Gospel Story Finder

“Bookworm! Bookworm!”
Katie pretended she didn’t hear Brian and Matt yelling. She hugged her books to her chest and walked faster, but the taunts still rang down the hall. “Bookworm! Bookworm!”
She felt her face getting hot, and she wanted to turn around and scream at them. Instead she half ran, half walked the rest of the way to the school library door, pulled it open, and slipped inside. She could still hear Brian and Matt laughing.
“Hi, Katie,” said Mrs. Reid. Katie thought it was funny for the librarian to be named Mrs. Reid.
“Hi,” said Katie softly, looking at the floor.
“What’s the matter, Katie?”
“Oh, just Brian and Matt. They were being mean again and calling me dumb names like ‘bookworm.’”
Mrs. Reid began to laugh. Katie looked up at her in surprise, and a sick feeling started in her stomach. “It isn’t funny!”
“Sure it is,” said Mrs. Reid, trying to stop her laughter. “I thought a bookworm was a squiggly bug that eats novels. And I have never ever seen you with your mouth full of pages!”
Katie looked down at the books in her arms and started to smile a little as she thought, What would those boys think if they saw me chewing up books and spitting out the covers? Aloud she said, “Mrs. Reid, you are the silliest grown-up I’ve ever met!”
“Sure,” said Mrs. Reid. “That’s one reason you like me. Now, can I show you my favorite book for this week? Or are you still reading the Black Stallion?”
“No, I finished it. It was as good as you said it would be!”
While Mrs. Reid went to get the book she had saved, Katie sat by one of the desks and looked at the new bulletin board. It said, BE KIND TO YOUR BOOKS.
Just last week Katie’s dad had said almost the same thing. Katie’s brother, Sam, had dropped his scriptures on the lawn after church. Dad had put his hands on his hips and said, “Samuel Jacob Rotheree, please take better care of my favorite books!”
Katie knew why they were Dad’s favorite books, even though they didn’t have shiny pictures on the covers like Mrs. Reid’s did. It was because they told about Jesus.
Mrs. Reid came back waving a new novel. “Wait until you read this, Katie!”
While Mrs. Reid was checking out the new book, Katie leaned against the desk. “Mrs. Reid,” she asked, “do you know about Jesus?”
Mrs. Reid looked surprised. “Well, sure. But I don’t think about Him much. Why?”
“Oh,” said Katie. “I just wondered.” She took the book and left the library. How could anyone not think about Jesus much?
That night when Katie was ready for bed, Dad came in to hear her say her prayers and tuck her in.
“Dad, Mrs. Reid says she doesn’t think about Jesus very much.”
Dad sat down on the edge of her bed. “Who is Mrs. Reid?”
“The school librarian. She’s really nice. She always saves her favorite books for me, and they’re good ones too. But she said she doesn’t think about Jesus. I thought everyone thought about Him.”
“Do you think about Jesus?”
“Yes.” Katie looked at the picture of Jesus she had hung on the wall. “I love Him because He is so kind.”
Dad squeezed her hand and smiled. “Why else do you love Jesus?”
Katie squinted her eyes and thought. “Well,” she said slowly, “because I like to read stories about Him—like when He went to see the Nephites and blessed all the little children.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Reid knows that story.”
Suddenly Katie felt excited. She sat straight up in bed. “Yeah, Dad! What if she doesn’t know that story? Can I take her a Book of Mormon?”
Dad was really smiling now. “Sure—that’s a good idea. I’ll tell you what, Katie. I have a brand new copy of the Book of Mormon that you can give her. I’ll get it for you.” In a few minutes he came back with a blue Book of Mormon that had a picture of the Angel Moroni on the cover. He suggested that Katie write her testimony in the front of it.
For a long time Katie chewed on the end of her pencil and tried to think of what to write. Finally she carefully wrote:
Dear Mrs. Reid,
This is my favorite book because it tells about Jesus. Jesus is Heavenly Father’s Son, and I love Him. I hope you love Him too. I love you, Mrs. Reid.
Your friend, Katie Rotheree.
When she finished writing, she felt warm, happy, and sleepy. Dad hugged her tight and said, “I’ll wrap it for you.”
The next morning Katie walked slowly to the library. She wondered if Mrs. Reid would like her present. Katie was so nervous that she almost didn’t want to give it to her anymore.
Brian and Matt came around the corner and saw her. “Hey! It’s the bookworm!” Matt sang out.
Katie ran to the library. Taking a deep breath, she walked right up to Mrs. Reid and held out the Book of Mormon.
“Good morning, Katie,” said Mrs. Reid. “What’s this?”
“My favorite book,” said Katie. “I want to give it to you so you can read it too.”
The librarian unwrapped the package, opened the book, and read what Katie had written. Then she closed the book and looked into Katie’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’ll read it. And, Katie, I love you too.”
The warm feeling Katie had had the night before came back, only stronger. She felt as if she could hug the whole world.
The warning bell was ringing as Katie waved good-bye to Mrs. Reid and went back out into the hall.
“Hi, bookworm,” said Brian as he and Matt walked past her.
Katie felt so good that she just giggled. Brian and Matt looked surprised. “I am a bookworm!” she said. “Do you want to see me eat books?”
Brian and Matt looked at her, then at each other. Suddenly all three of them were laughing and hurrying together down the hall to class.

