Gospel Story Finder

Consider the tender account told of little four-year-old Sachi.

Soon after her brother was born, little Sachi began to ask her parents to leave her alone with the new baby. They decided to allow it. Elated, she went into the baby’s room and shut the door, but it opened a crack—enough for her curious parents to peek in and listen. They saw little Sachi walk quietly up to her baby brother, put her face close to his, and say quietly, “Baby, tell me what God feels like. I’m starting to forget.”

Yes, there is a forgetting, but thankfully there is also a remembering crucial to our inner peace and well-being.

For the youth in one ward in Maryland, USA, acting and theater are more than just a hobby. “It’s my happy place,” says Mary A., a high school senior. “Our theater group has a really strong family vibe.”
The youth in this ward have many different hobbies and interests. Theater, though, is common ground. “All of us are involved in theater,” says Sonja G., also a senior. “It’s a really good place to get together and make something great.”
For this group, the appeal of the open stage is obviously a big one.
So it wasn’t a small thing when an upcoming school play was announced that made them feel uncomfortable.
“I had no idea what this particular show was about,” says Nathan H., a senior. However, he soon got the feeling that the play in question wasn’t just any old production. A few friends from school started asking him if he planned to actually audition this time. Intrigued by why they’d ask, Nathan did some research.
“I looked into it and made a decision based on what I found that I wasn’t going to be a part of this show.”
He wasn’t the only one. “Once I learned about the story, I didn’t audition,” says Carolyn K., a junior. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to be up there on stage to show these characters.”
This wasn’t merely a matter of waiting for the next show to come around, either. For the seniors, it would be one of their last chances to perform at school. This was also the only musical of the year. “It was devastating,” Mary says about the prospects of not being in a show with her friends.
Sonja, who would have been stage manager for the musical, also chose not to join. “There was not really a way for me to do my job and not watch the things I wasn’t comfortable with,” she says.
One by one each of the youth in the ward decided not to participate.
The director asked the students to please reconsider, but their decision held. Soon, the director paid the rights for the show (payment which could not be refunded), auditions were held, and parts were cast. Everything was looking like a done deal.
And then along came a snowstorm.
Right when things were getting rolling with the musical, an enormous snowstorm shut down that part of Maryland. They were out of school for over a week.
During this time their theater director—who some of these youth think of as a kind of second dad—gave the matter a lot of thought. This director, who is a Christian from another faith, had been praying about what to do. Before school resumed after the big storm, the drama group got some big news. Mary said, “He sent a text. The text said, ‘I’ve been praying and I don’t feel right leaving out the Mormon kids. You’ve got until Tuesday to come up with a monologue and a song.’” (That’s theater-speak for get ready to audition.)
Yes, the director decided to drop the original musical entirely. And just like that, the curtain beckoned once more.
“We were all really excited!” Carolyn said.
The youth all jumped at the chance to help in the new production and have enjoyed rolling up their theatrical sleeves once more.
Now, not all stories of this nature can have this kind of a happy ending (on or off the stage). Most of the time, choosing not to participate in something inappropriate doesn’t result in such a significant reversal. But even realizing that they’d be missing out on one of their favorite interests, the youth were at peace with their choice. “I had finally come to terms that it’s OK,” Mary said.
From the start, this group of youth kept each other strong and helped one another live the gospel. “It was easier for us to stand up for our beliefs because there was more than just one of us,” says Sonja. “It’s good when you have friends and you can stand together.”

A missionary district leader was wondering why Elder Parker, who was about to conclude his mission, was successful in spite of his inability to memorize the discussions. To understand, he teamed with Elder Parker to give a discussion. Elder Parker’s presentation was so disorganized that by the end of the formal lesson, the district leader was confused and surmised that the family being taught felt the same way.
It was then that “Elder Parker leaned forward and put his hand on the arm of the family’s father. He then looked him straight in the eyes, told him how much he loved him and his family, and bore one of the most humble and powerful testimonies that the district leader had ever heard. By the time he finished, every member of the family, including the father, and both elders had tears running down their cheeks. Next Elder Parker taught the father how to pray, and they all knelt down while the father prayed that they might receive testimonies of their own and thanked Heavenly Father for the great love that he felt. Two weeks later the whole family was baptized.”
Later, Elder Parker apologized to his district leader for not knowing the discussions. He said he struggled with memorization, even though he spent hours each day working on it. He said he knelt in prayer before teaching each family and asked Heavenly Father to bless him when he bore his testimony so that people would feel his love and the Spirit and know they were being taught the truth (see Allan K. Burgess and Max H. Molgard, “That Is the Worst Lesson I’ve Ever Heard!” in Sunshine for the Latter-day Saint Soul [1998], 181–83).

