Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, a young sister from Japan served in the Hawaii, Honolulu Mission. She served faithfully and with distinction. She was born into a faithful family in Japan. She related the story of her grandmother. Shortly after World War 2 had come to a close, her grandmother was lying in a hospital extremely ill and not expected to survive. She had neither the ability to speak nor to move from her bed. A Mormon Missionary living in the area made it a practice to share the Gospel with those Japanese who would listen to him. One of his activities was to visit the sick in the hospital. Moved with compassion on this sick woman, he first visited her and then on regular visits read to her from the Book of Mormon. Though at first she did not respond to his reading, after some time, he noticed she could acknowledge his presence with her eyes and she welcomed his visits. Many weeks passed and the regular visits continued. In time, she regained the ability to speak and they conversed in Japanese. He taught her the Gospel of Christ and she requested baptism. This young missionary asked the hospital to release her for enough time for her to be baptized. They refused saying "she will die if she leaves her bed". He asked what would happen to her if she did not leave her bed. They said, "She will die". "So what is the risk, He asked?" Finding no useful answer to that question, she was given leave from the hospital and taken to a font where the baptism could take place. As she was bed ridden, she could not walk into the font. So it was decided to put her on a chair and with the assistance of 4 missionaries, each on one corner of the chair, she was lowered into the baptismal font where the ordinance was performed. After the service, she was returned to the hospital only to find her room completely emptied and remade. The hospital simply assumed she would die and not return.

She survived, married and had a family. Her granddaughter served in the Hawaii, Honolulu Mission. After her missionary service, the young sister was permitted to attend the Laie, Hawaii Temple prior to her return to Japan. Her visit to the Temple gave opportunity to meet a temple worker who showed interest in her. She related the story of her grandmother's conversion and baptism. The man with whom she spoke, tearfully acknowledged that he knew the story was true because he was one of the missionaries who assisted in lowering the chair with the grandmother in place into the baptismal font.

There can be no coincidence in this matter. The Lord intended this young missionary sister to have a confirming witness by revelation that her grandmother's conversion was real and her story true. And while the Lord could have made this great blessing known in other ways, it was conferred in only in the Sacred Space of the Laie, Hawaii Temple. Why do you think the Lord revealed this to this young sister? The faithful who prepare themselves are blessed with a confirmation that the Lord knows them and is cognizant of their faithful lives. So it can be with you.

“Hey, Brother Wallace, why doesn’t the Holy Ghost just tap me on the shoulder when he wants to tell me something?” one 11-year-old asked flippantly. Then he snickered and nudged his friend. Other class members chitchatted among themselves. As a rookie from the Teacher Development class, I knew I’d lost my group. My hand closed over my serviceman’s Book of Mormon in my pocket.

“Well, sometimes we hear, and sometimes we’re not in tune,” I said. “You know, fellas, I was a radioman in the infantry during the Korean War. My walkie-talkie was so heavy on my back that I had to wrap a towel around my neck to cushion it. Since I was a radioman, the enemy knew that if they could knock me out, there could be no communication to the rear. In the same way, if you’re knocked out spiritually, the Holy Ghost can’t get through to you.”

Now they were listening!

Taking the stained, riddled Book of Mormon from my pocket, I let eager class members examine it. I now stood squarely on both my legs—saved by a prompting of the Holy Ghost to put the book in the proper pocket.

President Faust would not tell you this himself. Perhaps I can tell it, and he can take it out on me afterward. He had a mortgage on his home drawing 4 percent interest. Many people would have told him he was foolish to pay off that mortgage when it carried so low a rate of interest. But the first opportunity he had to acquire some means, he and his wife determined they would pay off their mortgage. He has been free of debt since that day. That’s why he wears a smile on his face, and that’s why he whistles while he works.

High school graduation night was hectic, and I was in a hurry. The envelope lying on my bed that evening didn’t look particularly interesting, so I hurriedly opened it, figuring it was just another piece of junk mail I could throw out and get on with my night. But, to my surprise, the envelope contained a letter:
Dear Angela,
Do you get a kick out of remembering things you did when you were a kid? Good, because I’m going to ask you to turn your thoughts back to when you were ten years old. I was your Primary teacher then …
The letter went on to tell me what my teacher, Sister Bently, remembered about me and my classmates. The letter ended:
In June of the year you were in my class, I gave a lesson on the Word of Wisdom. Each of you wrote a letter to yourself that day. Today, I am mailing the note you wrote to yourself so long ago. I do not remember what you wrote. What is inside is strictly for you.
Love,
Sister Bently
I quickly opened the seal on the smaller envelope inside the letter and read the short but beautiful testimony of why it is important for me to keep the Word of Wisdom. I was glad to know that I had been true to myself and kept my standards.
In the years since I had written the note, I had observed the sometimes dire consequences of breaking the Word of Wisdom—things like cancer and car accidents. When I was ten and in Primary, I knew the Word of Wisdom. Now, I also know the wisdom in the words.