Professor Bloom complimented the patience of our Church leaders. Patience is born of justified optimism. Elder Heber C. Kimball, an early Apostle, provides an impressive illustration. He returned from a mission to England in 1838 to find that half of the members in Kirtland, Ohio, had left the Church. The Prophet Joseph Smith and several key leaders were imprisoned for five months. Five of the Apostles and two of the Three Witnesses had apostatized. Thousands of the Saints in Missouri were being mobbed and driven from their torched homes. Entering this bleak situation, Elder Kimball wrote: “I can truly say that I have never seen the Church in a better state since I have been a member of it. What there [is] left are firm and steadfast, full of love and good works. They have lost all their earthly goods, and are now ready to go and preach the Gospel to a dying world!” (in Orson F. Whitney, The Life of Heber C. Kimball, 3rd ed. [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1967], p. 246).

At that same time, Joseph Smith penned these inspiring words from Liberty Jail: “What power shall stay the heavens? As well might man stretch forth his puny arm to stop the Missouri river in its decreed course, or to turn it up stream, as to hinder the Almighty from pouring down knowledge from heaven upon the heads of the Latter-day Saints” (D&C 121:33).

I think of two other friends of about the same vintage, a boy and a girl. I knew them in the years of high school and university. He was a boy from a country town, plain in appearance, without money or apparent promise. He had grown up on a farm, and if he had any quality that was attractive it was the capacity to work. He carried bologna sandwiches in a brown paper bag for his lunch and swept the school floors to pay his tuition. But with all of his rustic appearance, he had a smile and a personality that seemed to sing of goodness. She was a city girl who had come out of a comfortable home, but she would never have qualified for a beauty contest. Her face was freckled, but she made the most of what she had in the quiet but attractive manner of her dressing and in the way she fixed her hair.

Something of magic took place between them. They fell in love. No one could understand why. There were far more promising boys for her and far more beautiful girls who might have interested him. But these two laughed and danced and studied together through those years. They married when people wondered how they could ever earn enough to stay alive. He struggled through his professional school and came out near the top of his class. She scrimped and saved and worked and prayed. She encouraged and sustained and when things were really tough she said quietly, “Somehow we’ll make it.” Buoyed by her faith in him, he kept going through those difficult years. Their children came, and together they loved them and nourished them and gave them the security that came of their own example of love for and loyalty to one another. Now forty-five years and more have passed. Their children are grown and are a credit to them, to the Church, and to the communities in which they live.

Recently, while riding a plane from New York, I walked down the aisle in the semi-darkness of the cabin and saw a woman, white-haired, her head on her husband’s shoulder as she dozed and his hand clasped warmly about hers. He was awake and recognized me. She awakened when we began to talk. They, too, were returning from New York, where he had delivered a paper before one of the great learned societies of the nation. He said little about it, but she proudly spoke of the honors accorded him. Forty-five years ago people without understanding had asked what he saw in her and what she saw in him.

I thought of that as I returned to my seat on the plane. And I said to myself, their friends of those days saw only a farm boy from the country and a smiling girl with freckles on her nose. But these two saw in each other love, loyalty, peace, faith, and the future. Call it chemistry if you will; maybe there was a little of that, but there was much more. There was rather a flowering of something divine, planted there by that Father who is our God. In their school days they had lived worthy of that flowering. They had lived with virtue and faith, with appreciation and respect for self and one another. In the years of their difficult professional and economic struggles, they had found their greatest earthly strength in their companionship. Now in age they were finding their peace, their quiet satisfaction together. And beyond that they were assured of an eternity of joyful association under covenants long since made and promises long since given in the house of the Lord.

A lot of my friends and classmates who are not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints would often ask me about the Church. After a while, I got tired of answering the same questions over and over, so I came up with a solution.
I love to make internet videos to entertain people. I do music videos, informational videos, and parodies. One day when I was thinking about what I would do for my next video, I decided to make a video that answered questions about the Church.
I grabbed my camera. Then, without writing down what I was going to say but remembering important scriptures I wanted to mention, I made the video. I had no idea what would happen. I just felt prompted to make the video. “And I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do” (1 Nephi 4:6).
Without worrying how my friends, classmates, and relatives—members of the Church or not—might respond, I uploaded it.
A few weeks after uploading the video, I started receiving feedback on my social media accounts. People I didn’t even know began commenting and thanking me for my video. Because of my video, one person even began taking the missionary discussions. Later, that person decided to get baptized.
Since I made the video, people I know who are not members of the Church seem to like me just the same—maybe even more. Several of them have even quit criticizing the Church. Others have stopped asking the same questions about the Church because now they have answers.

When I was eight years old, my Primary teacher gave a lesson that confused me. She said that after we die, we will be able to remember all the things we did while on the earth.
After class when I was going to sacrament meeting, I saw a little girl who was sad. Her parents were not around, so I knew she was lost. I played with her for a minute, but sacrament meeting was starting and I knew I should go in. I started to go into the chapel, but then I remembered what my teacher said. Her lesson started to make sense. Heavenly Father and Jesus would know what I did. I knew that I should help that little girl.
I went back to get her. And soon her dad came back and found her. I’m grateful for Jesus’ example. And I’m grateful to my teacher for the lesson that helped me so much.