When the chemotherapy began, so did the inevitable side effects, including hair loss. I don’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did—probably more than it bothered Chris. At first, there was hair on his pillow. Then it was in the sink. Finally, Chris shaved off what hair was left. Later that afternoon with Chris napping on the couch, the two Bens and Jeremy knocked at the door. As they came in, they doffed their hats to show Chris their cleanly shaved heads. They laughed together and watched a video of them all shaving each other’s heads.
“Now I wasn’t the only one with a shaved head. I just had the smoothest,” explained Chris.
A few days later at school, the four boys were walking down the hallway when a girl said, “They look like they have cancer.” Alone, that remark could have been devastating. Together, they just laughed about it.

Recently I found something I had written about my childhood that brought faith and fear into perspective for me. As a child, I failed to see the symbolism in the experience, but as an adult, standing at the edge of an unknown path, it now holds great meaning.

When I was very young, my family lived in a beautiful little community in New Jersey that surrounded a lake. It was a child’s paradise. In summer we splashed in cool water, climbed lush trees, and picked wild flowers and berries. In winter, snow and ice gave variety to our play as we skated, sledded, and built carrot-nosed snowmen. In any season we rarely tired of the great outdoors and reluctantly ventured inside only when it was dark.

One summer evening was an exception. I had been invited to a friend’s house to watch a favorite television program. When it was time to go, I said good-bye and began walking home along the winding, wooded path between our two houses.

In the darkness, the path I thought I knew became a fearsome jungle. I couldn’t see the occasional gnarled roots and sharp rocks protruding from the packed-down earth, and I tripped and fell. With my face in the dirt, sobs of frustration and fear wracked my seven-year-old body. As my tears subsided, I remained face down and immobile for a few seconds, fearing that I might be eaten by monsters, which were surely lurking behind every tree.

Then I remembered that before leaving home, my brother had tucked his penlight into my pocket, explaining that it would be dark when I returned. Relieved to find it just where he had placed it, I stood up, brushed off the dirt, and turned on the light. Although it produced only a dime-sized circle on the ground where I pointed it, and I couldn’t get the full vision of what was on either side or ahead of me, I could see where to step safely. And so, hesitantly, I headed for home, hoping that I was going in the right direction.

My confidence increased with my new visibility, and, glancing up for a brief moment, I became aware of another light at the end of the path. I was relieved to recognize it as my porch light. Someone who cared about my safe return had turned it on for me. I was still groping step by step along the path, but with my destination in sight my fear diminished.

Then, suddenly, my little circle of light grew broader. At first I questioned the power of my tiny penlight, so I stopped and turned it around to examine its intensity. Despite the small circle of light now shining in my face, the path ahead was flooded with light illuminated by another source. Puzzled, I looked up and could see my older brother standing a few feet away, directing his Boy Scout flashlight on my path. With this added light came a new perspective. I could now see my path more clearly, and with increased vision I was aware of the dangers on either side.

I couldn’t see the details along the entire stretch of my journey, but with my light now strengthened by my brother’s and the porch light marking my goal, I no longer felt afraid. I held my little light tightly, letting it shine where the brilliance of his led the way. That joint effort glowed gloriously. I could see now that each step in the right direction took me closer to my destination. With my tiny circle joining my brother’s larger light, we walked together toward home.

When we were almost there I asked, “How did you know I needed help, that I couldn’t find my way alone?”

“I just knew,” was his only reply. And he took my hand and led me safely inside.

