Gospel Story Finder

Julie and Karen looked at the old clock and compared it with the other clocks on the wall. It looked about the same with its glass windows and ornately painted face, but it seemed to Julie that there was something special about this clock.
“Where did you get this one?” Karen asked.
“The Thompsons found it in the attic of the old house they just bought, and gave the clock to Mother. Isn’t it pretty?”
Karen looked at the old, old clock and reluctantly nodded her head. “I guess so,” she said.
“Someday I’m going to collect clocks too,” Julie explained.
Karen stepped a little closer. “I’d rather have something newer,” she said, still puzzled over Julie’s excitement.
“But just imagine the life this old clock must have had. It must be one hundred years old!”
Karen still couldn’t see why Julie was so excited. “It’s just an old clock,” she said.
“Oh, but listen to the music of the constant ticktock!”
“It’s just an old clock,” Karen repeated.
“Here,” Julie said, determined to make Karen see her point, “now listen to its beautiful chime.”
Carefully she opened the door and pulled the lever to sound the chimes. “Bong, bong, bong, thud!”
“Oh, no!” Julie cried. “What’s wrong?”
“Look!” Karen pointed to a paper caught in the bars.
Julie pulled the paper out and quickly unfolded it. The paper was old and greasy from the clock works. Mehn sind im kutschen haus was written there.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Karen said after trying to read it.
“Mother,” Julie called. “Look what we found in this clock.”
Mother took the paper. “This is written in German.”
“German? Do you think Dad could read it?” Julie asked.
“Well, he used to speak German.”
Julie waited impatiently for her father to come home.
“Dad,” she called, running out the door when his car pulled into the driveway, “can you translate this for me?”
“What is it?” her father asked as he took the paper.
“I found it in the clock Mother got from the Thompsons.”
“German, hmmmmm …” Father looked surprised. “It’s been a long time since I’ve used my German. Come in the house and I’ll see what I can do.”
Julie followed him into the house. “I just know it’s something exciting,” she said.
“Maybe it’s just a shopping list,” Father teased with a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, Dad,” Julie sighed. “It’s more than that. Someone had to put that paper in the clock for a special reason.”
“Well, let’s see.” Father sat down at the kitchen table and smoothed out the paper. “Hmmmm, this is interesting.”
“What does it say?” Julie could hardly stand still.
“It says, ‘More are in the carriage house.’”
“More what?” Julie asked.
“Maybe more clocks. That’s all it says.”
“It doesn’t say what carriage house either?” Julie asked hopefully.
“No,” he answered. “Not even a clue.”
“More are in the carriage house!” Julie repeated. “It really is a mystery!”
All night Julie wondered about the strange message, and by morning she had an idea. Hurriedly she dressed, ate her breakfast, and did her chores; then she went to Karen’s house.
“Come on!” she shouted when Karen answered the door. “We have a mystery to solve today!” Quickly she tumbled out the words to explain.
Karen was soon ready and they both were off to the Thompsons. They knocked on the huge wooden door and impatiently waited for someone to answer. Finally Mrs. Thompson opened the door.