A few weeks ago, just before 6:00 a.m., my wife and I boarded a taxi to begin the last lap of our trip to Salt Lake City from Australia. Our driver, who had been on duty since 3:00 a.m., was anxious to talk with us, his first passengers of the day. We learned his parents were born just outside of Mexico City. They moved to Chicago, where he was born, and then moved to New Mexico. Twenty years earlier our friend had come for a short visit to San Francisco and had never left. During our trip to the airport, this man related a few incidents from which some great truths were reemphasized.
His parents, he told us, had remained in New Mexico, but liked to visit him and his brother whenever they could afford it because they loved being with their children and grandchildren. In New Mexico his mother’s health was rather poor, but whenever she was in San Francisco, she seemed to feel much better. This discerning son had said to his brother, “I know just exactly what mother needs.”
He said, “I found a large truck. My brother and I drove to New Mexico, loaded our parents and all their possessions into the truck, and brought them to live near those who loved them most. Mother’s health improved noticeably.” Then he added, “You know, love is very important if it is done right.”

I took a poetry class where a poem was due every Friday. Several times I was so busy, or I procrastinated, and I didn’t even think about the poem all week. So come Thursday night I sat down at my desk and waited—nothing came. There was no burst of inspiration, no sudden enlightenment, and the poem had to be written! The ideas couldn’t mull around in my head for days. In frantic desperation I got out the dictionary and began to work. I scribbled, crossed out, scribbled some more, and searched the dictionary and thesaurus for the exact word. The lines didn’t come easily; every word came from tediously toiling and sweating and worrying. My pencil was half-chewed and rejects lay scattered over the floor a foot high. Yet, those poems were some of the best poems I’ve ever written. If you don’t feel inspired—write anyway.

I would like to share with you the example that I followed in learning how to work. In 1965, my father lived on a small farm west of Blackfoot and was busy raising a family and doing his very best at being a provident provider. He had six children at the time and already had many ups and downs in his career of farming and ranching. His wife was complaining of headaches and was soon diagnosed with a brain tumor. Radiation treatment was new for tumors and not very successful. She soon succumbed to the tumor and passed away. As you can imagine, my father was heartbroken, being a single father of six with a farm, a cattle operation, and a dairy, and no helpmeet. Through prayer and being humble before the Lord, he was directed to attend a singles dance, where he met my mother. After a very short courtship of just a few months, they were married in the Idaho Falls Temple. After a brief honeymoon, my mother jumped heart first from being single to being a wife of a farmer and mother of six children. Within just a few months, she invited three more of her own nephews to live with them. Caring for the children, the farm, and ranch hands as well as a few nephews was overwhelming at times. My sisters shared with me about a time when they got dropped off at school late, and they told the principal that they were late because Mom ran away and Dad had to go get her. She returned as instructed by a loving earthly father and soon found a happy medium in loving and caring for everyone and everything on the farm. I think it was because of the more frequent visits by her mother and father during the peak demands of farm life.

A loving marriage takes lots of love and lots of hard work. My father and mother never turned away from the gospel and never turned away from the hard work on the farm. Four more children were added to the mix, including me and my twin sister. My mother went to work outside of the home to help support my brother in the mission field and stayed employed after he returned to help keep the family farm prosperous. Farming had its good and bad years for my father, but his faith and teaching the gospel to his children made him very prosperous, and he was truly blessed by Heavenly Father. We were taught in the home that work was a blessing and to never turn away from doing something difficult. When my mother turned 62 years old, she approached me and asked for some council. My parents wanted to serve a mission but knew they did not have the financial means to provide for a mission and continue to pay a mortgage and all the expenses that come from owning a home. The family agreed that if they were willing to serve, we 10 children would help assist with the extra costs.

They were called to the Texas McAllen Mission and served faithfully until my mother was struck by a car and killed. On the day she died, she fed the office missionaries a good home-cooked Idaho meal of roast beef and potatoes and gravy and sent them back to the office in the care of my father. She prepared a salad and was walking to another senior couple's apartment to meet my dad when she was struck by a passing car. My mother never faltered in her testimony or her desire to serve the Lord and carry her burdens and work out her salvation here on the earth. She was a shining example of a faithful high-output, low-maintenance member of the Church. My father remarried and served three more missions with his new companion and still continues to be an example to me of a high-output, low-maintenance member of the Church. The same month I started working here at BYU-Idaho was the same month that my mother passed away. I am extremely grateful for the new coworkers and administrators that supported me during that time of my life; they are also examples of high-output, low-maintenance members that give so freely and lovingly.