I met Natalie on the first day of sixth grade. I noticed that she wouldn’t hang out on Sundays and that she carried her scriptures around at school. One day I was at a carnival with Natalie, and I said, “I want to join your Church.” I’m not sure what Natalie was thinking at the time, because it came out of nowhere. But from that point on she began sharing more of her faith with me.
Later that year, I went with Natalie to a youth conference. One of the last activities at the youth conference was a testimony meeting. Natalie shared a special testimony that motivated me to want to learn more.
As I studied the gospel, I prayed to Heavenly Father to gain a testimony. Soon, I knew what I had been learning was true. That summer, I became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Tylor dressed and ate his breakfast as fast as he could. Today was Friday, and he had a very special mission.

Of all the things in the world that a boy could want, a tree house was what Tylor wanted most. He had wanted one as long as he could remember, but something had always stood in the way. One summer, his parents told him that he was too young. Another summer, they just couldn’t afford it. The next year looked good, but time ran out—his father had been too busy with work that summer.

But now, the summer of his ninth birthday, everything was arranged: Grandpa would supply all the wood. Mother had already helped Tylor save his pennies all year to buy the bright red paint for it. Father and he would build it tomorrow. And Cousin Hank would help paint it.

Only one thing still needed to be done. Tylor had to find some way to haul the wood from Grandpa’s lumberyard on the outskirts of town to Tylor’s house on Elm Street.

This was Tylor’s project today. He had received a wagon for a Christmas present a few years back and hadn’t played with it for at least a year. It had been put in the garage some time ago, and now it was loaded with old newspapers and magazines. Today Tylor would clean it out and use it to haul the wood from Grandpa’s lumberyard.

In no time, the wagon and Tylor were ready to depart. The only thing left to do was tell Mother that he was going. He found her on the back porch with two laundry baskets and a pillowcase full of dirty clothes.

“Oh, Tylor,” she said, “I’m glad you’re still here! The washer isn’t working, and I need to take these clothes to the laundromat. I can’t carry all of them by myself. Would you mind helping me before you get your wood?”

“Sure, Mom. We can load them into my wagon, and I’ll pull it. That way your hands will be free for Damion and Leslie.” (They were Tylor’s younger brother and sister.)

It didn’t take long to get the laundry finished, and Tylor was glad to help his mother, who was always doing things for him and everyone else in the family. After helping her carry the clean clothes into the house, there was still plenty of time to get the lumber. Tylor took the handle of his wagon and started down the street in the direction of his grandpa’s lumberyard.

After walking a few blocks, Tylor met Mr. Harper, an elderly man who had no children but who had always been kind to the children in the neighborhood. He owned an old go-cart that he allowed Tylor to ride on the weekends in exchange for running errands for him. Tylor liked Mr. Harper very much.

“You are just the person I wanted to see,” Mr. Harper told him. “I need a favor. Yesterday my fridge went on the blink and everything inside spoiled. I got it fixed this morning, but now I’m out of milk and I’m afraid my old cat won’t stand for that. Do you have time to run to the dairy for me?”

Although he was anxious to get to the lumberyard, Tylor had always been taught to help a friend in need, and Mr. Harper was a friend. “Sure thing, Mr. Harper. Can I leave my wagon here?”

“Of course.” The elderly man handed Tylor money for the milk.

When Tylor returned, he saw that Mr. Harper had filled his wagon with empty pop bottles. What a surprise!

“That’s for running to the dairy for me,” Mr. Harper told him. “I thought you could find some use for these.”

“Thanks a lot!” Tylor called as he turned the wagon around and headed for home. All the way, he imagined what he would buy with the money he’d get for turning the pop bottles in for cash.

He took the wagon into the garage and sat the bottles neatly on a shelf. Then he turned his wagon around and started off again.

He had only gone a few yards, when he noticed his little brother crying. For a moment he wanted to turn away. After all, it was getting late and he wanted to get to the lumberyard and back while he still had sunshine to play in. But he couldn’t go knowing that something was wrong with Damion. Tylor went over to him. “What’s wrong, Damion?”

Damion opened his hand to reveal several nickels. “All the kids are waiting for the ice-cream truck to buy an ice-cream treat, but I don’t have enough money.”