Julie pulled the paper from her pocket and explained, “Yesterday we found this note in the old clock you gave Mother, and we want to ask you about it.”
Mrs. Thompson took the paper. “What does it say?”
“It’s German, and it means, ‘More are in the carriage house.’”
Mrs. Thompson explained, “We bought this house from a man named Schiller. His mother immigrated to the United States from Germany when she was only twenty. She learned to speak English, but she never could read or write it.”
Julie listened intently to what Mrs. Thompson said. “Do you think she wrote this?”
“Could be,” Mrs. Thompson agreed.
“What about a carriage house?” Julie asked.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Thompson began; then she stopped. “Wait, I’ll bet it’s that old building out back. Mr. Schiller said it had been damaged in a windstorm ten years ago, and no one has bothered to restore it.”
Julie and Karen jumped with excitement. “Come on!” they shouted.
Mrs. Thompson led them down a hall and out the back door to a building with only two walls standing. A little piece of roof was stretched between them.
If there were anything stored in there, it’s probably ruined now! Karen thought.
Cautiously the girls climbed through the rubble looking for a clue. They removed some of the fallen roof and pulled away the huge weeds that had grown up through the wood.
“Look!” Karen shouted.
Julie and Mrs. Thompson ran to where Karen had picked up a piece of fallen roof that revealed a trap door in the floor of the old carriage house.
“If you’ll hold that a little higher,” Julie said, “I’ll see if I can open the door.”
Mrs. Thompson helped Karen hold the piece of roof as Julie climbed under and lifted the trap door.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “Here’s a huge old trunk!”
“This must be it!” Karen whispered in amazement.
Cautiously Julie lowered herself into the hole and tried to open the trunk, but it was stuck.
“Dad’s home today. I’ll go get him to help us!” she said.
In a few minutes Julie was back with her father. Mrs. Thompson and Karen had moved the piece of roofing off the door. Julie’s father jumped into the hole and began to pry open the trunk with some tools he had brought with him.
Slowly the lid began to give, and then suddenly it flipped up. Julie’s eyes opened wide as she looked at four beautiful box clocks!
“Here’s another note in German,” her father said, pulling a yellowed paper from between the clocks.
“What does it say?” Julie asked excitedly.
Slowly Father translated. “When I came to this country, I brought many things that were strange to people here. My sons wanted me to throw them out, but I loved these old clocks far too much to throw away. They were my grandmother’s and my mother’s.
“I reasoned that whoever restored my brown box clock would find my message. It would undoubtedly be someone who loves clocks and will take care of them. So to whoever learns my secret, please give these clocks loving and tender care. Frau Schiller.”
“Well,” Mrs. Thompson said, “I guess this means you, Julie.”
“But it’s your …” Julie began.
“Oh,” Mrs. Thompson interrupted, “I never liked old clocks, and Karen has told me she doesn’t either. You are the one Frau Schiller meant.”
“Oh, thank you,” Julie almost shouted. “What a wonderful mystery this has turned out to be!”