During a Manitoba Canada stake conference a few years ago, Sister Karen Beaumont described her feelings about the raging winter storms that come to their area. She said:
“I love a winter storm. … When the wind starts to blow and the snow begins to fall, a feeling of excitement starts to build. … When I can’t see the trees at the neighbor’s farmyard, … I phone my husband! … He then picks up the children who are at school. … It is hard to describe the feelings I experience as our family is gathered home, and the storm rages outside. … And I love it! Everyone is safe; we are together. We have lots of food and water. The longer it lasts, the better. … We are shut off from the world. … We bask in the warmth of our home and in the warmth of our love. My heart is full, and I am at peace. Sometimes I wish I could just stay like that forever, with my family gathered around me, protected, shut off from the evil influences of the world. But alas, the storm blows itself out eventually, we dig ourselves out, and off we go to face the world again.”

Several years ago, after hearing a young woman in our ward recite “The Living Christ,”1 I decided I would memorize it too. I took a small copy of the document with me as I ran in the early mornings. Because I was alone and distractions were minimal, this was an ideal opportunity for me to think. After several months of this, I was in great physical shape—and I had met my memorization goal.
As good as “finishing” felt, the long-term benefits were even better. I found myself thinking more often about Jesus Christ, His life, and His mission and wanting to be more like Him. I treated my husband and our children with more patience and love. I found greater peace and happiness in all that I did. And I felt greater joy in caring for and loving those around me. Then, like Lehi, who partook of the fruit of the tree of life, I wanted my family to experience what I had (see 1 Nephi 8:12).
I began seeking for ways that I could teach “The Living Christ” to our children. I recognized that they were young (our oldest was 11) and that this precious document was rather lengthy. But I had a desire, and after I prayed and thought about it often, the Spirit showed me how I could teach my family.
I had long collected pictures cut out of old Church magazines. I went to the box where I kept them and started pulling out pictures that seemed to match the different phrases in “The Living Christ.” For instance, for “He was the Great Jehovah of the Old Testament,” I found a picture of Christ, as Jehovah, talking with Moses. For the next phrase, “Under the direction of His Father,” I found a picture of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ standing together. Within a short time, I had gathered many pictures and paired them with their associated text from “The Living Christ.”
December seemed the perfect time for our family to start focusing on “The Living Christ.” Our children were excited and really got into our endeavor. We posted the pictures we were working on in our kitchen. I noticed that during the day, the kids would say the phrases as they passed by the pictures. When everyone had memorized the set of pictures on the wall, we put them away and started working on a new set.
With each picture, we discussed the gospel and life of Jesus Christ. Our family home evening lessons were filled with stories and lessons about the Savior. My husband taught some of the concepts in “The Living Christ,” bringing new insights.
Family prayers became more meaningful because the children gave more thought to Him in whose name they were praying. The Spirit filled our home. We felt like Nephi when he wrote, “We talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ” (2 Nephi 25:26). Our home became a place of greater peace.
The blessings poured in, in ways I had never imagined. For instance, although I had tried simplifying some of the words for our youngest child, Joseph, who was four, he persisted in learning the complete document word for word. This became particularly poignant one week at church. The cover of the sacrament meeting program featured a picture of the Savior in Gethsemane that we had used in our memorization. Joseph pointed to the picture and said, “Look, Mommy. ‘He gave His life to atone for the sins of all mankind.’”
Another week we had a rough time at church; the children were more restless than they should have been, especially during the sacrament. The next night we talked about the sacrament in family home evening. We discussed its purpose and how we should behave as the sacrament is being passed. I asked the children what they thought about during the sacrament. Our 10-year-old, Sharanne, commented that she thought about the life of Jesus Christ and the words from “The Living Christ.” Nothing more needed to be said.
Another time, Joseph was having difficulty going to bed. He wasn’t cooperating and was irritable. I asked him to tell me some of “The Living Christ.” As he began, I could feel the Spirit come into the room. He calmed down and changed back into his normal, happy self. Some time later, on another night when he was restless, I tried it again. This time his reply was very different: “No! I don’t want to be happy!” Our young son had learned what remembering Jesus Christ could do. Indeed, the Savior had become more real to all of us.
Our family finished memorizing “The Living Christ” the following Easter. It was the greatest four-month experience we have ever had. Even though the project is over, I know the effects of what we learned can remain with each family member for the rest of our lives.
I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are real. I am grateful to have a better understanding of Their works and to feel more deeply of Their love. I thank God for the matchless gift of His divine Son and for the beautiful experience of learning of Him and trying to become more like Him.