Tylor thought a moment. “I don’t have any money, either, but I know where we can get some. Come with me.”

Tylor and Damion reloaded the pop bottles into the wagon. After they had turned them in at the store, there was enough money for them and Leslie to all buy an ice-cream treat.

Tylor did not eat his right away. He put it into the freezer so that he could enjoy it later, after he was back with the lumber.

Pulling his wagon over cement, grass, dirt, and even railroad tracks, he finally arrived at the lumberyard. With Grandpa’s help, he loaded the lumber onto the wagon and tied it securely with a piece of old rope.

All the way home, he sang songs he had learned in Primary. He was very tired, and it was late. He knew that he wouldn’t have much time left for playing, but it didn’t matter. He was very happy. He had helped his mother, Mr. Harper, and his brother and still had time to get the lumber. As he smiled to himself, he realized that this feeling must be why Mother always had a smile on her face, too.

Our Code of Honor also commits us to help others to “fulfill their responsibilities under this Code.” There are many ways to do this. At a minimum it means that we should set a worthy example of observance ourselves. Also, we should discourage others from violating the Code. In more serious instances, it will be appropriate to seek the help of a bishop or other ecclesiastical officer. And where the violation poses a serious and immediate threat to members of the University community, it will even be necessary to report the conduct to responsible University officials. Such would be your obligation, for example, if you knew someone who was engaging in predatory sexual behavior or was using drugs, both of which offenses can involve others in serious moral transgressions. Already this semester we have had one such incident. Two days before classes began two young men who had come to BYU from another state were smoking marijuana in their room in one of our dormitories. Smelling something suspicious, an alert student notified Security and these prospective students were arrested, charged, dismissed from school, and sent home, all before classes began. I am grateful for the student who reported this serious incident. We are determined not to have any drug abuse at BYU, and with that kind of cooperation we never will.

With a day in Rome we wanted to devour all of the great works of art that we could possibly see. We began at Vatican City. So much beauty is in that place, it was impossible to digest it all. As we left the Sistine Chapel, our guide asked us if we had noticed the floor. Only a few had done so. The awesome beauty of Michelangelo’s artwork on the ceiling was so tremendous that many of us never looked down.

Then a once in a lifetime experience. We walked into St. Peter’s Basilica and sang. It is the first time any BYU choir has done so.

Tour groups walking through stopped; even their guides, who are usually caught up in the tape recorder-style recitation of facts and history, stopped and listened. In this cathedral, the very center of the Catholic church, the message of the restored gospel was sung to many people. What an experience to sing in such a building!

Our final concert was held in the beautiful city of Florence at the Duomo, the third largest cathedral in the world. But this cathedral is different. The beauty is on the outside, where the entire surface is tiled with different colored marble. Inside it is very plain, and we were told it was done this way so that people would not be distracted when they were worshipping.

One priest was so moved by the concert we gave there that he asked us to sing for the mass which followed. It was thrilling to sing to our brothers and sisters as they worshipped the Lord in their manner.

We poured all of our love we had learned in Israel into the songs we sang. Singing from behind the congregation, we created a spirit not felt by these people before. The mass ended, and we sang, “Come, Come, Ye Saints!” Never before have I heard it sung with more power and conviction. The spirit created was indescribable.

One small, frail woman worked her way, cane in hand, through the crowd and in broken English synthesized the feelings of our entire tour: “You sing. You love.”

