Gospel Story Finder

He was concerned about how to raise his three children—sons, Randrianandry and Sedinirina, and daughter, Nirina. He was unhappy that his short temper had led to challenges in the family. He wanted to be a kinder parent.
“I decided I was the one who had to change because I saw who I had become,” he said.
But his sons say the biggest change they have seen is in their father’s temperament. They describe him now as an example of humility and kindness. Roger said the gospel convinced him that he had to change. Since he began studying it, Roger has tried to fill his life with good things.
“Because of the teachings of the gospel, I never lose my temper,” he said. “Sometimes there are provocations, but the gospel is in my heart, in my head, and in my spirit. It helps me stay calm.”
When upsetting situations arise, Roger is the one who calms down family members and reminds them to act as the Savior would.
“My father became humble and now cares for our family with love,” Sedinirina said. “When I look at the change in him, I’m so grateful for Heavenly Father, for the gospel, and for being members of the Church.”

As I approached my 18th birthday and prepared to enter military service in World War II, I was recommended to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. Mine was the task to telephone President Paul C. Child, my stake president, for an interview. He was one who loved and understood the holy scriptures. It was his intent that all others should similarly love and understand them. Since I knew from others of his rather detailed and searching interviews, our telephone conversation went something like this:
“Hello, President Child. This is Brother Monson. I have been asked by the bishop to visit with you relative to being ordained an elder.”
“Fine, Brother Monson. When can you see me?”
Knowing that his sacrament meeting was at six o’clock, and desiring minimum exposure of my scriptural knowledge to his review, I suggested, “How would five o’clock be?”
His response: “Oh, Brother Monson, that would not provide us sufficient time to peruse the scriptures. Could you please come at two o’clock, and bring with you your personally marked and referenced set of scriptures.”
Sunday finally arrived, and I visited President Child’s home on Indiana Avenue. I was greeted warmly, and then the interview began. He said, “Brother Monson, you hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Have you ever had angels minister to you?”
My reply was, “No, President Child.”
“Do you know,” said he, “that you are entitled to such?”
Again came my response, “No.”
Then he instructed, “Brother Monson, repeat from memory the 13th section of the Doctrine and Covenants.”
I began, “Upon you my fellow servants, in the name of Messiah I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministering of angels …
“Stop,” President Child directed. Then in a calm, kindly tone he counseled, “Brother Monson, never forget that as a holder of the Aaronic Priesthood you are entitled to the ministering of angels.”
It was almost as though an angel were in the room that day. I have never forgotten the interview. I yet feel the spirit of that solemn occasion. I revere the priesthood of Almighty God. I have witnessed its power. I have seen its strength. I have marveled at the miracles it has wrought.

Lucy was curled up in a corner of her bedroom when her mom came in to say good night.
“What are you doing over there, Lucy?” Mom asked.
“I just wanted to be alone to think,” Lucy said, burying her face in her favorite blanket—the yellow one with flowers that had belonged to Mom when she was a little girl.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mom asked, sitting down in the rocking chair.
Lucy nodded and climbed up on Mom’s lap. “I was thinking about Grandma Eliza,” she said quietly, rubbing her blanket across her eyes.
“Oh,” Mom said, rocking her gently. “You know, Grandma Eliza is in heaven now. I think she must be very happy there.”
Lucy sniffed. “I know,” she said. “But I miss her, and I’m not happy that she’s gone.”
“I miss her too,” Mom said as she stroked Lucy’s hair. “Why don’t we pray about this?”
“OK,” Lucy agreed. With Mom’s help, Lucy prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, I feel sad that Grandma Eliza died, and I miss her. But I know Grandma is in heaven and she’s happy, and I know that I’ll see her again when she’s resurrected. Please help me not to feel so sad. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
After she said “amen,” Lucy sat quietly for a moment. Then she had an idea. “I know what to do! Aunt Emma told me that singing Primary songs helps her feel happy. Maybe we should do that!”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Mom said.
Together, Lucy and Mom sang “I Am a Child of God,” “I Love to See the Temple,” and “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.” When they finished, Lucy said, “I feel happy now, Mom.”
“The Holy Ghost helped you know what to do so you would feel better,” Mom said.
Lucy smiled. “I know. Heavenly Father answered my prayer.” Now as she thought about Grandma Eliza, she felt like her favorite blanket was wrapped around her heart. She was comforted.
“I love you, Mom,” Lucy whispered before she fell asleep. “And I love Grandma Eliza too.”

As Gladys Monson lay in Salt Lake City’s St. Mark’s Hospital on Sunday, 21 August 1927 with her first son, her husband, G. Spencer Monson, told her a new bishop had been installed in the Sixth-Seventh Ward of the Pioneer Stake that day. The mother’s response, “I have a new bishop for you,” proved to be prophetic. On 7 May 1950 this son, Thomas Spencer Monson, was sustained as bishop of this ward. Not yet 23 years old, the son, named for his father and his maternal grandfather, Thomas Sharp Condie, was perhaps the youngest bishop in the Church. And the ward, numbering more than 1,000 members, including 85 widows, had the largest welfare responsibility in the Church.

