Gospel Story Finder

Michael Oja, 18, of the Astoria (Oregon) Ward, Longview Washington Stake, met Mission President John A. Larsen following a fireside.

“Son,” President Larsen said, “I think you’d make a great minimissionary.”

By mid-July, Mike was in Oregon City, working with the missionaries assigned to the Cambodian branch. “With the help of a translator, the missionaries taught them lessons on the plan of salvation. I met a lot of wonderful converts and helped share the gospel with their families and friends.

“It’s not like an eight-hour job, where you go home when your time’s up. Sometimes it’s a real long day. But after a while, you start to see that you’re helping people. Their lives start to change, and you get to see it happen.”

Mike learned something about his wardrobe, too. “I hadn’t thought much about it before, but if I’m going on a mission, I ought to be buying clothing now that I can use then. I’m saving up for suits and white shirts.”

The day before he was to return home, Mike was interviewed again by President Larsen.

“One of the neat things about going on a minimission is that you get to know the mission president. You can tell he’s with you all the way,” Mike said.

During that time, I became friends with members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They invited me to activities, and I always tried to attend every chance I had.
One day at church choir practice, For the Strength of Youth pamphlets were being passed around, and my friend handed one to me. As I read its messages about strengthening my relationship with Jesus Christ, I felt a hunger for truth ignite in me.
I wanted to know more about Him and His gospel. My friend gave me a Book of Mormon and invited me to ask Heavenly Father if its teachings were true, so I accepted her invitation.
When I read 2 Nephi 27:23, I felt so much comfort: “For behold, I am God; and I am a God of miracles; and I will show unto the world that I am the same yesterday, today, and forever; and I work not among the children of men save it be according to their faith.”
This scripture showed me just how powerful having faith in Jesus Christ could be. I wanted to believe in Him again. As I finished the book, I felt the Spirit testify of the truthfulness that Jesus Christ lives and that the Book of Mormon is true. I got baptized soon after and started living very differently than my family.

Allow me to share with you an experience I had when I served many years ago as a full-time missionary in Germany. Just after my junior year of college, I prepared to serve a full-time mission. I waited anxiously, as people will for their mission calls, and I had a very strong feeling that I would be called to Germany. And I was. When I found out what mission I had been called to—the Germany Frankfurt Mission—I was immediately concerned to know whether the city of Cologne was in the boundaries of that mission. And, at the time, the city of Cologne was. I had no particular interest in that city. I just had a feeling about it.

I entered the mission field and served for four months in Dusseldorf, a city quite close to Cologne. Then I received a letter from my mission president stating that I was going to be transferred to the city of Cologne. I thought, “This is it, this is what I’ve been waiting for, there’s something there for me to do.” For the next two months, my companion and I worked diligently to find people to teach. Things were going relatively well, but I always had this sense that something critical was missing. We also had some very challenging experiences. So challenging, I think, that I reached a point, as so many missionaries do, when I began to doubt and wonder why I was doing this. It was not only one of the most challenging but also one of the most rewarding and most transforming experiences of my life.

After I had been with my companion for two months, she was transferred, and I received a new companion, who had been my companion during my two months in the Missionary Training Center. She brought with her the news that a mother and a son who lived in the ward she had just been serving in had a son and brother living in Cologne. He was not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and the mother had urged the sister missionary to go by and visit this son and his family. It was actually outside of the area where we typically worked. The city was divided into regions, with two sets of elders that served there as well. Although it was rather out of our way, my companion had a direct connection to this family, the Maass family. So we decided we would make an effort to go and visit them.

Most of the travel that we did on our mission was on bike, but my companion was recovering from a broken leg, so she actually had a car for a few weeks. The car made this rather lengthy, out-of-the-way trip more viable; so several times we drove over to their home to try and make contact with them. And every time we failed. We tried at various times of day, and we never found them at home. One evening as we were preparing to go to bed, I said to my companion, “We’ve made a genuine effort, but this is taking us out of our area and away from other work that we need to be doing. We haven’t been able to reach them, and she can call her son and say hello if she needs to.” My companion agreed.

The mail came quite early, so we got it before leaving to set about our business the next day. Among the mail that we received was a note from a sister missionary who had been serving in Cologne some months before I arrived there. She outlined in a letter that she had met a woman on a streetcar who was interested in having a copy of the Book of Mormon, that she had completely forgotten about this, and would we please go by and visit this woman.

I don’t know the exact population of the city of Cologne, but those of you who have ever been in an older European city know the massive, tangled, warren of old streets that they tend to be. Cologne is certainly a city of more than a million people. The address of the woman that she wanted us to visit was on a street called Roonstrasse, Roon Street, which is the same street that the family we had been trying to visit lived on. This struck me as quite an extraordinary coincidence, and I thought, “Maybe we should have kept tracting on that street. We would have met this woman who wanted a copy of the Book of Mormon.” We went back to the street and went to this woman’s apartment, but she had moved to Israel, and so we were unable to give her a copy of the Book of Mormon. But since we were on the street again—and by now were back to using bikes—we decided to make another attempt to meet the Maass family. Again they were not home. We decided we’d try one more time, which we did the following day, and we did not reach them. I said, “Okay, back to the regular business of our work and our lives. We needn’t make that attempt again.”

The next day when the mail came, there was a referral card. This was in the mid-1980s when there was still an East and a West Germany. The referral was from missionaries serving in West Berlin. The missionaries had met a gentleman at a street display who had expressed some interest in hearing more about the gospel. They provided his address: his apartment was on Roonstrasse, the same street that we had been to. Cologne is a big, complex city. The chances of three referrals all being on the same street was quite extraordinary.

It so happened that my companion and I were doing a split with the stake missionaries that night. Since my companion had a connection to the family, she said, “Why don’t I follow up on this referral and also make one more attempt to meet the Maass family.” She and one of the stake missionaries went to the home of the gentleman to whom we had been referred by the missionaries in Berlin. He was not happy to see them. He was not actually interested in having missionaries visit him, and his wife chased them off in a rather hostile fashion. I think it involved a broom.