Let me tell you a story of a great missionary in our stake. Tyler is a young man attending high school. He loves to share the gospel and is bold in sharing his faith. He started talking to one of his teachers in school about baptism, and there was some interest in learning more. Tyler made a referral to the sister missionaries in his ward, who made a referral to the elders in my ward. The missionaries quickly discovered that this teacher is a neighbor to the stake president. The elders showed up to my home, and the pressure was on. I immediately took them across the street, through the pasture, and to the home of Dave, Bidya, and their two daughters. The invitation was made to come over and continue the discussion about baptism. The missionaries taught all of the discussions, and they were baptized just a few months ago. They are doing well in their early efforts to live the gospel. It’s always a joy to see God’s children accept and embrace the restored gospel.

I pulled a book from my shelf the other evening. I read again the life of Mary Fielding Smith, wife of Hyrum Smith, sister-in-law of Joseph Smith, mother and grandmother of two presidents of the Church. A convert to the Church, originally from England and then from Canada, she came to Kirtland in her late 30s. There she met and married Hyrum Smith, who was left with six children after the death of his first wife.

Mary loved him and brought an added dimension into his life. In that process she set a course which brought her happiness only to be followed by immeasurable sorrow, for there was laid upon her a terrifying and fearful responsibility which took her from Nauvoo across Iowa to Winter Quarters and, in 1848, on the long trail that led to the Salt Lake Valley. At the age of 51 she was worn out, weary from the struggle. She passed away September 21, 1852.

Her life is the epitome of the Relief Society woman of those days. In fact, some of her experiences predated the organization of the society in 1842.

Mary’s boy Joseph was born at a time when her husband was snatched away by the mob militia then terrorizing Far West. Hyrum and the Prophet Joseph were taken to Liberty, Missouri, where they were imprisoned. Under the compulsion of Governor Lilburn W. Boggs’s extermination order, she left Missouri with the stepchildren for whom she had taken responsibility, as well as her own son. Her sister Mercy placed Mary, who was seriously ill, on a bed in a wagon box with her infant boy cradled at her side.

In February 1839, when winter was still upon the land, they traveled east across the state and then across the Mississippi to Quincy, Illinois, bumping along in a springless wagon where every jolt brought pain.

When her husband and the Prophet escaped from Liberty Jail and came to Quincy, life again improved. The Saints moved to what became Nauvoo and established their beautiful city on the Mississippi. But their peace was short-lived. Her little boy was less than six years old when a knock came at night on his window and a man said, “Sister Smith, your husband has been killed!”

Joseph F. never forgot his mother’s weeping through the night.

Her world was shattered. She was on her own now with a large family to care for. In the summer of 1846, they bade their comfortable home good-bye and rode a flatboat across the Mississippi. Taking matters into her own hands, she was able to trade, borrow, and barter for ox teams and wagons.

While living in Winter Quarters, she and her brother went down the Missouri River to purchase provisions and clothing. They had two wagons, each having two yoke of oxen. Camping for the night, they discovered in the morning that their two best oxen were gone. Young Joseph and his uncle spent the entire morning looking for the lost animals. They found nothing. Disheartened, he returned to tell his mother. Their situation was desperate, terribly so. As he approached, he saw her on her knees praying fervently, speaking with the Lord about their problem. When she arose to her feet, there was a smile on her face. She told her son and her brother to get their breakfast and she would look around. Following a little stream of water, and disregarding the words of a man who was in the area, she went directly along the bank of the river.

Pausing, she called to her son and brother. She pointed to their oxen, which had been tied to a clump of willows growing in the bottom of a deep gulch. The thief, who had tried to misdirect her, lost his prize and they were saved.

Mary’s faith imprinted itself in her son’s boyish heart. He never forgot it. He never doubted her closeness to the Lord.

All of you are familiar with her experience when one of her oxen, exhausted and worn, lay down to die while they were en route to these valleys in the West. In a mixture of utter desperation and simple faith, she secured consecrated oil and asked her brother and an associate to administer to the ox. They did so. It rose to its feet with a renewal of strength and carried them for the remainder of their long journey.

Let me share a personal story with a principle that, if you allow it, will bless your life.

Before coming to Rexburg in 2006, Sister Riggins and I lived in San Diego, California. That had been our home for most of our lives. Our families lived there, we served in our ward and stake, I had a great job as the institute director at San Diego State University, we had great friends, it didn’t snow, it was rarely cold, and we were 12 minutes from the beach. We had no reason to come to BYU-Idaho except for the fact that the Spirit led us here.

When we were invited to join the religion faculty, we had to use our agency to say “yes” or “no.” Once we decided to accept the position, we again had to choose to use our agency. We sat down and said something like this: “No one is forcing us to move to Rexburg. We are doing it of our own free will. If we are moving there, we must decide once and for all that we will love everything about it. We will love the city, the people, their customs, the university, the students, our colleagues, and yes, even the weather!”

That decision paved the way for the joy, peace, happiness, friendships, service opportunities, and community connections of the last 18 years. We love this place! We love you! I invite you to consider how such a decision would mark your experience as disciples, students, roommates, ward members, and members of the community, and then make it. I promise you that making such a decision will bless not only your life here at BYU-Idaho but your entire life.