Bart and Chad sat with their mother in sacrament meeting as the bishop made an announcement. “Brothers and sisters, we are blessed to have several missionaries serving from our ward. We have been asked to keep a certain sum of money in the ward missionary fund, and right now we are below that amount.”
He held up a donation slip. “Fortunately, the blessing of supporting the missionary program isn’t just for full-time missionaries and their families. We can donate to the ward missionary fund to help support missionaries from our ward or to the general missionary fund to help missionaries all over the world.* What a great opportunity this is for each of us to personally support the missionary program.”
The bishop then asked ward members to contribute to the ward missionary fund if they felt they could.
Bart and Chad arrived home bursting with excitement. “Mom, we need to help the missionaries!”
Mom smiled at their enthusiasm. “When you earn money and pay your tithing, maybe you could also give a little extra money to the missionary fund.”
A look of concern crossed Bart’s face. “Mom, we have to give more than that!”
“And the bishop said they need money now,” Chad added.
“What do you suggest?” Mom asked.
Bart thought for a few moments, then went to his room and returned with a box of change he had been saving.
“This is all the money I have right now,” he explained, pouring it out onto the table.
Chad followed his brother’s example and soon returned with his own savings, which he added to the mound of coins.
Bart noticed an empty quart jar next to the sink, and an idea popped into his head. “Mom, could we please use that jar for our money?”
“Sure.”
“And would it be OK if we went through the house and added any loose coins we find?”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
Bart and Chad discovered that hunting for missionary coins was more fun than any treasure hunt. With each quarter, dime, nickel, and penny they dropped into the jar, their smiles widened and their determination grew.
Together they searched every cupboard, drawer, and closet. They peered under every rug, bed, and piece of furniture. When they were sure they had not missed a square inch of the house, they presented a nearly full jar to their mother. “Would you please call the bishop and make an appointment for us?” Bart asked.
Mom dialed the phone number and soon reported that the bishop would be happy to meet with them that afternoon.
As the bishop welcomed them into his office, Mom explained why they were there. Tears filled the bishop’s eyes as Chad and Bart proudly placed the jar of coins in his hands. Together they counted the money, filled out a donation slip, and poured the coins into a large envelope.
The bishop smiled warmly. “Thank you so very much for such a wonderful contribution to the missionary fund. If you don’t mind, I would like to keep this jar as a reminder of one of the most wonderful experiences I have ever had. This may look like an empty jar, but to me it will always be filled with love and the testimonies of two special young men.”
As they left the building, Bart turned to Mom. “I feel just as full as that quart jar.”
“So do I!” Chad exclaimed.
“That makes three of us,” Mom said, giving her boys a big hug.

I gained my own testimony when I was about 12 or 13. I knew I needed to find out for myself if the Church was true. I started thinking about how Joseph Smith had been close to my age when he prayed in the grove. I had just been reading in the Book of Mormon where Moroni tells us to pray to receive a witness of the truth (see Moro. 10:3–5), so I did. I really prayed. And I felt the witness that Moroni promises each of us. From then on I knew I had my own testimony.

Several years ago I needed to get my car inspected for safety and emissions standards. I arrived at a garage one afternoon to find the line for inspections eight or nine cars long.
It was a beautiful spring day, so I decided to roll down the windows, turn off the car engine, and pull out a copy of “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” which I kept in my car along with other Church materials. My stake president had recently counseled stake members to commit the proclamation to memory. This free time gave me the perfect opportunity to do so. Eventually, my turn came to have my car inspected.
One of the men who did the inspections indicated that he would drive my car into the garage. Then he asked me to wait in an adjacent room until the inspection was completed. Time passed as I watched other customers come and go. After a while I began to think that something serious must be wrong with my car.
Finally the mechanic came from the garage into the waiting room and indicated that my car had passed inspection. What a relief! I paid the cashier and walked out to where he had parked my car and found him waiting for me.
“Miss,” he said, looking at me intently, “can I please talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course,” I told him.
“I want to apologize for taking so long with your car inspection. You see, when I drove your car into the garage, I noticed a piece of paper on the passenger seat that talked about families. Instead of immediately returning your car to you, I sat in the garage and read that piece of paper over and over.”
He continued, “What is this church? What is this document on the family? Can I have a copy of it? It says it was written by Apostles. Do you mean to tell me that there are Apostles on the earth today just like in Jesus’s time? Please, I need to know.”
I was almost speechless but gathered my thoughts. I told him that there are indeed apostles and prophets on the earth, just as in the time of Jesus Christ. I told him about the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel. I then gave him all the Church materials I had in my car. He gave me his name and phone number so the missionaries could contact him. Our conversation ended with his sincere expression of gratitude.
As I drove away, tears filled my eyes. I was grateful I had left a copy of “The Family: A Proclamation to the World” on the car seat.
I have never forgotten the look of eagerness in that man’s eyes. This experience was an unforgettable lesson on the power of the proclamation on the family, the reality of modern-day revelation, and the importance of sharing the gospel in everyday—and sometimes unexpected—situations.