And then Miriam finally agreed to go on a date with me. She was the best-looking girl in the ward (also in the stake; probably in the Church), and she had finally broken up with Alvin Hopper, which was no great loss to her and a tremendous gain to a college freshman like myself with excellent taste in girls. On my fourth try she agreed to go out with me. I shot the works. The LTD, complete with car wash, a $30 dinner in San Francisco, a drive through beautiful scenery on the way up, Bayshore Freeway on the way back, and charming, delightful conversation all the way. The conversation was the only thing free on the whole date.
And she was worth it. She could discuss at least 13 different topics intelligently and got a B- on all the others, which means she was more than just a pretty face. She let me open doors for her and took my arm without my even having to hint. She looked me right in the eye and never let her gaze linger for a moment on the slight complexion problem that had appeared mysteriously on my chin the day before. She was perfect.
On the way home, after we left the freeway, she asked, “You don’t happen to have a throat lozenge or anything like that? I have kind of a sore throat.”
“In the glove compartment,” I said. Mom kept the glove compartment like a medicine chest—aspirin, throat lozenges, cough drops, breath mints, Kleenex, eye drops, bandages, and disinfectant. She figured that if we all had the flu and got into a traffic accident, she could make everybody feel better in minutes. Miriam reached into the glove compartment, found the lozenges, and also found the pad of Automobile Record sheets.
“What’s this?” she asked.
So I told her. All about the lease agreement. How much it cost and everything. I was just about to tell her how terrible it all was when she interrupted me.
“That’s terrible,” she said. “I can’t believe parents doing anything like that! Who do they think they are?”
“Parents,” I said.
“Well, I’m glad my parents are more generous than that. It sounds like your father must be Ebenezer Scrooge and your mother must be Shylock.”
“Shylock was a man.”
“Stingy, anyway. How much do they charge you for lunch and dinner?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m surprised. Do they have a coin box and water meter on the shower? Do they make you pay for clean sheets?”
“Of course not,” I said.
“A car is a necessity of life,” she said. “Parents have a responsibility to provide them for their children.”
Now, you have to understand. I’m not an argumentative person. I’m quite easy to get along with. But she was talking about my parents, judging them just by the fact that they ran a rip-off car leasing business with a captive clientele. I couldn’t let her go unanswered. So I answered.
“Listen, Miriam, a car is different from showers and food and bedding. It’s a lot more expensive. And I eat three meals a day and sleep once a night and take a shower every morning. It’s regular and predictable and it doesn’t go up and down. But the car I use as often as I like, and we kids used to use the cars all the time. It cost the folks hundreds and hundreds of dollars every month. And so it was perfectly fair for them to decide we should help pay.”
“You can’t live in the modern world without a car. They might as well charge you for air.” She sounded upset.
“You can live without a car,” I said. “You can walk, for example. I’ve walked to school a lot the last few months.”
“I can imagine,” she said darkly.
“I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve discovered there are things you can’t see from a car.”
“Like bubble gum on a sidewalk,” she said, sounding rather snide.
“I think it’s a good idea for us to help our parents pay for the cars.”
“And I think anybody who thinks that is crazy.”
“You do?” I asked, and I think by now I also sounded upset.
“I do. If word of this gets around, other people’s parents will try it, too, and pretty soon an entire generation of young people will be trapped at home with their families night after night.”
It shows you how angry I was. I said, “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. And furthermore, I think that it’s perfectly possible for people to have a good time together without having a car at all. I think it would be a wonderful date just to walk over to a girl’s house and take her out walking and talking and maybe looking in store windows or maybe just seeing a little bit of the neighborhood and just getting to know each other without spending any money at all.”
“That sounds hideous.”
“Then,” I said, “I won’t ask you out on such a date.”
I took her home and neither of us said another word except for a perfunctory good-night-and-thanks-for-a-wonderful-evening at the door.
When I got home, after filling the gas tank, I wrote down the mileage on the odometer, figured out my total car costs for the evening, and went inside, got the money from my room, and went into Mom and Dad’s bedroom, where they were reading the Old Testament out loud to each other the way they do every night.
“Did you have a nice time?” asked Mother.
“Wonderful,” I said. “I want to settle up for tonight.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that until the first of the month,” Dad said.
“I want to do it now.” I showed them how much I owed them, counted out the money, and handed it to them. Then I carefully placed a five dollar bill on top of the rest.
“What’s that for?” asked Mother.
“It’s a tip,” I said. “For service above and beyond the call of duty.
“I think you’re wonderful. I’m glad you laid it on the line with us. I’m glad you shared the responsibility of paying for the entire U.S. automobile industry with us kids. It’s the most adult thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.”
Mother got tears in her eyes. Father said, “I think Jerry’s grown up, don’t you, Mother?”
“Yes,” Mother agreed.
“Well, you’re both wrong,” I said. “I’m just completely out of my mind.”
I kissed them both good-night and went straight to bed feeling pretty doggone good. Also pretty doggone poor, since I had about six bucks to last me through the rest of the month. But as my sister Anne pointed out, money isn’t everything. In fact, it’s hardly anything.

