have been unhurt. However, as I looked up, I saw the rail falling toward me. It hit me on the head, knocking me unconscious.
My mother worked at the hospital, so she raced to the emergency room after she was notified I had been admitted. She found me playing with hand puppets and a nice doctor. He assured my mom that I would be fine.

Some years ago, Elder ElRay L. Christiansen told about one of his distant Scandinavian relatives who joined the Church. He was quite well-to-do and sold his lands and stock in Denmark to come to Utah with his family. For a while he did well as far as the Church and its activities were concerned, and he prospered financially. However, he became so caught up in his possessions that he forgot about his purpose in coming to America. The bishop visited him and implored him to become active as he used to be. The years passed and some of his brethren visited him and said: “Now, Lars, the Lord was good to you when you were in Denmark. He has been good to you since you have come here. … We think now, since you are growing a little older, that it would be well for you to spend some of your time in the interests of the Church. After all, you can’t take these things with you when you go.”
Jolted by this remark, the man replied, “Vell, den, I vill not go.” But he did! And so will all of us!

My family joined the Church in 1977, when I was 11 years old. At that time a violent civil war was beginning in our native land of El Salvador. The political situation was serious, and there were constant armed confrontations between the army and the rebels, forcing the government to order a curfew of 6:00 p.m. for all citizens. There was no freedom of assembly or freedom of speech, and we felt threatened by both the army and the rebels.
These events caused many people to look for ways to emigrate to wherever they could. My family was no exception. My father accepted an offer of employment in Venezuela, hoping he could get us out of danger. For a time my mother was left as the head of our household.
The war made it a difficult time for the Church. The same flight that took my father to Venezuela took the last 15 missionaries out of El Salvador. This meant the end of any chance to receive the messengers of the gospel of Jesus Christ for a long time.
At the end of 1979 we and other members of the Church, especially the youth, began doing missionary work of our own. We organized small choirs and sang in the streets to give people hope. By doing this we found many people wanting to learn about the gospel.
Meanwhile we learned to live in danger. Whenever the confrontations or shelling occurred, we threw ourselves on the floor and hoped it would all be over soon. Mama would cover us with our mattresses for protection. What brought peace to us in these difficult moments were the hymns. Lying on the floor, we would hold our hymnbooks, and Mama would encourage us to sing “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30), “How Firm a Foundation” (no. 85), “Joseph Smith’s First Prayer” (no. 26), “High on the Mountain Top” (no. 5), “O My Father” (no. 292), “I Stand All Amazed” (no. 193), and many other hymns that comforted us in our adversity. We often cried from the stress, but singing the hymns gave us the courage to face such a terrible situation.
Some time later Papa succeeded in bringing us to Venezuela, where we began a new life. We thanked our Heavenly Father for keeping us together and alive. Through this experience, I learned that the hymns invite a spirit of peace during difficult times.
Ana Gloria Hernández de Abzuela, Venezuela

As a young woman, I participated in Personal Progress. There were activities to do, projects to create, and goals to achieve.
For one project, I decided to read the words for all the songs in the hymnbook, look up the scriptures referenced for each song, and learn to play them on the piano.
I thought it was a practical project that would help me in the future, so I went to work reading, studying, and practicing the hymns.
Fast-forward a few years.
I served a mission in Argentina, and one of my challenges was speaking a different language. At first it was very hard to put words together fast enough to be able to share my thoughts with anyone. However, I learned that I could find a hymn that said just what I wanted to say faster than I could translate my thoughts. I would find the hymn I wanted to share, and even though the words were in another language, the tune and the message were the same. I sang my testimony to many people and was able to share gospel truths this way until I became fluent in the Spanish language. I had the Lord to thank for the inspiration behind my Personal Progress project.
Because I know the words of the hymns, God has been able to send very specific messages to me many times. If I didn’t know the words, I wouldn’t have been able to receive the messages of hope, encouragement, and love that were there. I may have been able to feel the Spirit and be uplifted by the music, but without knowing the words, I would have missed the full message.
This was an unforeseen blessing of my practical Personal Progress project. Heavenly Father has been able to send profound and timely messages to my heart through the hymns.