Taylor doesn’t seem to do anything halfway. His rodeo successes earned him a scholarship to one of the top rodeo colleges in the U.S., Southwest Oklahoma State University.

It was in Oklahoma that Taylor’s priorities shifted from rodeo to serving the Lord. At college, Taylor found himself immersed among people with different beliefs. It was quite a change from his hometown of Richfield, Utah, where it seemed everyone around him was a member of the Church. “I got to thinking, ‘There’s got to be something about these different religions and beliefs that these people have that makes them believe it’s true.’ And I thought, ‘I’ve got to find out for myself.’”

Just as Joseph Smith did, Taylor turned to the scriptures and prayer to find the truth. “I really started studying the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon,” Taylor says. “The gospel just made so much sense once I started reading and once I really started focusing and trying to understand what I wanted. It took me going out to Oklahoma and having all those people question my faith. I had to find out for myself.”

So what is it like to ride one of those hulking bulls? “I’m scared every time I get on a bull,” Taylor says. “There’s always that little bit of fear inside of you. But that’s the neat thing—being able to overcome that fear.” And it’s preparation that helps him overcome the fear. Because Taylor has trained since he was only four or five years old, he knows what to do. “Everything happens so fast when you ride,” explains Taylor. “It’s not like when you’re playing football, where you can read what different players are doing and know what to do. I still think when I’m riding, but it’s more of a reaction than it is thinking about what you’re doing.”

Also, there’s never been a time when Taylor has climbed on a bull or a bronco without first saying a prayer. “I put my trust in the Lord,” Taylor says. “Whether it’s at practice or at a rodeo, I’ve always prayed that I’d be safe and that I’d have the Lord’s Spirit with me. God will answer your prayers. He doesn’t guarantee that you’re not going to get hurt, and He doesn’t guarantee that you’re going to ride and win, but He’s always there with you.”

Does Taylor have any fear about going on a mission? “I’m a little nervous,” he says. “I don’t know what it’s going to be like in Cambodia. I don’t know the challenges I’m going to have, but that’s what the Lord has asked me to do. I’ve heard how difficult the language is. And as time draws near, there are a lot of things I think about leaving behind, like rodeo and family. But I know I’m going for the right reason.”

The right reason is the Savior. “Jesus Christ came here and gave His life so we could have eternal life,” Taylor says emphatically. “I could spend every day of my life serving Him, and I still wouldn’t be able to repay Him for all He’s done for me. And all He’s asking is that I live my life right and serve a mission now. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

Taylor hopes the same things that have made him successful in rodeo will help him be a successful missionary: prayer, relying on the Lord, overcoming fears, and not letting anyone discourage him from his goals. He’s already done a lot of things many people have told him he’d never be able to do.

Along with setting goals, it’s important to Taylor to keep his priorities straight. He tells about one of his teachers at school who brought a glass jar to class one day. Taylor explains: “She filled it up with pretty good-sized rocks and held it up and asked, ‘Is this jar full?’ And we all said, ‘Yeah, it’s filled right to the top.’”

The teacher then filled the jar with smaller pebbles, shook it a bit to let them settle, then poured in more pebbles until they filled the jar. Again she asked the class, “Is the jar full?”

They said yes.

She then poured sand into the jar. Letting the sand sift to the bottom, she finally filled the jar to the top. Now it was full.

Her point was that the large rocks are the important things in life; you must put them in first, or they won’t fit. The smaller rocks and the sand—the less important things—can fit around them.

“To me, those important things in life are my family, the gospel, and my friends,” says Taylor. “The smaller ones are still important, like your schooling, your house. If we put the important things into our life first, and that’s our priority, then everything else will fall into place. If we put the other things in first, we won’t have room for the important things in life. And for me right now, the first one is serving a mission and living worthy to serve.”

Taylor’s priorities include serving a mission and one day being sealed in the temple. “I know helping someone understand and accept the gospel will be more exciting than my best rides,” says Taylor. “Serving a faithful mission is my top priority right now. I want to return to school and ride when I get home, but I know the day will come when I’ll need to give up riding and all the time I spend on rodeos. Having a family is more important.”

What would it be like to climb on a bicycle and pedal through the Cambodian countryside, stopping to tell the people there about Jesus Christ, the plan of salvation, and the Restoration of the gospel? Just ask Taylor White when he gets back home in two years. He’ll probably tell you it was the most rewarding ride of his life.

When Katy Ballenger started volunteering at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, Utah, she had no idea her life would be changed forever. On her last day volunteering at the hospital, the nurses asked her to spend the day with a terminally ill boy who spoke little and who smiled even less. She read stories to him and played with him all day, and, after all her efforts, the boy laughed. He was sad to see her go at the end of the day. “I realized I had made a difference in this child’s life,” Katy says.
After experiencing the good feelings that resulted from her service, Katy decided to make a difference and continue to use the gifts her Heavenly Father had given her to serve others.