I’ve been on my mission for over a year now. Every P-day I’ve written two letters home. One to Mom and Dad and one to Gus. I’ve received a letter every week from Mom or Dad, but Gus has never written. Not one letter! I can’t believe it. We were so close. Mom tells me what he’s doing, but I want to hear from him. They say he hasn’t been to church since my farewell.
I tell them about my experiences, and I bear testimony of the gospel in each letter. Mom said Gus reads them.
That’s all there is to Gus’s story. I wish there were more to tell. I want it to have a happy ending.
I’m going to stop writing now. I feel a real need to pray. I’m a little discouraged. The Jones family won’t make a commitment, and Gus won’t write to me. They will both be in my prayers tonight.
I received a very special letter from Mom. She said she caught Gus crying as he read my letter about the Jones family.
I can’t believe Mom’s letter today!
She said she’s not sure, but she thinks Gus is actually reading the Book of Mormon (in secret of course).
I hope so. It would help him so much.
She also said she hasn’t found any cigarettes in his pockets when she washes his clothes.
If he could just stop smoking! He still doesn’t know we know.
A letter from Mom. No doubt about it—Gus has stopped smoking. But the secret’s still on.
Dad wrote. He invited Gus to go to church with Mom and him, like he always does, and Gus actually went! Only he insisted on following Dad’s car on his Harley-Davidson.
During Sunday School he didn’t know where to go for the Young Adult class, and the teacher for the 14- and 15-year-olds (about 4 boys and 3 girls) didn’t show up. Two of the boys had seen Gus drive up on the Harley D. and asked him to show it to them. Before long most of the class was out in the parking lot admiring the Harley D. He even flipped “wheelies” for them. He’s such a show-off.
The Sunday School president had a conniption when he caught them.
The kids all wanted to sluff sacrament meeting and go motorcycle riding, but Gus calmed them down and got them reverently into the chapel for the meeting. It’s great!
Dad wrote again. Last Sunday Gus was ready for church before he and Mom even woke up.
When they arrived at church (this time Dad made him leave the Harley D. at home), the panic-stricken Sunday School president confronted Dad and Gus and begged them to substitute teach the 14- and 15-year-olds because the teacher didn’t show up again. Dad accepted and was surprised to hear Gus accept.
When they got in the class, Dad couldn’t get the kids to pay attention, so Gus stood up and there was total silence.
Then Gus told of a certain friend of his (he gave no name) who had started smoking when he was 14 and who was completely addicted by the time he was 24. He told how his friend couldn’t stop smoking, no matter how hard he tried, until he went to the Lord in prayer. And then his friend was given the strength to quit. Then Gus bore testimony of the Word of Wisdom.
Dad said it was the best impromptu lesson he’d ever heard. The kids loved it. He said he’s proud of Gus.
Now I just wish Gus would write. What’s going through his mind?
My eyes are full of tears as I write this evening. I received a letter from Gus. It’s the very first since I’ve been out.
He began by apologizing for never writing. He confessed he used to smoke. He said he’s never told anyone but the bishop and me. He asked me to never tell Mom and Dad because they’d be so hurt. If he only knew.
He told me he has fallen in love with the ward and never misses church. He and the bishop have had many talks, and Gus feels he has found a new friend.
He announced he has read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover. He bore testimony of its truthfulness and expressed his appreciation for the gospel of Jesus Christ.
He says he’s trying to get his friend Rod to talk to the missionaries.
And the most special news is that my big brother Gus will be ordained an elder this coming Sunday by my Dad.
The Lord answers prayers.
Gus has shaved his beard and cut his hair! Mom sent me a snapshot of him. He looks so funny! I’d forgotten what a baby face he has without whiskers.
Another letter from Gus! He says even though he’s 25 years old, he thinks about serving a mission once in a while.
He said he would probably go anywhere in the world but Japan, because, though he loves the people and culture, he is still not sold on Japanese motorcycles.
I almost can’t believe I’m writing this! Gus talked to our stake president! The missionary papers have been submitted. He’s actually waiting for his call. He says he’s going crazy waiting. I can relate. I’ve been there.
He’s really going on a mission. Gus, a missionary!
A telegram from home! Gus is going to Japan. That’s about the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.
They’re not giving him much time. He enters the MTC December 3rd. I’ll barely miss seeing him. I don’t get released until December 20th. That’ll make four years before we see each other. Four years! I’ll go crazy. A guy could get married in four years! Kids, college, we’ll be strangers.
But you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A letter from Gus. He’ll sell his gas station and the great and irreplaceable Harley D. to pay for his mission. What a sacrifice! I’m so proud of Gus.
And get this! He says he’s going to try to save money so when he gets back he can buy a Kawasaki motorcycle. He calls it “cultural appreciation.”
Mom wrote. Gus’s farewell testimonial was great. She said at least 20 platinum blondes were in attendance.
His testimony brought tears to many eyes. What really humbles me is Mom says he told everybody he loved me and expressed thanks for my example.
Gus. His story is a miracle.