“If I was five, I could go to school, too,” Sally said to Mom as they watched Jamie climb off the school bus.
“Then I’d really have a something day to tell about.”
“What happened at school today?” Sally asked as soon as she opened the door.
“Well,” said Jamie, “Anne’s cat had seven kittens, I traded sandwiches with Pete, and Miss Johnson has short hair now.”
Sally followed Jamie to the kitchen, where she added, “And Marsha’s mom helped her make cookies. I got two. I saved them to eat with you.”
Jamie put her lunchbox on the table next to a paper sack and two paper cups. “What happened at home?”
“Nothing ever happens at home.” Sally sighed. “Mom sewed curtains all day. I only went discovering in the backyard.”
“You did? What’s in the sack, Sally? Can I see?”
“Oh, it’s just a plain old cricket,” said Sally, “but you can look at it if you want to.”
Jamie opened the bag carefully and peeked inside. “That’s a neat cricket,” she said. “Greenish yellow crickets are tree crickets, and they chirp real loud. Did you know that crickets have their ears on their front legs just below their knees?”
“They do?”
“This is a great cricket, Sally. Not everyone can catch a tree cricket. What’s in the paper cup?” asked Jamie.
“There’s just an old dead bee in this one,” Sally said. “You can look at it if you want to.”
“Why, that’s a bumblebee!” declared Jamie.
“See, it’s black and yellow and fat and hairy.”
“Do bumblebees have a loud buzz?”
Turning the bee over gently, Jamie answered, “Yes, and they have a sharp stinger, too, but a bumblebee usually only stings something if it’s hurt or frightened. It’s a good bee. A bumblebee carries pollen from blossom to blossom, and that helps the plants grow and produce fruit.”
“Mom said that farmers call them friends,” said Sally.
“That’s right,” agreed Jamie.
“What’s in the other cup?”
“Nothing special,” said Sally. “Just an old caterpillar.”
“Wow!” Jamie exclaimed. “I’ve never seen a better black and white and yellow-striped caterpillar. Look at all its little feet! I read that it likes to eat and eat until it grows out of its skin.”
“It does?”
“Sure,” said Jamie. “We’ll let it go, and someday that caterpillar will be a big, beautiful monarch butterfly with orange and black wings.”
Sally and Jamie walked to the vacant lot down the street. They put the caterpillar near some milkweed plants.
“Now let’s go eat Marsha’s cookies,” suggested Jamie.
“You know what?” said Sally as she watched Jamie get out Marsha’s cookies. “I had a something day, after all!”

As part of my calling, my wife and I were once on an assignment with President and Sister Hinckley and Elder and Sister Ballard. After our meetings were finished, Elder Ballard asked me if I’d like to see the airplane that takes President Hinckley to conferences all over the world. I said, “I would love to!” Elder Ballard escorted me inside, and I saw President and Sister Hinckley seated in the plane. The Spirit of the Lord came over me and I knelt down at President Hinckley’s side. I took his hand in mine and said, “President Hinckley, I love you. With all of my heart, I sustain you as a prophet of the living God.” I bear my witness to you young people that he is the Lord’s living prophet, that the Lord speaks to him, that the Church is guided by Jesus Christ, and that the Lord’s prophets—from Joseph Smith to Gordon B. Hinckley—represent the Lord as they speak to us. If we will follow their counsel, we will be protected from many problems and challenges in this life.

During my sophomore year at Brigham Young University, our ward bishopric signed the ward up for a Sub-for-Santa program, through which we would provide Christmas presents for a family in need.
Our ward name, however, kept disappearing from the list of volunteers. As Christmas neared, we still had no family to help. Then one of the bishop’s counselors told us of a family that might be able to use our help instead. When we learned about this family, we all felt certain that we should focus on them.
Linda (name has been changed), who had several sons ages 9 to 15, had fought a grueling battle with breast cancer. During the stress of that illness, her husband had left her. She had just moved from another state to take a job in Provo, Utah, but the job fell through, and she was left with no income.
When we met Linda, we immediately took her into our hearts. We were blessed to see her the way the Savior did—as a great and noble spirit who had overcome many difficult challenges. She was never a project to us; rather, she was an eternal friend. Every member of the ward contributed something to help her and her boys. We were all young college students and poor in our own right, but we gladly gave because we loved her.
Linda came to our ward Christmas party, during which several ward members went to her apartment and filled her cupboards and refrigerator with food. They decorated a Christmas tree and surrounded it with presents for the whole family. They also left her four new car tires and paid her rent for several months. I’m not sure how our meager contributions managed to accomplish all that, but I knew that Heavenly Father had used our sacrifices to bless her.
A year later I was in another student ward, but I returned at Christmastime to visit my previous bishopric. I learned that Linda’s husband had returned to the family and that their finances had stabilized. But then her cancer had returned and claimed her life. I realized that we had helped give Linda her last Christmas.
In feeling “the pure love of Christ” (Moroni 7:47) so strongly through that experience, I learned that real charity is a priceless spiritual gift that propels us to act in the Savior’s place.