I was a Latter-day Saint missionary and had been sent, along with an American Indian from California, to establish a small school in the mountain village of Ayancocha. The village lies on the east side of the Andes in central Peru and is situated on the banks of the Huallaga River that cascades toward Peru’s rain forests and finally meanders through the flat jungles to join with the Amazon.
The first night Pedro entered the adult education class, he looked like any other older mountain Indian. Decay had robbed him of many of his teeth and eaten parts of others. Improper diet and years of scraping at the unproductive, rocky Andean soil had wrapped the flesh tautly around his frame. Calloused welts protruded from under the leather thongs that tied his llantas (rubber treaded sandals made from worn truck tires) to his feet. His nose bore angular testimony to his membership in the royal Incan family.
But, in fact, Pedro was not like many of the other mountain Indians. He had not numbed his mind by chewing cocaine leaves, which serve as an antidote for the cold, fear, and frustration for so many of Peru’s older mountain people.
Pedro’s adult memory extended back past the time when the first trucks crossed the Andes and rumbled through his village toward Peru’s wood- and fruit-laden jungles.
But his mind was young and he wanted to learn to read.
Somewhere he had picked up the basics of the written language. He knew the letters and sounds of the Spanish alphabet. And when we opened the adult reading class in his village, Pedro was the first to enter.
The class dwindled as the weeks passed by. Learning is not easy for adults who measure their formal education by the number of days they have spent in a classroom. But Pedro hung on.
Soon he could sound out the syllables. The process was slow: he would sound out each syllable and then put the word together; it would sometimes take an hour to read one paragraph.
When Pedro learned to read, he cut a large window through the adobe in his living room to let the light in.
Nothing was too dull or unimportant. Old newspapers, government pamphlets, anything that had words on it was slowly devoured.
And when the sun had dropped behind the towering Andes that guarded the village to the west, I could see the dim flicker from a coal-oil lamp coming from Pedro’s new window. He would be squinting across the top of his glasses, with the lamp across the wooden table and the book between, slowly sounding out the syllables.
But Pedro’s academic curiosity was not his only asset. He had not succumbed to the pressures of a practical society where art and craftsmanship were considered unneeded luxuries. Plantation owners would have paid Pedro well for the use of his carpentry skills.
Rather than go to work making rough door frames and unpolished fruit boxes, Pedro would spend a month and a half sculpturing a harp that would sell for around 20 American dollars. To make sure there was food on the table for his wife and five children, he tilled a small plot of ground and raised chickens and guinea pigs. (Guinea pigs are kept by the mountain people of Peru much like rural Americans keep rabbits. One mountain specialty is to soak them in hot pepper juice and roast them over an open fire.)
Watching Pedro make harps was a lesson in concentration. He would pick out a prospective candidate for the harp from his seasoned wood pile, and like a raccoon selecting his food, pass the stick from hand to hand, eyeing it from this angle and that, all the while running his fingers across the grain; an appropriate grunt would finish off the process. The grunt meant that judgment had been affixed: the stick would either become a polished part of the finished instrument or serve as kindling to roast Pedro’s speciality: pepper-dipped guinea pig.
Then, using primitive carpenter’s tools, Pedro would build a precision musical instrument. For many, beauty exists only when perceived, but not for Pedro. His harps were art inside and out. No matter where the wood was used, it had to be the best. Even unnoticed ribs well within the dark interior were seasoned and planed.
But while Pedro’s academic curiosity and craftsmanship would have made him stand out in any community, one other quality made him unique. There have been few characters in the course of written history with whom faith and fact were synonymous. Pedro was one of these.
Even for those of us who use the term daily, faith is a paradox. Conspicuously absent in many who bear its robes, it sometimes finds a more congenial soil under homespun wool and leather thongs.
At any rate Pedro’s faith was both simple and factual. We had bought a diesel engine that generated electricity for our school and church building. A film arrived from Church headquarters depicting the struggles of early pioneers in southern Utah. President Lorenzo Snow, president of the Church at that time, promised the pioneers that a devastating drought would end if they would pay their tithing.
That year Pedro’s village was experiencing a drought. Potatoes and corn were drooping in despair at the rainy season’s slow arrival.
Pedro arrived the morning after the film was shown to pay ten soles (less than 50 cents) in tithing. He then went home and sat on his porch to wait for the rain.
It rained.
It is nearly ten years now since I have seen Pedro. He was an old man then. Perhaps the murmur of articulated syllables no longer escapes from the adobe dwelling’s open window.
On my dining room table rests an 18-inch replica of a Peruvian harp, a cherished gift from the Noria workshop. Its finger-stained ribs and hand-carved bridge are surrounded by machine-planed woods, synthetic carpets, and imitation hickory paneling. The bridge of the instrument ends in the sculptured head of a bird. Its unblinking eye and symmetrical bill are fitting memorials to Pedro Noria de Toledo.