At any rate, my companion did make one more attempt to meet the Maass family, and this time they were home. When she explained that we had come by several times, they said, “Oh, we’re so sorry.” As far as I knew, our task was simply to come by and say, “Your mom says hi,” to which I thought, “For heaven’s sake, the woman can call him.” Clearly, I’m a little obtuse, and I needed some guidance in this regard, so we were continually sent back to this street until we made contact. My companion made an appointment with this family to come back at another time and have us visit them.

So, after these many weeks we finally were prepared to go and visit them. Then when the evening came that we had scheduled to visit with them, I didn’t want to go. I mean, I really didn’t want to go. There was a ward party going on that really sounded fun—lots of food, chocolate probably. I was sort of hesitant, thinking, “Well, they haven’t been there, maybe we could just call and delay.” Then I thought, “This is ridiculous! Try to remember why you are a missionary.”

We got on the bikes, drove quite some distance to get across town, and went to meet this family. The moment we walked in the door and the husband greeted me, I had an overwhelming sensation such as I’d never experienced before and have not experienced with anyone since—no offense to my husband. It was the feeling that I was encountering someone I already knew very well and was intimately associated with. We shook hands and sat and visited with them for about half an hour. Through the entire visit and immediately after the visit, I felt like I had found that critical missing piece: this family, and particularly the husband, was the reason I had come on my mission and to this city.

The day after we finally made contact with this family, my companion, who had been the connection to this family, was transferred out of the city, and I got a new companion who had been out in the mission field only a few weeks and who didn’t speak much German yet. My new companion and I then began, though irregularly, a wonderful experience teaching them. We had a certain plan that we followed when we were meeting with people and talking to them about the gospel, and things never went according to plan with this family. But in many ways they went far better than we could have imagined. We invited them to church on a number of occasions, but they hadn’t come yet. At the end of every appointment, we hoped that at some time Klaus Maass would offer the prayer, but he always called on someone else to pray—my companion or myself or his wife or his son, but he never prayed himself. They finally agreed to come to church, and we gave them close directions. We offered to come and pick them up. They said they would meet us there. They never showed up, which is, as anyone who has served a full-time mission will know, a devastating disappointment. We tried to reach them after the church meeting ended and were unable to do so for the next couple of days.

We were in the habit of always having a standing appointment with them on Tuesday evenings. Tuesday came around, and as it happened, at the advice of our mission president, we switched our preparation day activities so that rather than stay home in the morning and do laundry and write letters, we did missionary work most of the day and laundry and letters in the evening in preparation for leaving the next morning for a conference of all the sister missionaries at the mission home in Frankfurt. So we happened to be home just slightly after dinnertime in the evening, which was rarely the case, and the phone rang. It was Klaus Maass, and he wondered why we had not come to their house. I explained our unusual schedule that week and that we had tried to reach them. He said, “Oh, we thought you were mad at us for not coming to church.” I replied that we were very sad not to see them there, but we weren’t angry. He explained that there had been a death in his wife’s extended family, and they had been out of town.

We spoke briefly about that, and then there was a pause in the conversation and he said to me (my maiden name is Mahoney), “Sister Mahoney, I know you. Do you know what I mean?” I said, “Yes, I do.” He said, “After you left the first time you visited, I turned to my wife and said, ‘I know her; how can I know her? She reports that she’s never been to Germany before. She’s certainly never been here before. I don’t actually recognize her, but I have the overwhelming feeling that I know her.’” I assured him, saying, “I do understand. I know you too.”

We spoke briefly about the premortal existence and my conviction that he and I very well may have known each other there and made some kind of covenant, commitment, or agreement together that one of us would share the gospel with the other some day. Then he said, “I’m afraid to read the Book of Mormon.”

I asked him why. He answered, “Because every time I take it into my hand, it burns like a fire.” Then he added, “Can we have a prayer?”

I said, “Yes,” expecting that he would ask me to offer it.

But he said, “I would like to pray. This is the first time I’ve prayed.” And he offered a prayer on the phone asking for the courage to do what was right, whatever that may be.

The next morning my companion and I left for the sister missionary conference. There were workshops to choose from, but every sister missionary was asked to attend in either the first or the second hour of these lessons a presentation that was being given by the wife of Elder Derrick Cuthbert, who was in the area presidency at the time. Sister Cuthbert was giving a presentation on teaching by the Spirit. My companion and I attended Sister Cuthbert’s presentation during the second hour.

Sister Cuthbert began her talk, introduced her subject, and then stopped. She said, “I would not be a very good advocate of teaching by the Spirit if I did not now heed the promptings of that Spirit and do what it’s telling me to do. Instead of what I’ve prepared, I would like to tell the story of my family’s conversion to the gospel.”

She then shared with us the story of her family’s conversion in England. Specifically, she told about one particular missionary and their experience with him and his teaching them. I can no longer remember any of the details of what Sister Cuthbert said, but one of the things she did say was, “This will not be true for all of you, but for some of you it is the case that you were called to this mission at this time to teach some particular person or family that you had a covenant with, and you must find the person you were called to teach.” I felt as if she were speaking directly to me. Then she added, “Elder Cuthbert had a hard time accepting the Book of Mormon.” And looking directly at me she said, “I did not even need to read it to know that it was true, because every time that I took it into my hand, it burned like a fire.”

Sister Cuthbert cannot have known that what she said was a direct translation of what Klaus had said on the phone the previous evening. She concluded her presentation, and I approached her to thank her. She knew that for whatever other reason she may have been giving the presentation, it was in part for me. We said nothing; we just gripped each other’s hands and cried.

The next day my companion and I returned to Cologne. We met several more times with the Maass family and invited them to be baptized. They agreed. At their baptism Klaus spoke, and one of the things he shared was his fear of reading the Book of Mormon and making a commitment. He said that he prayed about this fear, and the answer that he received was a powerful reminder of the Savior’s atoning sacrifice and the recognition that if Christ could, in spite of all, give that for us, then surely he could overcome his fears to follow Him.