A 13-year-old Eagle Scout from Sunnymead, California, designed the community flag and seal as part of his Eagle requirements. Adam Harral submitted the two designs to the Moreno Valley Chamber of Commerce, and after they were accepted, he cut out and put the flag together. When it was completed, he took it with him to the National Boy Scout Jamboree in Pennsylvania where it was posted with the flags from various cities throughout the nation. Upon his return home, Adam carried the flag in the Moreno Valley parade for its official presentation to the community. He was later given a plaque from the Sunnymead Chamber of Commerce in recognition of his community service.

Bradon Ballard--Charlotte, NC:
When I graduated BYU-Idaho in 2012, my wife and I moved to Chicago for a job opportunity. There we were immediately put to work in our ward. My wife was in nursery and I was the 11 year old scout leader. I am an Eagle Scout, but to be on the leadership side as a 24 year old was an interesting experience. We were so few in number that we combined two wards together for the sake of being able to actually have enough boys and leaders to have campouts and activities. There were two boys total when we started. One boy from each ward, and they rarely attended the same week. After we got the ward list of the boys in our age group we went hunting for them. There were also a few boys that were turning 11 soon and would help strengthen our numbers. We had the blessing of introducing scouting to many 11 year olds of new converts who had never been involved before and their friends came as well.

We've recently moved from Chicago to Charlotte but on my last night there we had over 12 scouts attending. One of the boys, Juan, turned 12 and became a deacon. We watched him pass the sacrament and fulfill his priesthood duties. We were able to see him grow in his abilities but more importantly his faith. My partner and I picked him up every week because his parents weren't able to get him there each week.

I have to say that I wasn’t the bravest patient, and I still am not. Every day during my recovery I had a phone call from Elder Jeffrey R. Holland. I think people thought he was just my imaginary friend when I first told them, but then he turned up twice with police and security, and then a lot of people wanted to see him! I told him that I had been very grumpy and that I was worried about losing my feet.

One night, when I was at my lowest, a tiny white-blonde-haired five-year-old girl—let’s call her Stella—came up to me as I was standing gloomily outside my room. She grasped my little finger with her tiny hand, turned me round (now that is a sight to see!), and made me walk around the ward with her. She wouldn’t let go until I kissed the top of her head. Her parents and the nursing staff chuckled, but I can tell you that the characteristic hallmarks of God in Christ were there; this was indeed an angelic visitation. I had been told to turn around—teshuvah, metanoia, repent—and had been led by a little child.

Those in a healing community build a beloved community around them, often without completely comprehending what they are doing. That, in a nutshell, is what I believe we are called to do together after the long history of difficulties and division and schism between Christian communities. Beautiful friendships can flower and bear fruit between Christian communities if we are taken by the finger and turned around, after the pattern of the University of Utah burn unit.