As a young college student of peace and conflict studies, I took great interest in any process that could be used for resolving conflict. One life-altering conversation with a friend introduced me to a process that I had never heard of before: companionship council.
While sharing about his mission, my friend told me that companionship council is the regular check-in where missionary companionships discuss how they are working together and how to improve. My friend had found the process so helpful as a missionary that he planned to use it in his marriage someday. The idea sank deep into my heart. I read about companionship council in Preach My Gospel and talked to other returned missionaries about their experiences with it. I saw how companionship councils, similar to family councils, could be used to address and prevent many of the destructive conflicts we face in our relationships today.
My husband, James, and I began holding weekly companionship councils before we were even married. I can still remember our first meeting. James was so open, kind, understanding, and willing to take my thoughts seriously that I felt confident in our ability to build a happy marriage.
Now well into our life together, we have continued the tradition of weekly companionship council. While our relationship isn’t perfect, we both agree that the many sessions we’ve held have helped us find deeper joy and fulfillment in our marriage than we thought possible.
Taking notes will also help you to remember—in the words of President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985)—“your triumphs over adversity, your recovery after a fall, your progress when all seemed black, [and] your rejoicing when you [succeed].” James and I are so grateful that we have kept a record of the nearly 800 companionship council sessions we have held over the years. What a joy it is to look back and see how far we’ve come!

A young journalist wrote:
“I was … driving to a scene I didn’t want to see. A man … had accidentally backed his pickup truck over his baby granddaughter in the driveway of the family home. It was a fatality.
“As I parked … I saw a stocky, white-haired man in cotton work clothes standing near a pickup. Cameras were trained on him, and reporters were sticking microphones in his face. Looking totally bewildered, he was trying to answer their questions. Mostly he was only moving his lips, blinking and choking up.
“… I can still see in my mind’s eye that devastated old man looking down at the place in the driveway where the child had been. Beside the house was a freshly spaded flower bed, and nearby a pile of dark, rich earth.
“‘I was just backing up there to spread that good dirt,’ he said to me, though I had not asked him anything. ‘I didn’t even know she was outdoors.’ He stretched his hand toward the flower bed, then let it flop to his side. … I … went into the house to find someone who could provide a recent photo of the toddler.
“A few minutes later, with all the details in my notebook and a … studio portrait of the cherubic child tucked in my jacket pocket, I went toward the kitchen where the police had said the body was.
“… Entering the kitchen, I came upon this scene:
“On a Formica-topped table, back-lighted by a frilly curtained window, lay the tiny body, wrapped in a clean white sheet. Somehow the grandfather had managed to stay away from the crowd. He was sitting on a chair beside the table, in profile to me and unaware of my presence, looking uncomprehendingly at the swaddled corpse.
“The house was very quiet. A clock ticked. As I watched, the grandfather slowly leaned forward, curved his arms like parentheses around the head and feet of the little form, then pressed his face to the shroud and remained motionless.
“In that hushed moment I recognized the makings of a prize-winning news photograph. I appraised the light, adjusted the lens setting and distance, locked a bulb in the flashgun, raised the camera and composed the scene in the viewfinder.
“Every element of the picture was perfect: the grandfather in his plain work clothes, his white hair back-lighted by sunshine, the child’s form wrapped in the sheet, the atmosphere of the simple home. … Outside, the police could be seen inspecting the … pickup while the child’s mother and father leaned in each other’s arms.
“I don’t know how many seconds I stood there, unable to snap that shutter. I was keenly aware of the powerful storytelling value that photo would have, and my professional conscience told me to take it. Yet I couldn’t make my hand fire that flash-bulb and intrude on the poor man’s island of grief.
“At length I lowered the camera and crept away, shaken with doubt about my suitability for the journalistic profession. Of course I never told the city editor or any fellow reporters about that missed opportunity for a perfect news picture.
“Every day, on the newscasts and in the papers, we see pictures of people in extreme conditions of grief and despair. Human suffering has become a spectator sport. And sometimes, as I’m watching the news film, I remember that day.
“I still feel right about what I did” (James Alexander Thom, “The Perfect Picture,” Reader’s Digest, Aug. 1976, pp. 113–14).*

One time, I was standing by an abandoned car in my grandparents’ backyard when some neighbor boys threw a match into the gas tank. It exploded, burning my hands severely. They were absolutely charred, and I went to show my grandmother. A woman of great faith, my grandmother prayed over those hands. She put some salve on them, and the pain went away instantly. By the next day they were healing well.