An experience which remains vivid in my mind when I felt the Savior yoked up with me, was during the October 2010 general conference. A missionary who had struggled for over six months with homesickness and wanting to go home was really weighing me down. As we approached general conference, I asked for inspiration on how to deal with this challenge. I also asked the missionaries to identify personal issues they were struggling with, then to listen carefully for what would be said in the general conference. Missionaries were asked to listen to both spoken and unspoken words.

We had just watched the Saturday afternoon session, and we were waiting for the priesthood session. Since we were watching the sessions live, it was past midnight in Harare. Some of us were outside, and this missionary who had been struggling with homesickness came and stood next to me. He simply said, “President, I have decided to stay.”

I could hardly believe what he had said. I asked him, “Why have you decided to stay and serve your mission?”

He said that he felt it was the right thing to do. Then he added, “I decided to stay not for myself, but for my children and grandchildren.”

We embraced and rejoiced together.

This missionary became one of our strongest elders. He inspired other missionaries to look to the Lord and to serve with humility, faith, and power.

Now he and his sweetheart have been sealed in the temple, and they are noble, righteous parents. His decision to stay on his mission surely has brought blessings to his family and it will continue to do so forever.

I felt the Lord’s love in taking upon me his yoke as we listened to general conference and sensed this missionary felt the same way. As I now reflect on what transpired, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s words come to mind: “If we teach by the Spirit and you listen by the Spirit, some one of us will touch on your circumstance, sending a personal prophetic epistle just to you.”1

I know firsthand how our hesitance to be vulnerable can negatively affect relationships or prevent them from even forming in the first place.
I have always been an easygoing person, but I also have strong feelings. For so long, I was afraid to share those feelings with loved ones. That fear led to unresolved resentment and frustration, and the very chaos I was trying to avoid was a result of my own silence.
For example, my now-husband and I were best friends for years! But miscommunications and my hesitance to be honest with him led to us going our separate ways for a time.
However, when he reached out to me months later (bless him), I realized I needed to mirror his courage. In doing so, we were able to have an honest, heartfelt conversation. Vulnerability ultimately helped us better understand each other and move from the friend zone into something more.
Looking back, all the miscommunication could’ve been avoided if we’d been vulnerable with each other from the start. Now, five years into our eternal marriage, we continue to have honest conversations. We’ve shared and been accountable for our weaknesses and stepped into the discomfort of sharing our true feelings. And every time we do, our love for each other only deepens.

A couple of years ago, my bishop asked our ward to read the Book of Mormon. I did not want to do it because I thought it would be too hard. The next year I decided to try to read it before my birthday to prepare for my baptism. I bore my testimony in sacrament meeting about this goal, and my bishop asked the ward to do my goal with me. I’m already beginning to see a change in my life from reading the Book of Mormon.
Emma G., age 7, Florida