Although she came from a family with few resources, Sister Patience Ngalula, from Kananga, DRC, had a passion to be a journalist. She finished her secondary studies and then volunteered to work without pay at a radio/television station. She learned many things, and after one year she was hired at a radio station. She then had funds to help her family and to complete her professional studies. “I now have a very good job at a radio station in Kinshasa whose content is especially dedicated to children. I remain positive, ready to serve and have great concern for the well-being of others.”

On the afternoon of February 4, 1846, sunlight danced across New York Harbor as a crowd huddled at the wharf to bid farewell to the Brooklyn, a 450-ton ship bound for San Francisco Bay on the coast of California, a sparsely settled region in northwestern Mexico. On the deck of the ship, waving to their relatives and friends below, were more than two hundred Saints, most of them too poor to travel west by wagon.18
Leading them was twenty-six-year-old Sam Brannan. After the October conference, the Twelve had instructed Sam to charter a ship and take a company of eastern Saints to California, where they would wait to rendezvous with the main body of the Church somewhere in the West.
“Flee out of Babylon!” apostle Orson Pratt had warned. “We do not want one Saint to be left in the United States.”19
Sam soon chartered the Brooklyn at an affordable price, and workers built thirty-two small bunk rooms to accommodate the passengers. He had the Saints pack plows, shovels, hoes, pitchforks, and other tools they would need to plant crops and build homes. Unsure of what lay ahead, they stowed ample food and provisions, some livestock, three grain mills, grinding stones, lathes, nails, a printing press, and firearms. A charitable society also donated enough books to the ship to form a good library.20
As Sam prepared for the voyage, a politician he knew in Washington warned him that the United States was still determined to stop the Saints from leaving Nauvoo. The politician also told Sam that he and a businessman with interests in California were willing to lobby the government on the Church’s behalf in exchange for half the land the Saints acquired in the West.
Sam knew the terms of the deal were not good, but he believed the men were his friends and could protect the Saints. A few days before he boarded the Brooklyn, Sam had a contract drawn up and sent it to Brigham, urging him to sign it. “All will go well,” he promised.21
He also informed Brigham of his plan to establish a city at San Francisco Bay, perhaps as a new gathering place for the Saints. “I shall select the most suitable spot,” he wrote. “Before you reach there, if it is the Lord’s will, I shall have everything prepared for you.”22
By the time the Brooklyn left its moorings, Sam was certain he had ensured safety for the Saints leaving Nauvoo and a smooth voyage for his company. The ship’s course would follow ocean currents around the stormy southern tip of South America and into the heart of the Pacific. When they reached California, they would found their city and start a new life in the West.
As a steamship guided the Brooklyn away from the wharf, the crowd of loved ones on the pier gave three cheers to the Saints, who responded with three cheers of their own. The vessel then made its way to the narrow mouth of the harbor, spread its topsails, and caught a breeze that carried it into the Atlantic Ocean.23

I fared much better at fast-pitch softball. My most memorable experience in softball was a thirteen-inning game I pitched in Salt Lake City on a hot Memorial Day. The game was scheduled for just seven innings, but the tied score could not be broken. In the last of the thirteenth, with two men out and a runner on third, the batter hit a high pop fly to left field. The catch was certain, I thought. And yet the ball fell through the hands of the left fielder. For thirty-eight years I have teased my friend who dropped the ball. I have promised myself I will never do so again. I’m not even going to mention his name. After all, he, too, remembers. It was only a game.