For example, on Christmas morning in 1925, three men walked down to the river’s edge in a park in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Most of the city was probably still sleeping late on a holiday. But these men had left their families behind and spent 21 days on a steam ship to get here. Elder Melvin J. Ballard, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, had been sent by President Heber J. Grant to dedicate the entire continent of South America for the preaching of the gospel.
So while the rest of the city still slept, Elder Ballard entered a willow grove with Elder Rulon S. Wells and Elder Rey L. Pratt. They sang hymns and read from the Book of Mormon. Then Elder Ballard offered a prayer and used his apostolic authority to “unlock and open the door for the preaching of the gospel in all these South American nations.” From that time on, like a stone tossed into a pond, the ripples of the gospel message spread outward across a continent.
Since Elder Ballard’s visit to Buenos Aires, Church membership in South America has grown from less than a dozen to over a million. Tens of thousands more are joining every year. There are an increasing number of LDS chapels, and temples have begun to dot the land.
That’s why seminary graduation time in Buenos Aires isn’t just another weekend. When Elder Ballard offered his powerful prayer in that willow grove nearly 70 years ago, he asked the Lord to “remember in mercy … the youth of thy Church who are to bear the responsibilities of the future, that they may keep themselves clean … and come to their glorious destiny.” For the LDS youth in Argentina, seminary has been one of the most direct answers to that prayer.

After a few years of this hard work, I was ready to test myself. In 2013 both Adam and I decided to race our first ultra-endurance event: the Colorado Trail Race. The Colorado Trail extends from Durango to Denver. It is 570 miles of rough, remote, and relentless trail, traversing miles and miles of high mountain meadows and ridges. I studied the route to find where I could restock food and water, and I created goals for each day, with the ultimate goal of crossing the finish line in five days.

I was particularly worried about getting to the small mountain town of Silverton on day one, where I could resupply before the store closed at 7 p.m. There was no other resupply for at least two days following Silverton—it was an essential stop. If I got to the store after it closed, then I would be forced to spend the night, which would place me on exposed trails above tree line when the thunderstorms rolled in the following afternoon. So, in my mind, the race hinged on my ability to get to the store in Silverton and resupply on day one so I would not be killed by lightning the next day; it seemed rational at the time. The race began at 4 a.m. I was sure there would be no issue getting to Silverton before 7 p.m.—no problem. As you might imagine, I was so wrong.

The trail was much more difficult than I anticipated. It climbed thousands of feet in the first thirty miles. The altitude took a toll on me, along with my poor management of food and water. My loaded bike also weighed more than I was used to. I hiked my bike for hours at a time in unrideable conditions. This created huge blisters to go along with my tired legs, aching back, and pounding head. To make matters worse, I was developing a pretty poor attitude. I was in bad shape, both physically and mentally, and perhaps most importantly, I started to doubt that I could get to Silverton before 7 p.m. In fact, 7 p.m. came and went; 9 p.m. came and went. Darkness fell and 11 p.m. came and went. Somewhere around this time, riding with my underpowered headlamp, I caught my front wheel between two rocks in a small stream crossing and crashed, hitting my head on some rocks in the process. My glasses were broken, my face was bleeding, and I found myself sitting on the wet ground, defeated. Battered and beaten, I rolled out my sleeping bag and bivy sack on the cold, uneven ground and crawled in. I was done. I decided to quit. With tears in my eyes, I eventually drifted off to sleep.

A few hours later I sat up in my sleeping bag and watched the rising sun start to illuminate the eastern horizon, creating an incredible backlit view of the peaks. The light also opened up the vista where I’d been sleeping. Since I had arrived at this location after dark, I was seeing for the first time that I was on the edge of a vast mountain meadow that was filled with flowers and covered with morning dew. I sat in silence and took it in. I was still determined to quit, but I was in awe of the beauty that surrounded me, and I was dumbfounded that I had not noticed anything like this the previous day. I knew this couldn’t be the first beautiful sight that I had come across in almost twenty hours of riding in one of the most spectacular mountain ranges in the United States. Had I missed it all?