The experience I had as a missionary taught me many things. It confirmed in my mind the rightness of the work we were doing, the truthfulness of the gospel. But beyond that, what I knew the moment Sister Cuthbert looked at me and quoted Klaus and what I have known absolutely since is that Heavenly Father knows me personally and will never forget me. He knows you, too.

Spooked by a ravaging band of Shoshone hunters, Little Wind’s pony has escaped into high rock country. His father, Ten Days Walking, has ridden in another direction with several tribesmen to reclaim a band of village ponies that also fled during the melee.
Fearing that any delay will spoil the chance of catching his pony, Little Wind doesn’t tell his mother of his departure. But he is unaware that beyond the fog-shrouded mesa a giant winter storm is brewing.
Little Wind moved in a hurried, anxious fashion through the deepening drifts of snow. His young eyes eagerly searched the white wilderness beyond the hoof tracks for his stray pony, expecting at any moment to discover the animal patiently waiting for him in the swirls of mist. But as minutes multiplied into hours, all that greeted the boy’s intense anticipation were the dark shapes of some lightning-split scrub oak, a clump of rocks jutting up, or bunches of brushwood scratching together in the new wind.
The wind! It had returned. Its stirrings were barely noticeable at first in the wee rattlings of ice-cloaked underbrush. It was only the piercing chill that invaded even the warmth of Little Wind’s big otter coat that first kindled his awareness of the wind’s growing intensity.
The boy paused to wipe the wintry drippings from his frosted brow and looked with difficulty up the sides of the gigantic ice-blurred mesas. They loomed above him like dark mythical giants that grow out of the smoke and tales spun by the old ones around the great fires. Then Little Wind shuddered at the chilling sight of a formless black cloud mass that loomed over the top of the buttes and out of the mist.
The boy gathered the otter coat more tightly about himself and continued on at an even more urgent pace, all the while feverishly searching for any sign of his pony, whose tracks were now completely obliterated by the snow. He leaned heavily on his sense of hearing to assist him in his search, his ears straining beyond the sound of the crunching beneath his numbed, moccasined feet. But the strident whine of the ghostly wind would have made it impossible to hear the nicker of his pony, even if he were close-by.
More than once Little Wind glanced back over his shoulder through the whirling curtain of ice toward what he guessed was the direction of home. Home. How far away it seemed, farther away even than he was from heaven’s door.
Laughing Water, Little Wind’s mother, stepped out of the family tepee into the howling, icy wind. Worry spread across her countenance like mourning paint. It had been some time since Yellow Fox, himself concerned about his friend’s safety, had informed her of Little Wind’s departure from the village. The awesome skies and unusually cutting winds filled her anxious heart with mounting fear. Even her father-in-law, Red Owl Watching, who was usually optimistic, had lifted himself from his sickbed to gaze with troubled uncertainty. He had seen many frightful storms, but never one such as he now beheld.
Laughing Water had beseeched some of the husbands of the other families to seek out her son, but while they were in full sympathy with her fears and concern, they were without horses. And if they were to venture out into the killing freeze on foot—even a little way—they would most surely perish. Aside from the fact that they had their own families to care for, in the wild swirling snow they would not be able to see their hands in front of their faces, let alone a small boy in an invisible wilderness of driving ice.
Laughing Water brushed the unbidden tears from her dusky cheeks and gave a sidelong glance in the direction taken by Ten Days Walking and the others. His eyes were eagle sharp, even during the foulest weather or throughout the darkest night. She quickly looked back in the other direction, hoping somehow that Little Wind would suddenly appear alive, safe. But the only thing that broke forth from the worsening blizzard was another blast of gale-force wind. Red Owl Watching lifted his raspy, failing voice against the wind and begged Laughing Water to come inside by the fire. “We have enough souls to pray for, good mother. Let it not be that we must pray for you too.” She turned slowly and went inside.
The winds grew wilder still. Little Wind struggled along blindly in the wracking cold, banging his hands together in an effort to keep his blood from freezing up like the tiny prairie streams long since turned to ice. Still he tried to catch some glimpse of his pony, but it was useless. His hands had already become so numb that he could scarcely feel them, and his feet felt as though they were only extensions of his soaked leggings that plodded along through the drifts as if by instinct. The wind tore through his otter coat like a great spear. And everywhere shards of flying ice were so thick that he could not tell where he was going or where he had been.
Little Wind stumbled a few more feet, turning one way, then another. Whirling around to escape the stinging ice, he lost his footing, tripped over a small log fall, and collapsed in the snow. He tried to pull himself up, but a rushing wind slammed against him. In a moment the snow began to cover the small fallen form.
Ten Days Walking and the other braves had at last returned to the village, chilled but successful. Their scattered horses had been recovered. As the Sioux chief dismounted, Laughing Water clutched at his heavy wraps, tearfully recounting the story of Little Wind’s flight into the storm after his pony. Ten Days Walking wrapped his big furs back about his face so that only his eyes were visible, eyes filled with concern and fear. He mounted his buffalo runner again and faced the screaming storm. How can I possibly save Little Wind? he wondered sadly. It had been only with great difficulty that he and the other braves were able to find their village! And the storm was now so incredibly furious that he wondered if even the Great Spirit could find his boy. He reeled his horse around, eyed Laughing Water with stinging emotions, and pitched headlong into the savage white squall.
Little Wind lay beneath a cloak of snow. Still alive, yet unable to move, and on the edge of slipping off into a final, frozen sleep, his thoughts—untouched by the weather—raced home to his father’s fires, his mother’s steaming broth, and the warmth of loved ones pressing near. And with these warm memories, he was ready to make his final journey to the land of the Sky People, who lived beyond the fury of the wind and the thrashing winter blasts, a place where the sun shone forever and the plains were green and fine. He could almost see it now. Surely, he thought, I am on my way to heaven.
He dared to open one eye, just a little. And in his delirium he seemed to see something through the falling snow. It was a glow! Could it really be the welcoming fire in the village of the gods? Yet he had not left mother earth, for the storm still raged about him.
The light grew brighter, nearer. Little Wind opened both eyes, looking with awe and disbelief. The glow came from … an animal! It was the old buffalo that he had befriended in the great four-legged’s final hours, the one with the broken horn and the ghostly blue eyes! Little Wind looked harder, scarcely able to believe what his eyes were beholding—a white glow in a white wind. “The spirit of the great four-legged!” he muttered as the bison seemed to drift nearer still, its pale blue eyes watching the boy in the snow.
In his mind, Little Wind started to question the animal’s presence. Why would the old buffalo … ?
Suddenly his father’s words, spoken to him on the great hunt when he had pleaded compassionately for the bison, came back to him as if on the wind. “Such kindness,” Ten Days Walking had promised with prophetic surety, “will one day return itself upon you, my son, whether this old four-legged lives or dies. And this because of the goodness of your heart.”
The huge animal figure, still immersed in a strange glowing light, paused a moment before Little Wind then lay down beside him, its great fur coat engulfing the boy like a blanket of heavenly warmth.
Ten Days Walking plowed forward on a prayer through the raw, heaving weather, his cries for his son muffled by the louder cry of the wind. Suddenly he pulled up, for in the lee of a jack pine he saw the outline of a figure under the snow, one so clearly seen that it was almost as though a light pointed toward it.
Ten Days Walking piled off his horse and scooped Little Wind up into his arms. He quickly bundled the boy inside his furs. But how odd, he thought, that the boy still feels so warm! He wiped tears of thanksgiving from his eyes and stood there in the storm, thanking the Great Spirit for the life of his son.
After a moment, Little Wind spoke softly. “Did you see the light, Father? It was the spirit of the old buffalo. I saw him. The Great One sent him to keep me warm until you could find me.”
The mighty Sioux warrior chief hugged his son with matchless pride, lifted his head heavenward in the fury, and cried out his gratitude with a reverence Little Wind had never heard before. Then Ten Days Walking mounted his horse with Little Wind beneath his wrappings, gave the buffalo runner its lead, and let instinct carry it in the direction of home.
Little Wind never found his pony, but that day his testimony of the love of the Great Spirit soared as high as the eagles. Two weeks later his grandfather’s spirit made its journey to the lodge of the Great One. Fifteen years later, Little Wind would take his father’s place as chief of the tribe. And the story of that day, when the spirit of the old buffalo came to a young Sioux boy to return life for life, would be told and retold around the fires of every Indian nation for generations to come.