When I met the man who became my husband, I finally felt a sense of belonging and stability—a sense of home. His family welcomed me wholeheartedly. That was a big deal for me because I had longed for those feelings for so long. When we married in the temple, I felt so much joy in joining a family centered on the gospel.
I loved seeing priesthood blessings being given at home, attending church in my husband’s mother’s ward with dinner in her orchard to follow, and listening to sweet music playing from her kitchen window as we all sat, ate, and talked. These experiences took root in my heart and began to fill a void that so needed to be filled. This family unit was just what I needed, and God knew it. But He wasn’t finished answering those late-night prayers.
I sat with my mother-in-law on her porch one morning. She said something that was so meaningful to me. For the first time in my life, I heard the Spirit testifying to me that Heavenly Father really existed.
“When you know Heavenly Father is really there,” she said, “everything changes.”
From there, everything did change! My testimony grew as I sought to know more. Now I know when the Spirit speaks to me. I know that sweet feeling when He is near.
One day I read an inspiring question on social media that asked, “Where will you meet the Lord today?”
I “met” Him through a spiritual impression that came to me as I walked along a trail near our home several years after I got married. I stopped walking and wrote down the impression. I saw myself all those years ago, sitting alone in the Church parking lot and understood that, back then, God saw what I couldn’t.
What I couldn’t see then was that one day God would show me who He was through my future mother-in-law, whom I had not met yet. He could see that I would gain a bond with her that would build and strengthen me in ways I had never known before.
He was answering me way back when, but I didn’t hear it. He saw the big picture, and I didn’t. I couldn’t see His plans for me. In that moment on my walk, He gently impressed upon my heart what He had had in store for me all along.
When I hear my mother-in-law pray or speak of her steadfast love for her Savior, I can feel her testimony. Being blessed to become one of her daughters is a special gift from God. Her testimony is also a gift from God that blesses all our lives. I know that my Savior lives because she has spent her whole life drawing near to Him. She radiates His reality for all to see.
“To some it is given by the Holy Ghost to know that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that he was crucified for the sins of the world.
“To others it is given to believe on their words, that they also might have eternal life if they continue faithful.”
Doctrine and Covenants 46:13–14.

One morning my wife said to me, “Hans, I dreamed something very strange last night. Two young men told us about a different church, and we joined it. What do you think about that?” she asked hesitantly. We agreed that the dream didn’t seem to have any meaning because we would never want to leave our own church.
The dream had long been forgotten when, nearly a year later, my wife greeted me after work with the news that “two young men were here today to tell me about their church.” I saw a trace of worry in her face. “But we are going to stay with our church,” I responded confidently. “Well,” she said, “they want to come back to talk with you.” I was not happy with the prospect.
A few days later, I opened the door to see two fine-looking young men. They introduced themselves as missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In the conversation that followed, they asked, “Do you believe that the church of Jesus Christ is on the earth today?” My wife and I had already considered this question while studying the Bible. We concluded that if there were a true church, it would have to have all the doctrines Jesus taught. The churches we knew, including our own, were not complete. “If it exists,” I said, “it must have all the things Jesus taught. But it does not exist.”
The missionaries said that the church they represented was organized in the same way as the church at Christ’s time. They added that this church had continuing revelation from Jesus Christ.
I felt sorry for them; they had been so misled. I told them, “I’m sure that just as our church has errors in its doctrine, so does yours. Someone has added, changed, or taken something away.” Again they testified that their church was Christ’s own church, organized with his authority and directed by him.
Soon after, I told my mother about the missionaries. She smiled and went into her bedroom, then returned with a copy of the Book of Mormon. She told me I could have it.
I began reading the Book of Mormon with a curious, but negative attitude. As I read the first page, I thought angrily, this was written by a man with a vivid imagination who knew the Bible well. I read two more pages, slammed the book shut, threw it on the table, and exclaimed, “What a fake!” During the missionaries’ next visit, I told them that I thought the Book of Mormon was a hoax. It was like the Bible, I said, except it referred to the American continent. But, undeterred, the missionaries easily handled the questions my wife and I had then, and in subsequent visits. I could find nothing wrong with what they taught us, but I could not accept the Book of Mormon.
However, the missionaries testified that I could know that the Book of Mormon was true if I followed the admonition of Moroni and sincerely sought for divine guidance. (See Moro. 10:4.) Having prayed, and while reading the words of Moroni, I received a spiritual witness that I have never been able to describe. A realization that the Book of Mormon and the Church were true penetrated every fiber of my being. Happily I exclaimed to my wife, “Margrit, Margrit, I know that it is true!”
Margrit continued to seek her own witness, and within a few weeks she also knew the truth. We set our baptismal date.
On the day of our baptism, just as I was about to go into the water, I experienced the power of Satan stronger than I had ever imagined possible. I wanted to run away and escape. For a moment my breathing stopped, and I thought my heart would also. I was tempted to give in, but I realized that I could never look at myself in the mirror again if I denied the truth that I now knew. I fought against the evil influence with all my strength and it left me as quickly as it came. Knowing my decision was the right one, I entered the water with a calm assurance and a happy feeling in my heart.
A few days later, as I was sitting with my wife, she asked, “Hans, can you still remember my dream?”
“What dream?” I wondered.
“The one I had about the two young men who visited us. They told us about their church and we joined it. Remember?”
Memory of the forgotten dream came back. Joyfully we realized that the dream was a revelation of what was to come, and its memory a confirmation of our testimonies. It was a dream that had come true.