Ashley, would you please read Helaman 5:6–7 [Hel. 5:6–7]?” Sister Robins asked.
Ashley quickly opened her Book of Mormon, found the passage, and read: “‘Behold, my sons. … I have given unto you the names of our first parents who came out of the land of Jerusalem; and this I have done that when you remember your names ye may remember them; and when ye remember them ye may remember their works; and when ye remember their works ye may know how that it is said, and also written, that they were good.
“‘Therefore, my sons, I would that ye should do that which is good, that it may be said of you, and also written, even as it has been said and written of them.’”
“Thank you, Ashley,” Sister Robins said. “In this scripture, the prophet Helaman—he lived just a few years before Christ was born—is telling his sons, Nephi and Lehi, why he gave them their names. Can anyone tell me why?”
“Because Helaman wanted his children to remember what good things the first Nephi and Lehi had done,” Emily answered.
Ashley thought about the things she had read in 1 Nephi: Lehi listened to the Lord and left Jerusalem. Nephi obeyed his father and returned for the brass plates, and he built a ship, and preached to his brothers, and—
“And then they would do good things, too, and be righteous, too,” Samuel’s comment broke into her thoughts.
“That’s right,” Sister Robins said. “Names can sometimes help us choose the right. My first name is Camilla. My parents named me after the wife of one of our prophets, President Spencer W. Kimball. She was a wonderful woman who spent her entire life serving other people and building up the kingdom of God. I always remember her because of my name. It makes me want to obey the Lord and serve other people as she did. Are any of you named for a special person?”
“I was named for Daniel in the lions’ den,” Danny said.
“I was named for my great-great-grandmother,” said Emily.
Ashley shut her Book of Mormon and sat back in her chair. What about my name? Where does it come from? It isn’t in the Bible or the Book of Mormon. She couldn’t think of anyone in her family with her name.
She asked about it on the way home from church. “Mom, why did you and Dad name me Ashley?”
“We just thought it was a beautiful name, and you were such a beautiful baby girl that the name fit.”
“My name’s not in the scriptures, is it?”
“No, it isn’t, dear.”
“Is there anyone in our family, like a great-great-grandmother, whose name was Ashley?”
“No, I don’t think so. It’s just a pretty name,” Mom answered.
Dad asked, “Don’t you like your name, honey?”
Ashley mumbled an “Oh, yes. It is pretty.” But she thought, Pretty is not enough—there’s nothing special about it to remind me to be good. She thought about her sister’s and brother’s names. Rachel’s name is in the Bible. And Brian is named after Dad. Her eyes filled with tears. Why was I left out?
That night as she was lying in bed, Ashley thought about it again. It isn’t fair! I want a name that means something special. I know—I’ll change my name! She grabbed her writing tablet and a pencil. She said them aloud as she listed possibilities: “Elisabeth, Mary, Rebecca, Sarah. And Grandma’s name is Emma Jane.”
A knock came at the open door, and Mom asked to come in. She glanced at the tablet in her daughter’s lap. “What’s this, Ashley? Are you really upset about your name? Why, honey?”
“In Primary, we read about Nephi and Lehi, who were named after the first Nephi and Lehi, who were great prophets. Danny was named for a famous prophet, too. Emily was named for her great-great-grandmother. Rachel was named for the woman Jacob worked seven years to get to marry. And Brian was named after Dad. Why didn’t I get a good name?”
Mom reached over and smoothed Ashley’s hair. “You did get a good name. Don’t you know that?” She paused and looked at Ashley’s list. “Were you thinking of changing your name to one of these?”
“Yes. They were all great women.”
“Well, what do you think made them great?” Ashley thought for a minute.
“They were great because they were righteous people and served others.”
“Do you think their names made them great—or did they make their names great? Look at King Noah in the Book of Mormon. Although he had the same name as one of the greatest Old Testament prophets, he was a very wicked man. The people we admire made their names great by the kind of people they were.”
Mom pointed at the list. “These names were all probably held by other people before the ones who made them notable. And in Helaman, after Helaman told his sons that he gave them their names so that they would remember the first Lehi and Nephi and the good that they did, what did he say next?”
“He said that he wanted his sons to do good, too, so that when other people talked about them, it would be about the good his sons did.”
Mom smiled. “Well, what do you want people to think when they hear your name?”
“I want them to think that I’m a nice person and that I try to do what’s right.”
“I want them to think that, too. It’s nice sometimes when we are named for great people, but it’s more important that we make the name we have great. Just think—you have a brand new name to make great!”
“And maybe when people hear my name, they’ll remember that I’m a good person.”
“One more thing, Ashley. All of us who have been baptized have a special name. We say that we take this name upon us, which means that we choose to be named after and try to be like this person. Do you know what name I’m talking about?”
“Yes—it’s Jesus Christ.”
“So, if you want a name that will remind you to be good, just remember his name. Will that help?”
“Yes—I feel much better. Thanks, Mom.”
As her mom leaned over to turn off the lamp, Ashley crumpled the list of names and dropped it into the wastebasket.

Two Christmases ago I went out to my car one evening to find the passenger window smashed and my briefcase stolen with everything in it—money, credit cards, all of my ID (including the passport that had taken me to 50 countries), and irreplaceable documents. I was beside myself. Hoping the thieves had stolen the money and discarded everything else, a friend and I spent all night prowling through area dumpsters, hoping to find something. But we found nothing.

The next day I began the tedious process of replacing the contents. Suffice it to say, the whole process was a pain. Then, unexpectedly, two mornings later, my phone rang at 3:00 a.m. It was a Church operator.