President Gordon B. Hinckley started off his 96th birthday celebration with a shovel and some dirt.
Hundreds of Brigham Young University alumni, faculty, and students, plus family members and friends looked on as President Hinckley took his shovel in hand and scooped dirt to kick off the construction of an 80,000-square-foot (7.432-square-meter) building that will bear his name at the school in Provo.
“You do me a great honor and a great kindness in what you do today,” President Hinckley told guests at the groundbreaking celebration for the new Gordon B. Hinckley Alumni and Visitors’ Center on June 23, 2006.
President Hinckley thanked guests and commented about how his wife, Marjorie Pay Hinckley, who died in 2004, had also been honored at BYU when a social work and social sciences chair was named in her honor in 2003.
“Maybe we could move her chair into my building, and we’d be together again,” he said.
President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, President James E. Faust, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, and President Hinckley’s son Clark also spoke at the groundbreaking. Family members, President Hinckley’s counselors in the First Presidency, members of the BYU Board of Trustees, friends of the university, and donors joined President Hinckley in ceremoniously turning the first dirt for the building.
After the ceremony, President Hinckley donated the shovel he used, which came from his own tool collection. Construction commenced immediately after the ceremony.
After the groundbreaking, family, invited guests, and university leaders hosted President Hinckley at a private luncheon. President Hinckley’s children paid tribute to their father, and President Samuelson presented him with a brick with his name on it to represent the new center that bears his name.

Youth in Longview, Texas, had a blast last summer painting their community rodeo arena and corral—and each other! More than 250 young people from the Longview Stake and the Gilmer Texas Stake got the job done in just about four hours, to the amazement of city officials.
“When we got there it was really trashed. I couldn’t believe it. We never thought we could get it done, but it only took four hours. The people from the city were amazed,” says Amber Davis, a Laurel from the Longview Second Ward.
The job included painting a Texas flag on the north bleachers and an American flag on the south bleachers.
“The fun part was that there was a lot of team work, so if you weren’t finished with your project, other people came and helped you,” says Amber.
City officials were so pleased with the job the youth did that they mailed each of them a thank-you note with a picture of the newly painted arena.

I have certainly seen this in my own life.

When I was very young, my family was twice forced to flee our home and leave everything behind. On both occasions, it became apparent that people in our new locations considered us as “less” than them. Among the children my age, my accent marked me as an outsider, and it was a rich source of ridicule and laughter for them.

The trauma and stress of our relocations caused me to fall behind in my studies, and I lost one full school year. In East Germany, I had studied Russian as a second language. It was difficult, but I managed. Now, in West Germany, I was required to learn English.

This seemed impossible to me! I believed that my mouth was simply not made for the English language.

During my teenage years, I had a crush on a most amazing girl with beautiful large brown eyes. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in me.

So there I was, a rather insignificant and struggling young man living in post-war Germany who didn’t seem to have much chance of success in life.

However, I had a couple of good things going for me. I knew that my family loved me. In school and in church, teachers encouraged me to always set my goals high. I still remember when a young American missionary taught this principle from the scriptures: “If God is for [you], who can be against [you]?”2

There was something about this that struck me with great power. “If that’s the case,” I thought, “then why should I fear?”

So, I believed. And I trusted God.

For a time, I was in an apprenticeship program. One of my teachers challenged me to aim higher and attend night school to study mechanical engineering. It took a great deal of extra work, but it led me to discover my great passion for aviation! It came as a shock when I learned that to become a pilot, I needed to know English. But I wanted to become a pilot, and somehow miraculously my mouth seemed to change, and English no longer was such an impossible language.

With new motivation, a fresh commitment to work hard, and trust in Heavenly Father, I took small steps that helped me to build the confidence that I could do it. Of course, that didn’t mean things always went smoothly.