Car horns blared and taxis and buses jostled for a place in the traffic. As Benjamin Misalucha sat in the marketplace watching the automobiles roll by, he reached for a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He hoped his wife would be done with the shopping soon. The weather was hot and muggy, as it often is in the Philippines, and he was eager to get home and relax with his children.
Then he noticed a sign, high on the side of one of the buildings overlooking the square. “No other success can compensate for failure in the home,” the sign read. He found himself contemplating the message and believing in its truth.
“During those times I was young, about 30, and had four children. We had everything, comparatively speaking, compared to other Filipinos, but I was not satisfied with life. In my heart I knew I was searching for something more,” he said.
He didn’t guess that the quotation from President David O. McKay had been inscribed on the sign by missionaries living in the building, the same kind of Mormon missionaries who had already visited with him for three weeks when he lived in Manila, the capital city. He had also been visited twice by the elders here in Davao, another large city in the south.
A short time later, Benjamin Misalucha was transferred by his pharmaceutical company to Cebu City, an important community on one of the central islands. It was in Cebu that Mr. Misalucha and his family would discover the secret of what had been lacking in their lives.
In a society in which sharing is so accepted, it might seem unusual that someone would stand out as being particularly kind and generous. But such was the case with the local Parent Teacher Association (PTA) president. Right from the start she went out of her way to help the Misaluchas adjust to their new city. Soon Mr. Misalucha was serving on the PTA board. He eventually found out that the PTA president was also the wife of the local Mormon bishop. His curiosity grew and grew.
“One day I saw both of them walking home, and I ran over to catch up with them,” Mr. Misalucha explained. “I told him I wanted to know more about his church. He said he could recommend a couple of nice young men who could teach me about it.”
For the next ten months, the elders became a regular fixture in the Misalucha home. Benjamin Misalucha would entertain them with stories about previous encounters with missionaries, before he fully understood who they were: “They knocked on my door and asked me if I was the head of the house. I was all hot and perspiring from doing some chores, so I told them, ‘No, I’m just the janitor here.’ It’s something I say jokingly to my family all the time, but they believed me!”
Avelina would always provide cold water or juice, cake, or even siopao (doughy, white, steamed Chinese bread stuffed with sausage and eggs). And of course, the children, who numbered five by now, would have fun teasing the missionaries and telling jokes before the serious gospel discussions began.
“I wanted answers from the Bible,” Benjamin said, “because I didn’t believe in the Book of Mormon yet. And they showed me answers in the Bible. I was totally perplexed by how they could always get answers to questions I couldn’t even answer myself.” Slowly, his perplexed state gave way to understanding. The missionaries could find the answers because they knew the truth. He summoned a family council.
“Take this individually into prayer,” he told his wife and children. At the next family council, they all voted in favor of becoming Latter-day Saints. The family was baptized on April 29, 1978, a Saturday.

Normally his mother, Sarah, didn’t worry too much about his childhood sicknesses, which came and went. But once he became very sick, and she began to worry. It started with a fever that kept rising. Then he had a stomachache and headache. Finally rose-colored spots appeared on his body, so she called for the doctor.
The doctor came and examined George Albert. He told Sarah that her son had typhoid fever, a disease that sometimes killed people. He told her to keep her son in bed for three weeks and to have him drink coffee but not eat.
When the doctor left, George Albert told his mother that he didn’t want to drink coffee because it was against the Word of Wisdom. He knew that Heavenly Father had given Joseph Smith the Word of Wisdom, a revelation that teaches us to not drink coffee, tea, or alcohol. It also teaches us to eat and drink only things that are good for our bodies. He didn’t want to break the Word of Wisdom. His mother and father had taught him to always obey Heavenly Father.
Because his father, John Henry, was away serving a mission, George Albert asked his mother to send for Brother Hawks, a faithful and good member of their ward who held the priesthood. When Brother Hawks arrived, George Albert asked him for a priesthood blessing.
Brother Hawks placed his hands on the boy’s head and blessed him that he would get better. George Albert had faith that the blessing would help him recover from the typhoid fever.
When the doctor arrived the next day, he found the boy playing outside with other children. The doctor was surprised. He examined George Albert and found that he was all better. George Albert later said, “I am grateful to the Lord for my recovery. I was sure that He had healed me.”

Third, testify of holy truths as often as you can. The Comforter always shares His voice when we testify with our voice. The Spirit bears witness to the speaker and listener alike.

I remember once taking a 45-minute taxi ride in New York City. Having had a warm gospel conversation with the driver for the duration of my ride to the airport, I paid her and prepared to exit the taxi. Then I realized I had not offered a testimony of what I had shared. Pausing, I shared a simple, short testimony, inviting the Spirit and bringing tears to both our eyes.