It’s one thing to hear on the news about problems of third-world countries. It’s another to experience those problems firsthand. But that’s exactly what Kylie Hargreaves, 17, of Devonport Ward in Tasmania did last year when she was chosen to represent Tasmania on a two-week study tour of Zimbabwe in Africa.
“I learned that many places face enormous challenges just to have food for everyone, just to have good living conditions, just to have the opportunity for people to work,” Kylie says. “But I also made some wonderful friends, and learned that people can be happy without a lot of material possessions. I also learned that, wherever you go, we’re all sons and daughters of God.”

My brother, Colonel Leon C. Packer, was stationed at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. A much decorated B-24 pilot, he became a brigadier general in the Air Force.
While I was at Langley Field, the war in Europe ended, and so we were ordered to the Pacific. I spent a few days with Leon in Washington before shipping out for combat.
He told me of things he had learned under fire. He flew from North Africa on raids over southern Europe; very few of those planes returned.
On April 16, 1943, he was captain of a B-24 bomber returning to England after a raid in Europe. His plane, the Yard Bird, was heavily damaged by flak and dropped out of formation.
Then they were alone and came under heavy attack from fighters.
His one-page account of that experience says: “Number three engine was smoking and the prop ran away. Number four fuel line was shot out. Right aileron cables and stabilizer cables were shot out. Rudders partially locked. Radio shot out. Extremely large holes in the right wing. Flaps shot out. Entire rear part of the fuselage filled with holes. Hydraulic system shot out. Tail turret out.”
A history of the Eighth Air Force, published just two years ago, gives a detailed account of that flight written by one of the crew.
With one engine on fire, the other three lost power. They were going down. The alarm bell ordered that they bail out. The bombardier, the only one able to get out, parachuted into the English Channel.
The pilots left their seats and made their way toward the bomb bay to bail out. Suddenly Leon heard an engine cough and sputter. He quickly climbed back to his seat and coaxed enough power from the engines to reach the coast of England. Then the engines failed, and they crashed.
The landing gear was shorn off on the brow of a hill; the plane plowed through trees and crumbled. Dirt filled the fuselage.
Amazingly, though some were terribly wounded, all aboard survived. The bombardier was lost, but he probably saved the lives of the other nine. When smoke poured from the engines and a parachute appeared, the fighters stopped their attack.
That was not the only time Leon had crash-landed.
As we visited, he told me how he was able to hold himself together under fire. He said, “I have a favorite hymn”—and he named it—“and when things got rough I would sing it silently to myself, and there would come a faith and an assurance that kept me on course.”
He sent me off to combat with that lesson.

The first things I noticed among the hustling paramedics and the wailing sirens that cold January morning in Utah were Esther’s hands. Her long, strong fingers, which had always been so busy serving others, were now cramped and motionless. My own hands reached out to warm hers, and her closed eyes fluttered open briefly. She looked around as though to identify who was near her.
“It’s okay, Esther,” I said, trying to comfort her as I straightened her nightgown and covered her with a blanket. “The doctors will find out what has happened to you.” I felt Esther relax; then we were both swept into the ambulance and rushed to the nearby hospital.
To say Esther was only a neighbor is like describing the sun as only a source of light. Esther’s hands had reached out to me when I was a teenager and had led me to the treasures in my junior high school library. For more than 40 years, her hands had dispensed knowledge and service throughout the neighborhood. She had hired and patiently taught many young people how to prune and care for her orchards, how to improve the neighborhood, and how to love their neighbors. She had reached out to old and new alike, and her hands had sewn the fabric of our block into a quilt of friendship that spread far beyond its physical boundaries.
All that busy winter, I had yearned to help someone. But I knew it was a futile desire. I was working full time in a very stressful job, and I was the harried mother of five very involved and very busy children, ages 5 to 25, including two who were getting married within weeks of each other. My family, work, Church and community responsibilities had strained my capacity to do more than survive each day. But something in the depths of my being kept calling out, wanting to help someone in some way.
Many mornings, as I checked off my accomplishments of the previous day and plotted my strategy for meeting the struggles of the dawning one, I had recalled the Lord’s admonition to “not run faster or labor more than you have strength,” (see D&C 10:4), and I had thought, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll find time to take dinner to someone or to take flowers to a sick friend.”
Service, to me, was a physical object one presented as a gift: it was homemade candy or doughnuts at Christmas, freshly baked bread for a new neighbor, or outgrown clothes for needy families. Now, as I sat at Esther’s bedside on a cold wintry day, Esther taught me that service was something else.
“Esther, squeeze my hand,” the doctor coaxed. “Come on, Esther, you can squeeze my hand.”
“I’m trying,” Esther answered, but her words collapsed into themselves, and her voice trailed off. The doctor shook his head, slipping his hand from Esther’s unmoving one.
“Esther, they are going to move you to another room now,” I explained as they wheeled her bed out of the emergency room. “It’s going to be all right.” Her frightened eyes searched mine for reassurance and then closed in peace.
Surprisingly, despite my fear for Esther, I felt an unusual sense of peace. For once in my harried, over-full life, I knew that I was where I was supposed to be. I wasn’t worried about my list of Saturday chores. I wasn’t concerned about my family. They knew I was with Esther, and their prayers were with me in that cramped, bare cubicle.
Morning edged into afternoon. I called Esther’s family in another state and told them of the situation. I served as a link between the hospital, Esther, and her family members, who were trying to cope with this emergency. And I talked to Esther.
As I sat by Esther, I watched storm clouds gather and snow begin to fall. My thoughts went back 35 years to when my grandmother had had her final stroke. Others had been frightened of the silent stranger who inhabited my grandmother’s frail body, but my mother had told us to hold her hand, to stroke it, and to talk to her.
“I think she can hear you, even if she can’t communicate,” my mother had said. “She needs to hear and feel your love. Talk to her, touch her, and let her know you love her.”
I hadn’t thought of my mother’s words for many years, but they came back as I talked to Esther, stroked her immobile hands, and filled the tiny room with my whispered prayers.
Too soon the room was crowded with Esther’s family, and I eased out of their way as they gathered around her. When they reached out to caress her still hands, stroke her hair, and talk to her, the urgent need that had held me captive all morning disappeared.
“She’s slipped into a deep coma,” the nurse explained to Esther’s loved ones. “Earlier she was trying to communicate, but now she’s unconscious and unaware.”
I stood at the doorway and took one last look at Esther’s inert hands. They were more relaxed now, but they remained open and reaching out to others. I dashed tears of appreciation from my eyes and thanked Esther for her last gift to me.