In December 2004, I was serving as a full-time missionary in Lins, São Paulo, Brazil. The local ward and branch decided to participate in Brazil’s annual “Natal sem Fome” (Christmas without Hunger) program. Teaming up with several other entities—including soldiers from the Brazilian army, mail carriers, and members of other faiths—we passed through several neighborhoods collecting food that would later be given to the needy of the city. We also used this as a great opportunity to give out pass-along cards, or “friendship cards” as we called them. About 2,000 cards were given out.
Many of the members commented on the great feelings they had felt as they served and shared the spirit of Christmas under the hot Brazilian sun. It was an impressive sight to see the soldiers handing out pass-along cards from a church they didn’t even belong to.
One week later we received 127 requests for the Joy to the World Christmas DVD featuring the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The next week we received 22 more. My companion and I started teaching these people and were able to enter into many homes as a result of this project.
I will never forget the joy and love of that special project, when we helped spread the gospel and bring relief to many families’ hunger. Both spiritual and physical hunger were lessened.
I know that through small and simple things (such as a pass-along card) many great and wonderful things (such as the salvation of the souls of men) come to pass. This experience was evidence that many opportunities surround us during Christmas and other seasons to bring forth this marvelous work and a wonder.

Johanan carried his goatskin down to the well. After waiting for his turn, he very carefully filled the skin. Every drop was important in their dry country, especially now that the Roman soldiers blocked the gates of the city. He carried the heavy skin back to his home. As he passed the big olive tree that fed them, he poured a little of the water on the young seedling that was sheltered in its shade. Then he filled a small jug with water and walked to the city wall where his father was standing guard. He was proud that his father was chosen to be one of the watchmen. Johanan climbed the ladder and handed his father the jug.
It was hot on the wall, and Father smiled at him, then drank deeply. “Thank you. I was very thirsty.”
Johanan smiled back. He turned to look out over the wall. Before him camped the mighty armies of the Romans. He gazed with a horrible fascination at the men milling below. They were like ants swarming around the bottom of a gigantic anthill. And Jerusalem was the anthill! “Father,” he whispered, “what is going to happen to us?”
His father put his arm around him and pulled him away from the wall. “We will be fine. We have the Lord’s promise that if we watch and follow His warning, we will be saved.”
“But look, Father,” the boy argued, pointing to the men, “there are thousands of them. They have chariots and battering rams. What can we do?”
“Be prepared,” Father answered. “That’s what the Savior told us to do—be prepared.”
Johanan walked slowly back home. He always felt afraid after looking over the wall. It took all his faith to stop that fear. He stopped at the olive tree and sat beneath its shade. He looked at the seedling and wondered if he would see it bear fruit.
Sounds of shouting reached his ears. He saw a group of boys playing in the street. He longed to join them, but he knew that they didn’t want to play with him. He was a Christian, and they were not. Whenever he came close to where they played, they threw stones at him and taunted, “Where’s your Jesus now? Why doesn’t He save you from the Romans?”
Getting up, Johanan wandered into the house and looked for Grandmother. Her presence always soothed him. He sat beside her and watched her skillful fingers weave goat-hair yarn into cloth.
“Hello, Johanan.” She glanced down at his troubled face. “Did you take water to your father?”
He nodded.
“I see. What is it like to see all of Cestius Gallus’s men?”
“Terrible. Many soldiers are out there.”
“It will be all right,” she soothed. She continued her rhythmic weaving for a few moments, then stopped. “How long has it been since I told you about the time I saw the Savior?”
“Many months.”
“Then listen again.” After a pause, she quietly began her story. “When I was a small child, word reached us that a great man was coming to preach in our city. Soon a crowd of people gathered right below the temple.
“My parents thought that I was too young to be in such crowds, so they left me home with my brother, Jesse.”
Johanan nodded in understanding. His parents left him home with his little sisters on market day.
“Jesse wanted to go,” Grandmother continued, “so he swore me to secrecy and we walked toward the crowds. We wriggled our way through the people until we could see Him. We stood still, just staring at Him.”
“What was He like?” Johanan asked earnestly.
“He was like other men—He had two eyes and one nose—yet He was very different. I knew when I saw Him that He loved me and everyone there. I felt something special, a kind of reverence.”
Johanan sighed, “I wish I could have seen Him.”
Grandmother nodded. “One by one He took the children from the multitude and blessed them. Jesse and I walked forward. Soon His arms were around me, and He talked to me. I don’t remember what He said. I remember that I knew that He was the Savior.”
They sat quietly thinking for several minutes before Grandmother looked down at her weaving and picked up the shuttle again. “Don’t worry, my son. He told us what to do.”
Johanan, too, knew the prophecies. When the signs were right, they would leave their home and flee Jerusalem. He looked at the bags and goatskins stacked in the corner. His family was ready to leave whenever the time came.
That afternoon he was herding the goats into the corral when his father walked swiftly up the path, calling to him. “Come, Johanan! Hurry!”
Johanan ran toward his father.
Father gathered the family together. “It is time. I don’t understand why, but Gallus has removed his men from the walls. If we go quietly, I think that he will let us leave. You all know what to do,” Father said. “Now hurry.”
Johanan ran to all their Christian neighbors to make sure that they knew that it was time to leave.
People laden with bags and baskets began streaming out of their houses.
“Where are you going?” one man called out. “You’re not leaving? You cannot. The soldiers will kill you. It’s safer to stay here behind the walls.”
His father stopped and called to him, “Come with us. It’s the only safe thing to do!”
The neighbor waved his hand in disgust. “You Christians—you’re all crazy!”
“Please come!” Father pleaded again, but the man just turned his back.
Johanan remembered how hard his father had worked the past few months to warn everyone that the time to flee was close at hand. Few had listened to him.
“We can do no more,” Father now said sadly. He gathered the family together and joined the rest of the Saints as they poured out through the gates of the city.
They walked as rapidly as they could. Grandmother was having trouble keeping up, so they slowed their pace. It was growing dark by the time they climbed a small rise above Jerusalem. Stopping to rest, they turned to look at their city one last time. Johanan had thought he’d feel sadness to leave his home. Instead, he felt a great joy because his family was safe and all together.
As they watched, the armies of Gallus closed ranks and Jerusalem was encircled once again.
Silently the family turned and began to walk. Johanan stayed close to his grandmother in case she needed him. His heart felt very full. He felt his testimony of Jesus Christ growing. His family had been saved because they had listened to and believed His message.
Grandmother had seen and touched Him. Johanan knew, without seeing, that Jesus was the Christ. He knew because the Holy Ghost whispered it to him.