Regardless, I was determined to find my way home. But in order to quit, I had to ride the ten miles to Silverton. Those ten miles just happened to be amazing riding. I started to recognize the beautiful sights; the trail was fun and fast, and contrary to my previously poor attitude, I was now smiling and ignoring how uncomfortable I was. I even laughed out loud as I rode the spectacular trails.

In Silverton, I sat on the wooden boardwalk that lined the dirt main street eating a two-pound burrito. I couldn’t stop thinking about the mountain meadow filled with flowers. I was overwhelmed by the beauty and how it made me feel, and I kept wondering how I must have missed similar sights and feelings the day before. I decided then, perhaps in a moment of weakness, that I would continue. I was not ready to quit. I was still worried about the lightning, and my legs were tired and heavy, but I vowed to pay attention and appreciate the full experience. I would not miss any more meadows of flowers. The next five-plus days ended up being some of the most beautiful riding of my life—a fantastic experience. And I did not get struck by lightning.

Before homes could be built, the Saints had to cut down the thickets and dig ditches to drain the swamps. Unfortunately they were unaware of the dangerous disease the pesky mosquitoes were carrying. Many workers became ill with malaria, or ague, as it was called then. Before long, hundreds of people in Nauvoo and across the Mississippi River in Montrose, Iowa, were very ill with severe chills and fever, and many were dying.
For a time Joseph and Emma nursed and cared for the sick, but then Joseph also became ill. For several days he lay overcome with the sickness. But on July 22, 1839, Joseph was prompted to arise and extend help to others. Filled with the Spirit of the Lord, he obediently arose and began to administer to the sick staying in his house and to the people in the tent city surrounding his home. Then he moved down to the river where many more lay too sick to move. Joseph went to the door of Brother Henry G. Sherwood’s tent and commanded him, in the name of Jesus Christ, to rise and come out. Brother Sherwood obeyed and was healed.
Elder Heber C. Kimball and others then accompanied the Prophet across the river to Montrose, where they visited the homes of the sick and, using the power of the priesthood, healed them. When Joseph arrived at the home of Elijah Fordham, the man was unconscious and near death. Joseph took Brother Fordham’s hand and said, “Brother Fordham, do you not know me?” There was no response at first, then the leaders could see the Spirit of God resting upon Elijah.
Joseph repeated his question, and Elijah whispered, “Yes!”
Joseph said, “Have you not faith to be healed?”
Elijah answered, “I am afraid it is too late. …”
Joseph asked next, “Do you believe that Jesus is the Christ?”
“I do, Brother Joseph,” Elijah said.
Then the Prophet Joseph said in a loud voice, “Elijah, I command you, in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, to arise and be made whole!”
Elijah Fordham jumped from his bed and was healed!
Wilford Woodruff said, “The words of the Prophet were not like the words of man, but like the voice of God. It seemed to me that the house shook from its foundation.”
After the people recovered, they continued to build the beautiful city on a bend in the Mississippi River and to settle many other outlying cities. Once again the hard work and abilities of the Saints began to pay off, and the towns began to flourish. Soon Nauvoo had many shops and factories, including sawmills, brickyards, printing offices, flour mills, etc. Nauvoo craftsmen also produced matches, leather goods, rope and cord, gloves, bonnets, pottery, jewelry, and watches. Professional associations and schools, including a university, were established. The people also put on plays and held dances and parties.

During the final phases of World War II, I turned eighteen and was ordained an elder—one week before I departed for active duty with the Navy. A member of my ward bishopric was at the train station to bid me farewell. Just before train time, he placed in my hand a book which I hold before you tonight. Its title, the Missionary Handbook. I laughed and commented, “I’m not going on a mission.” He answered, “Take it anyway. It may come in handy.”

It did. During basic training our company commander instructed us concerning how we might best pack our clothing in a large sea bag. He advised, “If you have a hard, rectangular object you can place in the bottom of the bag, your clothes will stay more firm.” I suddenly remembered just the right rectangular object—the Missionary Handbook. Thus it served for twelve weeks.

The night preceding our Christmas leave our thoughts were, as always, on home. The barracks were quiet. Suddenly I became aware that my buddy in the adjoining bunk—a Mormon boy, Leland Merrill—was moaning with pain. I asked, “What’s the matter, Merrill?”

He replied, “I’m sick. I’m really sick.”

I advised him to go to the base dispensary, but he answered knowingly that such a course would prevent him from being home for Christmas.