When Alice’s mother and sisters decided to become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Alice was only six and too young to be baptized with the rest of her family in Bahnhofstr, Germany. Because they often talked of the wonderful experience of baptism and the joy their membership in the Church had brought them, Alice could hardly wait to be eight so she could be baptized too.
Alice planned and dreamed how she would be baptized on her birthday. “Not sometime after,” she insisted, “but on that very day.”
However, three days before Alice turned eight, she awoke with a severe headache, and the next day she was too ill to go to school.
The doctor who was called said she would have to stay home and in bed for at least a week. Alice’s big eyes filled with tears of disappointment.
The next day Alice was even more miserable, and her temperature was higher despite the medicine the doctor had prescribed. Mother was puzzled and concerned, but Alice felt worse about not being baptized on the very day of her birthday than she did about all her aches and pains and fever.
The afternoon before Alice’s birthday, her mother started into the sickroom. But she stopped at the door when she saw Alice kneeling in fervent prayer on her bed. This little girl was pleading with Heavenly Father for fulfillment of her great desire to become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
On the morning of her birthday, Alice got up, dressed, and prepared for baptism. Her fever was gone and she felt well and happy. Some hours later her mother checked Alice’s temperature again and it still registered normal.
God had answered Alice’s sincere prayer. That evening she was baptized!

One day, the sisters brought us uma surpresa—a surprise that would help me and my sister and brother know the Book of Mormon was true. It was a storybook with colored pictures telling the stories of the prophets in the Book of Mormon. “This is my chance to know if it’s true or not,” I thought to myself. I wanted to read it right away.
After the sisters left that night, I got ready for bed and started reading the storybook. Then I remembered that the sisters told me to pray before I read it. I knelt down to say my prayers and I asked Heavenly Father to help me know that the Book of Mormon is true. I said if I could stay awake until I finished reading the book, I would know that it was true. Then I started reading and was excited about the big trip Lehi and his family took across the waters in the barca [ship], and the wars between the people in the land. I liked reading about the 2,000 jovens guerreiros—the young warriors who fought for their families. I wished I was one of them. Before I knew it, I was finished with the book. And I wasn’t even tired.
Then I knew that the Book of Mormon was true and that everything the sisters taught was right. But the greatest thing to know was that Heavenly Father loved me so much he answered my prayer. Now I knew that if I obeyed his commandments he would answer my prayers. I was ready to be baptized.
Mother and I prepared for our baptisms. My brother and sister were too young to be baptized but they couldn’t wait until it was their turn. When the Elder baptized me and I came out of the water, I was proud and excited to be a new member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—a name I would never forget.

I remember handing in a paper to Dean Bruce B. Clark, who was at the time the teacher of an English literature class I was taking. I loved the class and knew from the first day of instruction that three short papers would be due on clearly stated dates during the term. Yet I left those papers—in every case, I think—until the night before they were due. I remember Dean Clark handing one of them back to me, saying something like, “You had the makings of a good paper here. It’s too bad you didn’t spend more time on it.” I was devastated. Here was the chairman of my major department, teaching only one class a term that year, the very symbol of my academic hopes and dreams for the BA, saying, “You didn’t work very hard.” Oh, I had worked hard all right. From 9:00 the night before until 3:00 that morning—without stopping, without breathing.

Now, my young brothers and sisters, I deserved to be devastated. I should have been devastated. And it could have been a good paper. Perhaps that discouraged me more than anything. You see, I discouraged me. I discouraged myself. Remember, dear Brutus, “the fault … is not in our stars but in ourselves” (Julius Caesar, act 1, scene 2, lines 133–34). And that’s the worst kind of despair, the kind of self-despising that eats at our image and crushes our hopes. It isn’t the class or the teacher or the paper. It never is. I simply should have done better. I should have been at work much sooner. I should have written a draft or two and then left it alone for a time. I should have gone back to it in freshness and strength. I might even have asked for some suggestions. I should have reworked it and shaped it and fine-tuned it over several rewritings. At the end I should have been working with a scalpel; as it was, I delivered one butchered idea, the meat-axe still dripping as I walked into class. And furthermore, you don’t type very well at 3:00 in the morning.