I grew up in the Church. Most of my teachers and leaders were diligent and effective in trying to instill within me a love for the gospel, a knowledge of its principles, and especially, a testimony—what President Joseph Fielding Smith called the “speaking of the Holy Ghost to the soul in a convincing, positive manner” (Answers to Gospel Questions, comp. Joseph Fielding Smith, Jr., 5 vols., Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1979, 3:28). In my teen years I remember several teachers and fireside speakers outlining how a testimony could be obtained. It seemed so easy that I decided to follow it.
As a high school student, I determined that I would act on this advice and try to obtain my own testimony of the gospel. I wanted to know that it was true. So I carefully read the Book of Mormon, underlining as I went. When I finished I felt a great sense of anticipation about Moroni’s promise. I knelt down and prayed, trying to learn for myself whether this book was true or not. Although I prayed off and on for several weeks with what I thought was “real intent” and determination, I failed to recognize an answer. When my friends stood in fast meeting to express their testimonies, my parents were disappointed that I did not. I told them that I was trying, but that a testimony had just not come to me yet. I could not be dishonest. I worried and wondered what I was doing wrong. Perhaps my life was not good enough for the Lord to recognize my question—or maybe there was something wrong with the way I was praying—or perhaps I just didn’t know how to recognize an answer.
The prayer and study went on for two more years, during which I read the Book of Mormon a second time, and then my bishop asked me to go on a mission. On one hand, I was elated, because I had always wanted to serve a mission; but on the other hand, I was very worried, because my testimony had not been granted. How would I convince others if I could not speak with conviction? My brother was going on a mission at the same time, and my parents, who were of very modest means, pledged themselves to our financial support.
When I went for my interview with the stake president, he surprised me by suggesting that I remain at home until my older brother returned—to lessen the financial burden on my parents. Greatly disappointed, I returned home to relay this sad advice to my father, normally a quiet, soft-spoken man. My father was distressed. He expressed strongly held feelings that I should go at the same time as my brother, and that the Lord would help us to meet the financial obligation. He put on his coat and announced that he was going to talk with the stake president. “You are going on a mission—and you are going now!” he said with conviction. Before he left, he wanted us all to kneel in family prayer. My father uttered a simple prayer, expressing thanks for blessings, and asking for help in his talk with the stake president and for help for his sons as they prepared to leave for the mission field.
As I listened with faith to that prayer and tried to look into the future, I was spiritually moved beyond anything I can describe. At that instant, I received a testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. I was overcome with a feeling of happiness and excitement, as if to say that my father would be successful in his own little mission, which he was. But I also knew absolutely that I would be able to go on a mission (as I did to New Zealand) and testify with honesty and certainty to anyone who would listen to me. It was an enormously satisfying experience. My previous anxieties about being a missionary without conviction were gone. The Lord had answered my prayers—although in a way that I had not expected. As for my parents—they successfully supported their two sons as missionaries for two years and prospered financially.

I saw evidence of that in a Church Board of Education meeting. President Spencer W. Kimball by then had given years of service while enduring a series of health challenges only Job would understand. He was chairing the meeting that morning.

Suddenly, he stopped speaking. He slumped in his chair. His eyes closed. His head fell on his chest. I was seated near him. Elder Holland was next to us. The two of us rose to help him. Inexperienced as we were in emergencies, we decided to carry him, still seated in his chair, to his nearby office.