The hours lengthened; his groans grew louder. Then, in desperation, he whispered, “Monson, Monson, aren’t you an elder?” I acknowledged this to be so; whereupon he asked, “Give me a blessing.”

I became very much aware that I had never given a blessing. I had never received such a blessing; I had never witnessed a blessing being given. My prayer to God was a plea for help. The answer came: “Look in the bottom of the sea bag.” Thus, at 2 a.m. I emptied on the deck the contents of the bag. I then took to the night-light that hard, rectangular object, the Missionary Handbook, and read how one blesses the sick. With about sixty curious sailors looking on, I proceeded with the blessing. Before I could stow my gear, Leland Merrill was sleeping like a child.

The next morning Merrill smilingly turned to me and said, “Monson, I’m glad you hold the priesthood.” His gladness was only surpassed by my gratitude.

During this worldwide pandemic, many of us have felt anxious and despairing. We have had an increased desire to feel assured of God’s love. Recently in my need I had one of those strong spiritual confirmations mentioned by Elder Andersen. I needed both physical and spiritual healing, which both came through the power of God’s love.

In March, five days after I had traveled back here to Hawaii from the mainland, I got sick. I had tightness in my chest, achiness, coughing, and a low fever. (My sons-in-law who are both doctors urged me to get tested, which I did. The test results took 8 days to be returned, so I quarantined myself very impatiently.) Nighttime was the worst, because when I lay down, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. The physical symptoms were real, but at night after John had fallen asleep, another dimension set in. I started to panic. Then I really couldn’t breathe. I needed help. I prayed for guidance in what to do, and also to feel reassurance and comfort. I testify that my prayers were answered with thoughts that came to my mind and peace that came to my heart to help me relax. I knew I also needed a priesthood blessing.

In the blessing John pronounced upon me, he briefly reassured me that I would heal. But the rest of the rather detailed blessing was about Heavenly Father’s and Jesus Christ’s love for me. I was overwhelmed with the surge of strength I felt in their love. I have always known that I am a daughter of Heavenly parents who love me, but I needed this profound reminder at this time. The power of that love strengthened me. I immediately and rapidly began to feel better. There is a supreme force and might in love that heals all ills, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. My physical sickness started to dissipate as my spirit started to soar. God’s love brought unspeakable joy to my soul. God’s love healed me.

Following Thanksgiving time a year or so ago, I received a letter from a widow whom I had known in the stake where I served in the presidency. She had just returned from a dinner sponsored by her bishopric. Her words reflect the peace she felt and the gratitude which filled her heart:

“Dear President Monson,
“I am living in Bountiful now. I miss the people of our old stake, but let me tell you of a wonderful experience I have had. In early November all the widows and older people received an invitation to come to a lovely dinner. We were told not to worry about transportation since this would be provided by the older youth in the ward.
“At the appointed hour, a very nice young man rang the bell and took me and another sister to the stake center. He stopped the car, and two other young men walked with us to the chapel where the young ladies took us to where we removed our wraps—then into the cultural hall, where we sat and visited for a few minutes. Then they took us to the tables, where we were seated on each side by either a young woman or a young man. Then we were served a lovely Thanksgiving dinner and afterward provided a choice program.
“After the program we were given our dessert—either apple or pumpkin pie. Then we left, and on the way out we were given a plastic bag with sliced turkey and two rolls. Then the young men took us home. It was such a nice, lovely evening. Most of us shed a tear or two for the love and respect we were shown.
“President Monson, when you see young people treat others like these young people did, I feel the Church is in good hands.”

I reflected on my association with this lovely widow, now grown old but ever serving the Lord. There came to mind the words from the Epistle of James: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.” (James 1:27.)

I add my own commendation: God bless the leaders, the young men, and the young women who so unselfishly brought such joy to the lonely and such peace to their souls. Through their experience they learned the meaning of service and felt the nearness of the Lord.

The year my parents were baptized, there was no temple in Brazil. The closest temple to where we lived in São Paulo was the Mesa Arizona Temple, almost 6,000 miles (9,650 km) away! Travel was too expensive, so my parents waited for years for the dedication of the São Paulo Brazil Temple, the first temple built and dedicated in all of South America, before they could receive their temple ordinances and be sealed. By that time, I was serving a mission in Rio de Janeiro.
About two months before I concluded my mission, my mission president allowed my companion and me to travel overnight with stake members from Rio de Janeiro to the São Paulo Brazil Temple so I could be sealed to my parents and receive my own temple ordinances. My experience in the temple had a tremendous impact on the rest of my mission. I loved testifying of the temple and the importance of God’s plan for families. The temple also changed my vision of the future.