When I was 19, I traveled to San Antonio, Texas, USA, to begin my air force pilot training. On the airplane, I sat next to a man who spoke with a Texan accent. I realized to my horror that the English I had worked so desperately to learn was not the same English he spoke!

At pilot training school, things were difficult too. It was an extremely competitive program, with everyone vying for the top spot at graduation. I knew right away that I was at a disadvantage because most of my classmates were native English speakers.

My flight instructors cautioned me about another potential disadvantage—I spent a lot of time at church. The local members welcomed me into their branch and into their homes, and we even built a chapel in Big Spring, Texas, together. My instructors worried that such activities were impairing my chance at a high ranking. I didn’t think so. So I trusted God and did the best I could.

Eventually, I did learn English, though I’m still working on it. I completed my pilot training—and finished first in my class. I became a fighter pilot and later an airline captain. And that beautiful, brown-eyed girl of my dreams became my wife.

President Boyd K. Packer has counseled us to have a hymn memorized so that when an inappropriate thought comes into our minds, we can replace it with a hymn. In applying this instruction, a friend of mine explained: “One day I left my office for lunch. After I had walked for about two blocks, I noticed that I had been humming ‘my song’: ‘I Am a Child of God.’ As I chained my thoughts back several hundred yards, I realized that as I had crossed the street from my office, a young woman, inappropriately clothed, had crossed in front of me. Immediately, subconsciously, the words and music of ‘I Am a Child of God’ began to roll through my mind—to displace inappropriate thoughts.” That day my friend learned a great lesson about his ability to control his thoughts.

Mike Downey of the Arlington Texas First Ward, Fort Worth Texas Stake, smiled as he listened to his newfound 93-year-old friend talk about turn-of-the-century dating customs. Down the hall, Diane Honeycutt of the Second Ward, and Kelly Molen, a First Warder, listened with interest to anecdotes and memories shared with them by 71-year-old Grace Minor. Twenty-five other young men and women in the stake were elsewhere in the building taking notes and recording reminiscences of members of the local nursing home in Arlington. It was all part of a unique and very successful service project originated by stake clerk (and genealogy enthusiast) David Hedgpeth.
A few days later, each of the 16 nursing home residents was presented with family group sheets, pedigree charts, a cassette recording of his personal history, and a copy of the Book of Mormon. Inside each book was a photograph taken during the interview and the handwritten testimonies of the interviewers. In addition, 42 new genealogy sheets were sent to the Genealogy Department in Salt Lake City and the genealogical section of the Fort Worth Public Library.
The experience was a rewarding one for everyone involved. Said Second Ward member DeAnn Boyer, “It was exciting to see the joy in the older people’s faces when they saw that there were young people who cared about them.” Another added: “The experience made me feel good all over. I learned a lot about real values in life.”
About a month was spent in preparing the questions and interviews. Topics of discussion included such questions as “What have you learned from life that you feel would help others?” and “What special memories do you have of your grandparents and parents?”
“I want to do an interview with my own grandfather,” decided one of the young men after the completion of the project. “I’ll bet he has many exciting stories he could tell about our own family.”

Suppose I find myself in a home built for me by a very generous landlord. It is a nice home. He encourages me to maintain and improve the home and gives me a number of instructions for making the home a nice place to live.

Over the years, I sometimes improve the home, but other times, through my negligence, I make it worse. One time, I flood the home when I fail to set the faucets to drip during a freeze. Another time, my kitchen catches fire because I fail to turn off a burner on the stove. A couple of times, I lose my temper and put my fist through a wall.

In each instance, the landlord forgives me and encourages me to pay a little closer attention to my home and to his instructions for making the home a joyful place to live. He does not charge me for the damage caused by my mistakes. Instead, sometimes he is patient while I figure out how to fix things on my own; sometimes he sends someone over to fix the problem; and, sometimes, I wake up and things are fixed in ways I don’t quite understand.

This same landlord happens to have a son who is quite wayward. The son is always up to no good and I don’t particularly like or respect him. One night, the landlord’s son, as a prank, sets fire to the shed attached to the back of my house. The fire gets out of control and the entire house burns down. I lose the home. I lose all of my possessions, including some particularly valuable possessions that I can’t replace, such as photos and heirlooms.

I’m angry and distraught. I want the no good son to pay. I want him to fix things and to make me whole. A part of me knows he can't really make it better. He may not have the resources to rebuild the house, and even if he could rebuild the house, he can't retrieve the photos and heirlooms. And that makes me even angrier.

As I sit in anger, the landlord comes to visit me. He reminds me that he has promised to take care of me. He promises me that he is willing to rebuild my house. In fact, he says that he will do more than that. He will replace my house with a castle and then give me all that he himself has. He says that this might take a while but he promises it will happen.

What’s the catch? I say.

Here are the conditions, he says. First, you need to put your faith in me and trust that I really will build you that castle and restore all that you have lost. Second, you need to continue to work on implementing the instructions I gave you about keeping up your house. Finally, you need to forgive my arsonist son, just as I have forgiven you all these many years.