He became our teacher in that moment of his extremity. With one of us lifting each side of his chair, we went out of the meeting room into the hallway of the Church Administration Building. He half opened his eyes, still dazed, and said, “Oh, please be careful. Don’t hurt your backs.” As we got near his office door, he said, “Oh, I feel terrible that I interrupted the meeting.” Minutes after we got him into his office, still not knowing what his problems were, he looked up at us and said, “Don’t you think you ought to go back to the meeting?”

We left and hurried back, knowing that somehow our being there must matter to the Lord. President Kimball had since his childhood pushed himself beyond his limits of endurance to serve and to love the Lord. It was a habit so ingrained that it was there when he needed it. He was prepared. And so he was able to teach and show us how to be prepared to keep the oath and covenant: by steady preparation over the years, through all our strength in what might appear to be little tasks with small consequences.

Although he learned the gospel while young, Greg Larsen (name has been changed) of California, USA, later fell away. He became involved with drugs and crime and soon found himself in prison. He wanted to turn his life around but was not sure how.

“Men from the local ward taught Sunday School in the prison,” wrote Greg. “One of them told me my life would get better if I read the Book of Mormon. And that is what I did.

“When I got out of prison, I went back to church, but I still had the urge to revert back to my old habits. As I continued to read the Book of Mormon, I learned about the people of King Lamoni in Alma 19:33, whose ‘hearts had been changed; that they had no more desire to do evil.’ I began to pray for this change of heart.”

Greg found the answer to his prayer in Helaman 15:7, which teaches that “faith and repentance bringeth a change of heart.”

“As I read those words, tears streamed down my face. The Spirit testified that my Heavenly Father loved me and would help me. I felt that if I had enough faith to speak to my bishop, it would be enough. As I laid my sins at the Savior’s feet, I received a true change of heart.”

Continuing to move wherever the main body of the Saints settled, the Angell family suffered from mobs and persecution in Missouri and Nauvoo, and over the years several of Truman’s young children died. While the last of the Saints were being driven from Nauvoo, Truman and a few other brethren remained behind to complete the temple and dedicate it to the Lord. The young joiner must have been heartsick to hear how that sacred building was later desecrated and burned.

Let me tell you of an experience I had with one of our Area Presidents. We were in a land where, to our knowledge, there was not a member of the Church among the millions of that nation.
There was a man who knew of the Church and desired baptism. He had been a longtime student of the Bible. He belonged to a Christian church but was not satisfied. The thought came into his mind that he should belong to a church that carried the name of the Savior. In an old encyclopedia in a public library, he found listed The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints with headquarters in Salt Lake City. He wrote a letter of inquiry and received a response with literature. Other literature followed as he requested it.
When we met him he had read the Book of Mormon again and again. He had read the Doctrine and Covenants and other Church writings. With enthusiasm he had told his friends of his treasured find. He asked to be baptized.
We questioned him. He knew of the priesthood, its orders and its offices. He knew of the various ordinances and the procedures of our meetings.
Did he believe the Book of Mormon to be the word of God? Oh, yes, he knew it to be true. He had read it. He had prayed about it and pondered. He had no doubt of its truth.
Did he believe Joseph Smith to be a prophet of God? Most assuredly. Again, he had studied and prayed. He was convinced of the reality of that glorious vision when God the Eternal Father and His Beloved Son, the resurrected Lord, appeared to the boy Joseph to usher in a new and final dispensation of gospel truth.
The priesthood had been restored with all its gifts and powers. He knew that. Our friend asked for baptism and hoped for the priesthood that he might teach and act with proper authority.
“But,” we said, “if we baptize you and then leave, you will be left alone. While there are many Christians in your nation, and freedom of religion is guaranteed under its laws, there are severe restrictions concerning foreigners. There will be no one to teach you and help you. There will be no one on whom you can lean.”
He responded, “God will teach me and help me, and He will be my friend and support.”
I looked into the eyes of that good man and saw the light of faith. We baptized him under the authority of the holy priesthood. We confirmed him a member of the Church and bestowed upon him the Holy Ghost. We baptized his wife. We conferred upon him the Aaronic Priesthood and ordained him to the office of priest so that under proper direction they might have the sacrament.
We held a sacrament and testimony meeting with them. We embraced them and said good-bye to one another, and tears were in our eyes. They left to return to their home, and we left for responsibilities in other nations.
I shall never forget him. He is poor in the things of the world. But he is educated—a teacher by profession. I know little of his circumstances. But this I know—when we talked with him, the fire of faith burned in his heart, and our own faith was quickened also.
As we traveled from that scene and there was time to meditate, I wished that faith of his kind was found more widely, both among us and among others. His example has provided a text for me. It is found in the fifth verse of the seventeenth chapter of Luke. Jesus had been teaching his disciples by precept and parable. “And the apostles said unto the Lord, Increase our faith” (italics added).