“Anxiety made me feel like my brain was going 100 miles per hour and like I couldn’t overcome anything. I felt very disorganized and like I couldn’t get a hold of my life and the tasks for the day. I felt very alone and like nobody knew what I was going through. The hardest part for me was the constant need to compare myself to others. I denied that I had anxiety for a long time until I took an anxiety test at the doctor’s office.”

“Genuine relationships helped me overcome my anxiety. When I started opening up to people, they listened and helped me understand my eternal potential. They took my mind off things that were overwhelming me but in the long run weren’t that important.
“I feel like everyone is different, but to help myself, I needed to get organized. The simple deed of planning my daily tasks helped me feel like I could tackle the day. I also prayed a lot. Heavenly Father helped me recognize that I needed to delete my social media for a time because I was comparing my life to everyone else’s lives, which in turn made me anxious. It helped a lot.”

In December of 1989, the beautiful and long-awaited Las Vegas temple was dedicated in inspiring sessions, which continued for three days. The messages and music in the dedicatory sessions lifted each heart heavenward and prompted the listener to keep the commandments of God and to emulate the example of righteous living taught by Jesus of Nazareth. Thoughts of self yielded to consideration for others. One sermon stressed the injunction of the Lord as recorded in Matthew:
“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:
“But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:
“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also” (Matt. 6:19–21).
After the session during which this passage of scripture had been presented, a handwritten letter, carefully tucked away in a sealed envelope, was handed to me by an usher. May I share with you the contents of this touching letter:
“Dear President Monson:
“My husband and I feel the completion and dedication of this beautiful Las Vegas Nevada Temple is the finest gift we could receive during this sacred season. Temples are such a sweet gift to all the world; and as you spoke of righteous Saints who are worthy to obtain the blessings of the Lord’s house but lack the financial means to attend a temple, our hearts were so touched.
“President Monson, there must be a family somewhere who needs to attend the temple, because as my dear companion and I spoke of our great joy during this special Christmas season, we both commented as to how any store-bought gift would pale in comparison to what we have received in these dedicatory services. Instead of spending our budgeted Christmas funds for some gift from a local store, we would like to give you this $500 to help some family waiting to be endowed and sealed for all eternity. We appreciate your assisting us in our gifts to each other this year.”
The letter was unsigned. The givers remain anonymous. Perhaps today this brother may be viewing this session of general conference. If so, he may be pleased to learn that this gift has made it possible for a worthy family from the Villa Real District of the Portugal Porto Mission to journey to the temple and receive their precious temple blessings. To the unknown givers of this priceless gift I extend my thanks for being your brother’s keeper. I have the inner feeling that your Christmas season was marked by joy and filled with peace.

As I began to investigate the Church, I was given several issues of the Liahona (Spanish). The articles in these issues helped resolve some of my questions, and, as a result, I accepted the missionary discussions and was baptized 27 June 1987.
Since then, I have served a mission in Guayaquil, Ecuador, been sealed to a former missionary, and become a mother. I am very grateful to the good person who had the inspiration to give me the magazines. My testimony is strengthened continually as I read the Liahona.
Ruth Elena de GuaycalLas Palmas Ward, Santo Domingo Ecuador Stake