Very recently I had another experience that represents something of a counterpoint to the episode with the young man. I was visiting a stake conference and, following the Saturday evening session, I was greeted by a woman who asked, “Do you remember me?” The face was vaguely familiar, but I needed help. The sister reminded me that she had been one of my students in a high school English class many years ago. I immediately remembered her as I had known her 32 years before. She was one of the student leaders, a good scholar, a cheerleader. We reminisced for a time on the experiences we had shared. She was pleased to introduce me to her family. Some of her children were married, and one son was serving as a missionary. There were several grandchildren. This was obviously a solid family, making a significant contribution to the community and the Church.
During our visit this good sister suddenly confronted me with the question, “Do you remember the day you asked me to leave your English class?” I was surprised by the question and could not remember such an event. I wondered if she might be confused in her recollection because I could recall nothing but good experiences with her as a student. “No,” she insisted, “there was the one day when we had a reckoning. I had been talking more than I should have done, and when you attempted to correct me, I made some remarks that I shouldn’t have made. You then asked me to leave the room. I was startled. No other teacher had ever disciplined me in that way. I refused to leave, and you assisted me to the hallway outside the classroom, telling me that I could return when I had learned to behave like a lady.
“I was incensed and embarrassed. I thought of the things I could do to get retribution. My father had influence in the community, and he would not tolerate this.
“Later in the day I began to reflect on what had happened. I realized that you were right and I was wrong. I knew then that teachers and classmates had too often tolerated that kind of behavior from me and that it was not good. I confronted a quality in myself that I had never been required to confront before, and I decided that I would change. That’s why I came back and apologized to you for my conduct in the class. It was a turning point in my life in an important way, and I will always be grateful to you.”
Here was a case where a young woman sensed her responsibility in an unfortunate situation and took responsible action to make things right. It has provided me with some interesting food for thought. What accounted for the difference between the reaction of this young woman and that of the young man who walked away from the seminary class? And what differences have come into their lives over the intervening years as a result of the way they responded to these situations and others like them?

On one occasion, I received the assignment to visit a stake located in the beautiful mountains of the Peruvian highlands. This unit of the Church had not been visited by a General Authority for more than two years because of the dangers involved in traveling there. After obtaining proper authorization, and with the help of the mission president, we commenced the five-hour trip that took us to the beautiful Mantaro River valley.
When we arrived at the stake center, the president and his counselors were waiting for us. Upon seeing us, their faces lit up with happiness and we joined in a strong, brotherly embrace. Some three years previously, two of our beloved missionaries had been killed in this city. After embracing the president close to my heart, trying to communicate to him all my love, I asked, “Have you suffered greatly during this time in which we haven’t been able to come?” He answered with his eyes filled with tears, “Yes, we have suffered greatly, but we have kept the faith.” This simple phrase touched our hearts, and we could feel that the hand of the Lord had been with them in the difficult circumstances they had experienced as a people and as members of the Church.
During our meeting with them, we learned many things, one of which was how to keep the faith in areas such as these, far from large cities and far from the headquarters of the Church. In the things that we learned, we were able to distinguish at least five principles which aided them to overcome their difficulties.
First, they never stopped trusting in the Lord, and they placed all of their faith in him. This was the foundation for their assurance. They trusted in the fact that he would protect and guide them. The Lord has said, “If ye will have faith in me ye shall have power to do whatsoever thing is expedient in me” (Moro. 7:33).
Second, they remained faithful in prayer. Each member, whether adult, child, or adolescent, faithfully followed this holy practice each day, praying individually and as families with all of their faith. As we know, prayer is the means by which we communicate with our Heavenly Father. He listens to us because we are his children and he loves us, and he is anxious to bless us when we keep the commandments.
Third, they never stopped studying the scriptures. In the scriptures they found faith to overcome fear, solutions to their problems, divine comfort from the Master, the loving counsel of the Father, and especially the assurance of being guided in righteousness towards eternal life. “Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me” (John 5:39). They lived this commandment even in the midst of all their difficulties. One of the Saints there said, “We have never been as close to the Lord as when we were reading the scriptures.”
Fourth, they implemented priesthood programs. Due to the fatal incident that had taken place there, it was necessary to remove full-time missionaries. In order to make up for the help that was lost, it became necessary to organize the returned missionaries so that they could teach the gospel to those who wanted to hear it. References came in from member families. Home teaching increased. Nobody was overlooked. Just as they said, they had kept the faith.
Fifth, they humbled themselves before the Lord. They purified their lives; they repented; they tried to live together as Saints, sharing much of what they had, fasting when problems arose or when they were threatened.
These simple yet powerful principles enabled them to sustain themselves, to be preserved, to remain faithful and active as members of the Church in that area.
At the close of the conference in that stake, I assured the members that God loved them, that the First Presidency and the Twelve Apostles were mindful of them, and that this was the reason we were there—to give them our testimony of the fact that they were part of the Church, that we had not forgotten them, and that we prayed for them. There was gratitude in their hearts, and again they smiled as humble members who had been comforted by the Spirit of the Lord.
As he gave the closing prayer in one of the conference sessions, a worthy elderly man, nearly eighty years of age, expressed well the ways in which they remember the prophets. In his prayer he said, “Heavenly Father, we give thee thanks for having sent one of thy servants here to the Mantaro Valley, where thy beloved servant, President Kimball, knelt down and blessed this land that it would feed us and always provide us a livelihood.”