I decided to enroll in early-morning seminary, and I was eager to learn. Every morning I woke up at 5:00 a.m. to get ready for school, and then I drove to the seminary building. I was amazed at how much I enjoyed early-morning seminary.
Halfway into my early-morning seminary experience, I grew tired of my usual music collection and decided to turn on the radio. I didn’t listen to the radio often, so I turned the station to a popular one that I knew my friends listened to. The station streamed fast-paced, popular music that I recognized from school dances. I decided it couldn’t be too bad, and I left it there for weeks. I wasn’t really listening to the music—it was mostly just background music while I focused on driving and thought about school. If I ever heard a bad word, I immediately turned the volume down and waited until the song was over before turning the volume back up and listening to a different song.
A gradual change started happening in me. I found that I didn’t want to go to Mutual activities and struggled to focus in church. I became increasingly irritated with my family. I didn’t want to go home, and I argued with my parents over things that didn’t really matter. I was frequently in a bad mood and I had no idea why.
One morning I was running late, and when I started my car, the radio blared with a popular song streaming through the speakers. I was getting tired of the song, so I started rummaging through my music collection, looking for music that I hadn’t listened to in a while. I had trouble finding something, and I kept thinking, “Just leave it, you’re already going to be late!” Still, I kept looking and settled on the soundtrack of a fun animated movie I enjoyed.
My mood changed. For one week I left that soundtrack playing in my car, and my mood immediately took a turn for the better. I focused on church more, eager to feel the Spirit and become closer to my Heavenly Father. Then one day, as I drove to seminary, I thought about what could have been the cause of my sudden sour mood and what had fixed it. I offered a prayer in my heart for the answer so I could prevent it from happening again.
Then it hit me: even though I hadn’t been listening to the messages of the lyrics, the songs played on the radio station I’d been listening to didn’t have an uplifting spirit to them. Even when the message wasn’t bad, the sound of the music was dark. The music, which I’d only left on for background music, had started affecting my spirit, without my even realizing it.
I’m not saying all popular music is bad, but I learned that day that it isn’t just the lyrics we need to focus on when choosing good music but also the feel of the music as well. I started asking, “If I just listen to the sound of it, how does it make me feel?” I am so grateful to my Heavenly Father for teaching me this lesson. Music is a very powerful thing. Wholesome, spiritual music can bring us almost as close to our Heavenly Father as prayer does, but music that doesn’t possess these qualities can drive us dangerously far away from Him. I love music, but I love my Heavenly Father more, and I’m grateful He has provided music that brings us closer to Him.

I have had more experiences of being lost in the wilderness than I care to admit, but let me tell you about the most recent one. A few years ago our group of six took a trip up the Magnetic River to the Saganaga Lake. This is one of my favorite routes, and although it was the third time for me, it was the first time for the others. We were on our final day of the trip, and we were running a bit behind. Our stove had caught on fire in the morning (the fuel hose was not placed properly when we cooked our pancakes), so breakfast was delayed, and we had encountered a few rough portages at midday.

So we arrived on the lake late in the afternoon. Those of you who are sailors will know that late afternoon is when the winds come up, and we were paddling westward directly into the wind. It was a tough paddle, and with the wind in our faces, at times it felt like we were paddling in peanut butter. Two very strong paddlers manned one of our four canoes, and as they got out ahead of us, I noticed that they missed the turn.

Now, this is an easy mistake, because as we looked west there were many islands. If they had read the map more closely or had used their compass, they would have known where to go, but for some reason they lost track of where they were. Yelling into the wind at them would have been futile, and they did not look back to see signals we were giving them with our paddles. (In case you students don’t know, cell phones do not work in the wilderness.)

At that moment I was faced with a dilemma. Should I take the other three canoes the right direction, or should we follow our first canoe off course? What would you do? Because their physical safety was my first concern, I reasoned it was better to be off course together than apart in the right place. We followed them for another half hour before they realized they were lost and pulled over to wait for us. We all pulled up, glad to have a little rest on the island’s mossy bank after an afternoon of paddling into the wind. We gathered around a map, but only after we aligned our intended route on the map with the compass I carried were we able to head off in the proper direction.

But the story does not end here. Because we were wandering in the wilderness for an extra three hours, the campsite we had selected was already taken. It was after seven o’clock and the sun was sinking in the sky when we finally found a less preferable site that was still vacant. Totally exhausted, we disembarked and unloaded our gear, and some set up tents while the others cooked dinner over an open fire. It was eight o’clock when we finally ate our dinner. That night as we lay in our sleeping bags listening to the lullaby of the loons, we were glad to be safe and sound despite our misadventure. It was a hard lesson, but we learned the lesson Lehi’s family learned. Things will go wrong, but if you pay attention to where you are going, use the compass, and stay together, you will complete the journey.