How do you remember to choose the right? Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles tells a story about a young boy and his friends who found a package of cigarettes: “They decided to go down on the cliff alongside some large boulders and smoke. … They lit up, and the young man said that as he was looking down at the smoldering cigarette that he held between his fingers, he saw his CTR ring. He quickly put the cigarette out. … He chose to choose the right, as he remembered what the emblem stood for” (Ensign, Nov. 1993, 66).

One day, my family was driving home from the lake. I went with my Grandma Ninya. Grammy was visiting. My little cousin Tori and I were in the backseat. Tori was tired. I whispered, “You can go to sleep, baby,” and she said, “Sing me Jesus.” I asked her, “Sing Church songs?” She said yes. So I sang “I Love to See the Temple.” Then I sang “Do As I’m Doing” and “I Am a Child of God.” She fell asleep. As I sang, I felt something inside of me. I felt the Holy Ghost. I am glad my cousin knows about Jesus and honors Him.Hillary Odom, age 10Ogden, Utah

I was serving as a missionary in France when the world collapsed and COVID-19 hurled the whole country into a strict lockdown. I have struggled with depression throughout my life, so I worried that the confining circumstances would cause me to slip into a depressive episode. But the first week of quarantine—the week leading up to the historical April 2020 general conference—was one of the most spiritual weeks of my life.
Looking back, the experiences I had that week felt like the Lord was fortifying me for a storm.
Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles gave a talk that conference about the repairs that would be made to the Salt Lake Temple’s foundations. He likened the remodeling to our own lives and asked us to consider this question:
“What are the foundational elements of my spiritual and emotional character that will allow me and my family to remain steadfast and immovable, even to withstand the earthshaking and tumultuous seismic events that will surely take place in our lives?”
As I listened to his talk, the Spirit impressed on me that, like the temple, I was going to be broken down in certain ways during the next period of my life. But I also felt that if I turned to the Lord during these challenges, He would help me strengthen my foundation of faith.
As expected, I soon grew depressed, and it wasn’t long before I felt trapped in an endless cycle of suicidal ideation. I felt torn down mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.
After two months of quarantine, things got a little better. Thanks to changes in my circumstances, like antidepressant medication and the end of lockdown, I started to feel better mentally. But soon after, I started feeling sick and noticed three large lumps at the base of my throat.
At first I ignored the bumps, but when my symptoms worsened, it became clear that I could no longer stay in the mission field. I returned home, where I was promptly diagnosed with blood cancer—Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
Because my antidepressants had a bit of an emotional numbing effect, I felt pretty apathetic as I started six months of chemotherapy.
But even so, I began to break down physically.
A year after my chemotherapy treatment ended, I was starting to feel better physically. I was back at college and making plans. But the searing spiritual pain and numbness I had felt on my mission and during chemotherapy had now turned into a general feeling of indifference about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
I was struggling with my feelings about what I had gone through and felt as if They had abandoned me when I was at my lowest.
But Heavenly Father knew what paths I needed to take so I could heal.
I felt like I was grappling with the rubble and remains of my once-strong faith and my once-vibrant personality. I felt so disconnected from myself. My heart was softening toward the Lord’s attempts to reach out to me, but spiritually I felt guilty, anxious, and unworthy because of my indifference toward the gospel.
After pondering my spiritual health for a few months, I was prompted to make small spiritual changes in my life. I had ignored the pain for a while, but I wanted to address the hurt I felt in my soul because of the challenges I had experienced.
Soon I could see Heavenly Father’s hand in my life. Without knowing how spiritually numb I was feeling, friends and loved ones brought up the topic of healing. One of them even shared a devotional address by Elaine S. Marshall.
Reluctantly, I read it.
I don’t think it was a coincidence that the treatment for my cancer required six months of chemotherapy. The effects of chemo are drastic, dramatic, and demanding. Interestingly, learning to let my body heal physically taught me a key principle of spiritual healing—how to draw upon Jesus Christ’s grace and allow myself time and space to heal my relationship with Him and Heavenly Father.
The first step I took toward spiritual healing was finding a desire to connect with God. Alma taught me how to start when he said, “Exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words” (Alma 32:27).
I testify from personal experience that this teaching is true.
Similar to Alma’s experience, my desire to feel the Spirit and the joy of the gospel again set off a whole trajectory shift that took me through the process of healing. Since then, the Savior has helped me to reconcile my past feelings as I’ve learned to let go of my resentments toward God, Him, and my own weaknesses.
Because of Him, parts of myself that I thought I had lost in the mists of my trials—like my personality, my desires, and my love for the gospel—have been returned to me and have made me feel whole, renewed, and restored.
Pain and challenges changed me, but as I found healing through Jesus Christ, I truly rebuilt my foundation of faith on Him. As time passes and I heal, I see that because of Jesus Christ, I can learn to have joy despite my struggles. I now understand that the most important part of going through a trial isn’t what breaks us down or the pain we feel—it’s what follows as we experience healing and reconstruction through the Savior’s grace.