My friend Stephen was not just any friend. He was awesome in every way, and I really looked up to him. One day, he asked me if I wanted to know about something that made him incredibly happy. Of course I did. Anything that was important to him was important to me. He continued to ask me other questions before he would reveal what it was that made him so happy. Did I want to know the truth? I finally realized that he was probably talking about his church. After a couple of weeks, he asked if I would speak with the missionaries. I thought, “Why not? Nothing is going to happen from just one visit.”
The day came to meet the missionaries, and as I walked into Stephen’s house, I was quite nervous. I had no idea what to expect. The elders introduced themselves. They seemed extremely nice and fun. Then after a prayer, they began the first discussion. I remember the feeling so well. As they talked about Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon, and Jesus Christ, I knew that there was something special about this gospel.
When I arrived home, I told my mom everything I had learned and how much sense it made. My mom seemed slightly interested but not even close to the level of excitement I had. I was filled with some sort of energy, and I wanted to know more.
The next week I had the second discussion. Again, everything taught made sense. At the close of the discussion, one of the elders asked if I would be baptized. Honestly, I was shocked. I didn’t think this question would come up so soon. I told the elders that I simply didn’t know. They asked me to kneel with them and pray aloud to know if the things I had been taught were true. I had never prayed vocally with others before, so I was rather timid.
My best friend, the missionaries, and I knelt, and I prayed. I prayed to Heavenly Father to know if Joseph Smith was a prophet. I asked if the Book of Mormon was true. I pleaded to know if this was the true church and if it was in His plan for me to join it. I prayed for guidance and direction. I prayed to know what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. After probably 10 minutes of sincere prayer, I said amen and opened my eyes.
All I could feel was the Spirit. It was the most wonderful feeling I had ever felt. I was amazed with the knowledge and truth I had just been blessed with. I looked at the missionaries and told them I wanted to be baptized. We set the date. I knew at that moment that everything I had been taught and everything to come was true. I had gained my own testimony.
When I told my mother, she was more understanding than I had expected. She told me that if I really felt this was what I needed to do, then I should do it.
Sooner than I could believe, I was getting ready to be baptized. My whole family attended, which made it even more special. As my best friend and I walked into the font, wearing all white, the Spirit was present. I was about to be clean, as clean as I had been when I was born.
When I came out of the water, I couldn’t believe it. I had been baptized. This was my first best day.

“I don’t know who my secret granddaughter is, but I just love her.” Sister Joseph, her eyes sparkling with light, says fervently.
Each Beehive, Mia Maid, and Laurel in the Parowan Utah Second Ward picks from an envelope a slip of paper. This reveals the name of her own “secret grandmother” from among the ward’s widowed sisters. The young woman then acts anonymously in giving to that grandmother throughout the year.
During the 1989 calendar year these southern Utah girls enthusiastically made a variety of gifts for their secret grandmothers, including decorated cakes, stenciled minirugs, birthday surprises, and handwritten cards.
At Christmas time the Young Women teamed up with the Young Men to fill fruit baskets for older ward members. At certain houses a shout rang out: “My secret Grandmother lives here. Some of you guys come so she won’t figure out it’s me!” One white-haired sister reached out to accept her laden basket saying, “You girls keep me going, doing all these nice things.”
During the holidays several secret grandmothers sought out Young Women leaders, exclaiming, “Please tell my secret granddaughter she has made my Christmas delightful.” Others brought a gift to be taken to their young, unknown friend.
Climaxing a year-long adventure, the Young Women worked together in providing and preparing a colorful salad bar for these special sisters. Leaders supplied warm bread sticks and apple crisp for the January event. With kitchen duties completed, the guests of honor were eagerly waiting for their “granddaughters” to identify themselves. As each young woman came forward, spontaneous embraces linked these friends, old and young.
Following the meal, Sister Bentley, who is 89 years old, spoke on behalf of all the secret grandmothers. Raising her hand to her ear, she commented about her anonymous Beehive:
“I’d hear a knock at the front door and I’d go to answer it. Nobody was there, but down on the step would be another gift.” Pausing, she peered around at her listeners rather mysteriously. “I’d always call out, ‘Thank you,’ but nobody ever answered.”
After the laughter subsided, she expressed gratitude to all the girls. “Your smiles are what we all love to see. Please keep smiling at us. This evening has been just lovely.”
The youth shared a final offering singing one of their Young Women songs. “I have never been more impressed with our Young Women,” stated their leader, “or loved them more than when they stood before these sisters and sang beautifully, ‘I am of worth, of infinite worth.’ I could see that their secret grandmothers had no doubt as to the truth of those words.”

Valeria Pontelli of Río Gallegos, Santa Cruz, Argentina, didn’t set out to convert her friend. She simply lived her standards with conviction. Because she is a member of the Church, there were certain things she did and certain things she didn’t do, and all her friends knew it. One of those friends was Paula Alvarez, who always watched Valeria closely and was impressed with how faithfully and consistently she lived her beliefs.
Paula had a wonderful family, but they didn’t have the gospel—at least not until Valeria came on the scene. Paula remembers, “Valeria was not ashamed of the testimony she had. She knew who she was. She knew she was a daughter of a royal and eternal King, a daughter of God.”
That knowledge and confidence impressed Paula’s uncle, Moises. He began investigating the Church and meeting with the missionaries. The day he announced he was getting baptized, Paula was a little shocked. She hadn’t expected her uncle to be willing to make such big changes in his life.
The whole family was invited to the baptism, but Paula was hesitant to attend. She didn’t know what to expect. Finally, her family convinced her to accompany them to her uncle’s baptism. Paula remembers, “As we witnessed my uncle entering the waters of baptism, the Spirit touched my heart. The impact was deep, even undeniable. In that moment I also wanted to commit myself to God and do whatever He might ask of me.”
“May I speak to you?” Paula said, pulling Valeria aside. “I felt something special at my uncle’s baptism,” she explained quietly.
Valeria told her friend she had felt the promptings of the Spirit. “He’s telling you that you need to follow your uncle’s example.”
“But I can’t do it alone,” said Paula.
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you,” assured her friend. Before long, Paula and her whole family were meeting with the missionaries and accepting the invitation to be baptized. Their lives changed forever.

Years ago my mother was killed in a car accident involving a drunk driver. In shock I flew to my parents’ home and helped plan the funeral with my siblings and injured father.
Soon after returning home I was called to serve as the Primary music leader. While I prepared, my emotions seemed blocked, and I began to doubt my abilities. “A Primary music leader needs to be enthusiastic and cheerful,” I thought to myself. I felt only sorrow. I wanted to encourage the children, but I felt I would let them down. My heart ached with grief. I wondered if I would ever be happy again—let alone want to sing.
The day before I began serving in my new calling, my husband and I attended a temple session with friends who were being sealed. Before the session began, we were invited to the temple’s chapel for an opening hymn, prayer, and remarks by a temple official. As we sang “How Gentle God’s Commands” (Hymns, no. 125), I couldn’t help noticing the hymn’s lyrics:
Why should this anxious load
Press down your weary mind?
Haste to your Heav’nly Father’s throne
And sweet refreshment find.
I felt that I had an “anxious load” and realized that there, in His holy temple, I was finding “sweet refreshment.” In the fourth verse I heard a direct message for me:
His goodness stands approved,
Unchanged from day to day;
I’ll drop my burden at his feet
And bear a song away.
At that moment I knew that I could fulfill any calling and that I could feel joy, even though I missed my mother. And because I knew that my Savior carried my burden, I could sing!
Sheri Stratford Erickson, Idaho, USA