It had just started to rain when seven-year-old Angela stepped into the tent. Her two older brothers, Michael and Mark, were already inside. Mom and Dad had their own tent set up not far away.
“Let’s say our prayers before we get into our sleeping bags,” Michael said.
The three children knelt in prayer. Angela thanked Heavenly Father for her many blessings, and she asked Him to keep them safe from the storm and to help them sleep well.
After her prayer, she slid into her sleeping bag. For a long time all was quiet except for the plomp, plomp, plomp of the rain against the roof of their tent. Then she heard Michael’s voice. “Hey, Angela, wasn’t Mount Rushmore cool?”
“Yes,” she answered with a yawn.
“So were the animals in the park,” said Mark.
“I liked them too,” Angela agreed. She pictured the buffalo calves grazing so close to the road that she could see their eyes watching the slow-moving cars.
Flash! Boooooom!
Angela squeezed her eyes tight. “Go to sleep,” she told herself. “It’s just thunder.” It had rained almost every day that her family had been on vacation. Every time it rained, lightning shot across the sky like hot arrows, and thunder echoed on and on like beating drums.
Flash! Boooooom!
Angela pulled the sleeping bag over her head. “Go to sleep,” she told herself again.
“Mark, are you awake?” Michael whispered into the darkness.
“Hmmm?” Mark’s voice was heavy with sleep.
“Are you awake?”
Flash!
Mark opened his eyes. “I am now,” he said.
Boooom!
“Angela, are you awake?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Angela whimpered. “I’m scared. I want to go to Mom and Dad’s tent.”
“It’s raining too hard,” Michael said. “You’ll get soaking wet. Besides, it’s not safe to go out in the lightning.”
Angela frowned. “But I’m really scared.”
Flash! Flash!
“You don’t need to be scared,” Mark said. “The lightning is really cool! It’s just a bunch of static electricity in the clouds.”
Boooom!
“And the thunder sounds like a big whip!” he added.
Angela shuddered. “I don’t like it!”
Flash! Boooom!
“Well, then think of things that make you happy,” Mark suggested. “That might help.”
Angela closed her eyes and thought about a field of yellow flowers. She imagined herself running down a hill into the field, laughing.
Flash! Boom! Flash! Flash! Booooom!
“It’s not working,” Angela said, shaking. “I’m still scared.”
Suddenly, rain began pelting their tent. Angela scrunched deep within her sleeping bag. What could she do to stop feeling scared? Then a quiet thought entered her mind. “Why don’t we sing?” she shouted, hoping her brothers could hear her above the noise. “My Primary teacher said that singing Primary songs can help us feel better.”
“OK,” Mark said loudly. “What should we sing?”
“How about ‘I Am a Child of God’?” Michael suggested.
Slowly, quietly, Angela started to sing.
“I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here …”
Angela stopped. Her brothers weren’t singing with her. “They must not be able to hear me,” she thought. So she sang louder.
“Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear.”
Her brothers were singing now.
“Lead me, guide me, walk beside me,
Help me find the way.
Teach me all that I must do
To live with him someday.”
(Children’s Songbook, 2–3)
Flash! Boom!
“Now what should we sing?” Angela asked.
“Let’s sing that one again,” Michael said.
Over and over, Angela, Michael, and Mark sang “I Am a Child of God” until the storm passed and peace returned to their tent.
“It worked!” Angela told herself as she snuggled into the warmth of her sleeping bag. “Finally I can go to sleep.” As she closed her eyes, another thought gently filled her mind. “I am a child of God, and I know He will help me find the way.”

When Elder Quentin L. Cook was 15 years old, he had a talk with his big brother, Joe. Joe was trying to decide if he should go to medical school instead of going on a mission. They talked long into the night. They talked about the gospel. They talked about testimonies. They talked about serving a mission.

Joe knew that going to medical school and becoming a doctor was a good way to help people. But he also knew that Jesus Christ truly lived, that Joseph Smith was really a prophet, and that the Book of Mormon was really true. So he knew that going on a mission first would be a better choice. Quentin learned that night that his brother Joe had a strong testimony.

5 Facts about Elder Cook
Born on September 8, 1940
The L stands for LaMar
Played basketball, football, and baseball in high school
Served a mission to the British Mission
Became an Apostle in October 2007

Quentin decided that he wanted to have a testimony too. After they finished talking that night, Quentin went to another room to pray. He had always had a testimony of Jesus Christ. And he believed that Joseph Smith was a prophet. He believed the Book of Mormon and the Church were true. But he wanted a spiritual witness from the Holy Ghost. As he prayed, a powerful witness came to him that swept away any doubts he had forever.
Now Elder Cook relies on that strong testimony to help him with every choice he needs to make.