We now have 124 operating temples, with several others announced. This is nearly three times the number operating in 1995, when our current prophet became president. I responded to a very rare invitation by my father to accompany him on a journey through Africa in 1998. I was not a General Authority at the time. In Ghana, after examining a proposed temple site in Accra and approving of its purchase, he announced to the 6,000 members gathered in an outdoor meeting that a temple would be built in their land. The response was instant and unexpected. They stood and embraced their neighbors. Many wept and pointed to the ground as if to say, “We will have a temple right here in our homeland.” We had been told the day before of a couple who recently had walked 25 kilometers in order to renew their temple recommends, with no hope ever of seeing a temple. I will never forget my father’s response. He said, “We are here to give them hope.” I will always remember that experience. That temple was dedicated in January 2004.

Four-year-old Micalah had just finished scripture study with her family. They had been reading from Alma in the Book of Mormon about the Zoramites. Micalah had asked a lot of questions about how the wicked Zoramites each said the very same prayer, never really thinking about Heavenly Father or what they might want to say to Him.
After scriptures and family prayer, Micalah knelt by her mom at the side of her bed to say her own prayer to Heavenly Father. “Heavenly Father, please bless our family to be well, and please bless us to do good things. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” It was the exact same prayer she said every night.
Mom didn’t get up right away. “Micalah,” she asked, “do you think that Heavenly Father listens to you when you pray?”
Micalah nodded her head earnestly.
“Do you think Heavenly Father wants to hear what you have in your heart? Or do you think He wants to hear you say the same prayer to Him every night without thinking about what you really want to tell Him?”
A small smile came over Micalah’s face, and her eyebrows went up. “You mean, like the Zoramites?”
Mom smiled back. “Only a little bit like them.”
Micalah thought hard, wrinkling her forehead. “I don’t want to pray like the Zoramites,” she said. “But how can I know what to say every time I pray?”
Mom put her arm around Micalah. “Well, before I start my prayer to Heavenly Father, I kneel down and I just think for a few minutes. I think about the things I did that day. I think about the things I’m thankful for. And I think about the problems I have that I need help with. Then I start my prayer.”
Micalah liked that idea. “I want to try again!” she announced.
Micalah and her mom knelt quietly beside each other for a few moments. Micalah thought about their trip to the park earlier that day to play and to feed the ducks. She thought of her grandma and her cousins who were visiting from out of town. She thought of celebrating Jesus’s Resurrection during Easter. She thought of many things, and then she began to pray. “Heavenly Father, thank Thee that we had fun at the park, and thank Thee for making such a beautiful earth. Thank Thee that Grandma Jolene and Julian and Lonnie are visiting. Thank Thee that Jesus died for us. Thank Thee that we were safe today, and please bless us always to be safe. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
When she finished her prayer, Micalah felt warm and peaceful inside. Micalah knew what that feeling was—the Holy Ghost!
She kissed her mom good-night and snuggled down under her cozy blankets. She was smiling as she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. She knew that Heavenly Father had heard her prayer and that He was happy she had spoken to Him from her heart.

“Great song!” Zach exclaimed, tossing his book-filled backpack onto his friend Adam’s bedroom floor. A radio blared away in the corner.
“I’m glad you like it,” Adam said. “I just bought the whole CD with my birthday money.”
Zach grinned. “Cool! Let’s see it.”
Adam tossed the unopened CD to Zach, whose grin disappeared when he saw the cover. “How did you even buy this? It’s got one of those warning labels on it for bad language and other stuff.”
Adam shrugged. “I guess I was lucky. The guy at the store must not have noticed.”
“Well, you noticed. You should take it back.” A still, small voice deep inside Zach was warning him of danger.
“But I like this group,” Adam protested. “The label’s probably about just a few words in one song. And besides, if anything is really awful, we can skip over it.”
Putting aside his uneasiness, Zach thought it over. “I guess we could,” he admitted at last. “I don’t remember any bad language in the song we just heard on the radio.”
“Neither do I,” Adam said, unwrapping the CD and opening the case. Inside was another warning label.
This time the warning voice was too loud for Zach to ignore. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said.
“Lighten up!” Adam snapped. “A few swear words won’t kill you. Just tune them out and listen to the music.”
Zach had a strong feeling that he should leave, but he didn’t want to hurt his friend’s feelings. He sat on the floor as Adam put the CD in the player. “The first song is one we haven’t heard,” Adam announced over the pounding beat.
Zach cringed, afraid that he was going to hear something awful. He remembered his dad’s warning: “If you hear bad words all the time, you’ll get used to them. Then it’s easy for them to slip into your own conversation.”
The first song ended without any bad words, though. Maybe Adam was right. “Here’s the one you like from the radio,” Adam said.
Zach gasped as a stream of dark, dirty words came pouring from the CD player. The tune was the one he had heard on the radio, but the lyrics were much worse. He tried to focus on the music and not listen to the words, but he couldn’t.
“Turn it off,” he said.
Adam kept listening.
“Turn it off!” Zach insisted. “Please!”
“Cover your ears,” Adam replied, turning up the volume.
Zach couldn’t stand it. He scooped up his backpack and rushed out of the room. Hurrying down the hall, he heard Adam singing along to the music.
Zach ran home, his heavy backpack banging his shoulders all the way. By the time he arrived, he felt weak and sick. Dropping his backpack, he went straight to his room, closed the door, and knelt by his bed. “Heavenly Father?” he began quietly. “I need Thy help. I feel awful. I listened to music that was full of words I can’t get out of my head—bad words. Adam said we could pretend they weren’t there, but it didn’t work. I knew better. My parents warned me, and so did the Holy Ghost. I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m sorry. Please help me, Heavenly Father. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Zach waited, straining to hear an answer. Nothing came right away, but he didn’t give up. He could feel the sunlight streaming through the window, warming his skin as he kept listening. When he finally got up, he felt he had an answer.
The next day at school he walked up to Adam. “I can’t listen to CDs with you anymore if you’re going to play that kind of music,” he said.
Adam looked sheepish. “Don’t worry. My brother heard that song and told my parents. They took the CD away.”
“Are you mad at your brother?”
Adam shook his head slowly. “I shouldn’t have bought it in the first place. It’s really not even music with all that bad language. It’s just junk. I’m glad it’s gone.”
Zach nodded. “I couldn’t get the words out of my mind.”
“I’m sorry,” Adam said. “Neither could I. I have some good CDs, though, without bad words. We could listen to those in about a week.”
“Sounds great,” Zach said. “But why a week?”
“Because by then I won’t be grounded anymore.”
Zach smiled. “Good music is worth waiting for.”

Alison knew it was going to be a bad day. The world outside was gray and drizzly. Mommy told her she had to clean her room. And—worst of all—there was a big bowl of cold oatmeal on the table that she still had to eat.
“I wish it was tomorrow already,” she mumbled.
Mommy looked up from her work. “Oh, things aren’t that bad, are they?”
Alison nodded without saying anything more. “Well, then,” Mommy said, “why don’t we play the thank-you game? Find a reason to be grateful for everything you can. No complaining is allowed. If you can do it the whole day, I’ll give you a surprise.”
“That’s a funny game,” said Alison.
“I’ll help you begin. Why are you grateful for oatmeal?”
Alison thought a moment. “I guess it’s better than a bowl of bugs to eat.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Mommy chuckled.
Alison gobbled down her oatmeal, to get it over with. “I’m grateful I have orange juice to help wash the oatmeal down,” she said.
Then she went to her room. It was a mess! How can I be grateful for a messy room? she wondered. “I know—I’m grateful I have these toys to play with.” She hummed as she put them all away.
The drizzle outside turned into a freezing rain that tap-tap-tapped against the window. Alison pressed her nose against the frosty glass.
I’m grateful the rain comes so that the flowers don’t get thirsty, she thought.
When her room was tidy, she got out her modeling clay. She made funny shapes with it and squished it through her fingers. “I’m grateful for things that feel good in my hands,” she giggled.
Alison was having a busy day. Soon her eyelids began to grow heavy.
“I think it’s nap time,” Mommy said.
Alison was going to complain, but she remembered that it wasn’t allowed. She climbed onto her bed and reached for her stuffed rabbit. “I’m grateful I have Charlie to snuggle with,” she told Mommy.
The thank-you game got easier and easier. It wasn’t turning out to be such a bad day, after all!
That night Mommy looked pleased. “You played the game really well, Alison,” she said. “Here’s your surprise.” She gave Alison a pink ribbon for her hair, along with her usual hug and kiss.
Alison smiled. “It turned out to be a really nice day,” she said. “I’m grateful for surprises and hugs and kisses and you!”

In an October general conference, Sister Grassli, the Primary General President, reported: “Nine-year-old Matt spoke in church about something he had learned from the scriptures that brought him peace. He said, ‘When my father told our family that we would be moving from Denver to Wisconsin, my mother reminded us of Lehi’s family. Like them, I was leaving the only home I had known, all my friends, my school, my ward. Luckily we were able to bring all our possessions with us, though they were in storage for three months, and we missed having a house and our “precious things.”
“‘My mother reminded us of how Nephi accepted this challenge—willingly—knowing that the Lord would “prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)
“‘I have learned that I can do without things, but not without my family. My brotheres and sisters and I have tried to be more like Nephi than his complaining brothers. I am grateful for the things that the Book of Mormon teaches us.’” (Ensign, November 1988, page 79.)
Matt was comforted by the story of Lehi’s family from the Book of Mormon. As you read or listen to stories from the scriptures, which of the stories bring you peace?

About six years ago, while in a weekly ward meeting, we received news that one of the sisters had been hit by a car. Though she was taken to the hospital immediately, she died a short while later.
The bishop asked one of his counselors and me to visit her immediate family to offer comfort and our help in arranging for the funeral. We went to the only relatives she had—a married sister, Maria Gerez, and her family, who were not members of the Church.
The family welcomed us and accepted our help. We had the opportunity to discuss the plan of salvation as well as make arrangements for the funeral services. Two weeks later, the entire family came to church to thank the members for the help and support they had received.
The family was introduced to the missionaries and, in a short time, the mother, Maria, and one of the daughters, Karina, were baptized. As the years passed, they were both active. The father, Ramon, would come at the end of Sunday meetings to pick up his family and he always participated in the recreational activities.
One Sunday afternoon, my wife and I were talking about missionary work. We both agreed that Ramon Gerez was in many ways a member of the Church; he just hadn’t been baptized.
We decided to arrange an evening together with both of our families. We did so and also invited the missionaries. Since we didn’t know each other well, the visit began with casual conversation. But, almost immediately, something inside of me was saying, “Ask him NOW, NOW!”
I realized that this was the key. All I had to do was ask him. So I looked Brother Gerez straight in the eye and said, “As you might imagine, we are here for a very special reason. My wife and I have noticed the good relationship you have with your family and that is why we would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Do you believe in God and in his Son Jesus Christ?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Do you love your wife and your daughters?” I continued.
“Yes,” he said again, showing a definite interest.
“Do you love your family enough that you would like to be with them after death and throughout eternity?” I asked.
Again he said, “Yes.”
“You are a good man,” I told him. “You love your family and there is no reason to postpone receiving the blessings of the priesthood and the temple any longer.” My wife then bore her testimony and we arranged for Ramon to receive the missionary discussions.
One month later, Ramon Gerez was baptized. He has since served in many positions in his ward and stake in Argentina.
I learned something from this experience: All we have to do is ask. If we are worthy of the blessings that come from asking with a “sincere heart and with real intent,” the Lord will answer our prayers by touching others with his Spirit. If the question is asked with the Spirit, the answer will also come in that manner, especially if we have the courage to ask.