“Sister Dew, did you lose a briefcase?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I have a man on the line who says he found it in a dumpster behind a bar. Been to any bars lately, Sister Dew?” Laughing at her own joke, she connected me with this man whose pickup, as it turned out, had been robbed that night and who had been going through dumpsters. In one he had found a briefcase. My briefcase. When I asked how he had tracked me down, he replied, “When I looked inside the briefcase and saw that Mormon recommendation, I knew this must be important.”

He was referring, of course, to my temple recommend. He had then called the Church number, where the operator on duty knew how to reach me.

You see, when the Latter-day Saint missionaries first came to England in 1837, they began their labors in Preston. At that time the city was in the midst of a grand celebration of Queen Victoria’s reign. As the missionaries alighted from their coach, they saw a banner overhead proclaiming in bold gilt letters “Truth Will Prevail.”
It became a widely-used phrase in the Church and appeared in various publications. One elder, reporting on his mission to Indiana, wrote in a letter published in Nauvoo’s Times and Seasons in 1841: “Although the Lord has chosen the weak things of this world to preach his gospel, truth will prevail, and will prosper.”1
Trusting the Lord, I turned in my mission papers. On my 21st birthday, along with my birthday post, came my call to serve in the England London South Mission. Due to my years of inactivity, I still felt weak and inadequate. Only later would I understand what that early missionary understood: the Lord may choose the weak things of this world to preach His gospel, but truth will prevail and will prosper.
I went in faith to the temple to be endowed. When I came out of the temple, I met two missionaries who had served in my home ward. As we talked, I described my experience out on the moors. One of the elders smiled broadly and explained that on a particular preparation day, he and his companion had hiked up on the moors and at a certain point felt impressed to place some rocks across the hillside spelling out the familiar phrase “Truth Will Prevail.”
Tears streamed down our faces as we realized what had happened. Those familiar with the area know there are miles and miles of trails amongst the moors. Yet I happened to choose the very spot where the missionaries had placed those rocks. I knew there and then that the Lord had answered my prayer in the hills that day.

Sean Covey is the son of Stephen R. Covey of “seven habits” fame and grew up in our ward. He and the other members of his family had those seven habits stamped across their foreheads from the day they were born. And they knew how to succeed. They are a marvelous family. Sean was a great high school football player and led his team to the state championship. He was very highly recruited. It came down to us and Stanford. Sean elected to come to BYU because he wanted to lead us to another national championship.

His freshman year he did well with the junior varsity squad, and then he left on a mission. When he came home, he was excited and eager to resume his football career. He worked hard, prepared himself physically and mentally, and halfway through his sophomore year became our starting quarterback. After winning all but one of the last few games we played that season, everything looked like it was right on track for him.

The next year, his junior year, he was named the starting quarterback but sustained a concussion against Wyoming in the first game. He came back the next game, and we beat a nationally ranked Texas team. But then he had shoulder and knee problems throughout the year. The team suffered a little bit, and he had to have surgery after the season, which prevented him from going through spring practice.

At the time we had a young freshman quarterback named Ty Detmer, who had an outstanding spring. It became evident that he might be the better of the two, but because Sean was the starter the previous year, we wanted to give him a good chance to fight for the starting position when they returned in the fall. After fall camp, it was evident that Ty was the better quarterback of the two.

Before any announcement was made, I brought Sean into the office and explained our decision to him. He didn’t speak for a couple of minutes, but finally he said, “Coach, I don’t think this is fair. I’ve worked hard, prepared well, and done everything I was supposed to do to return as the starting quarterback. This is going to be a much better team than the others that I’ve played on.”

I had to agree with Sean.

After a moment, he continued, “Coach, this isn’t fair, but I want you to know that I will be at every practice. I will be at every meeting, and I will prepare myself every week as if I were the starting quarterback. I will be ready whenever you need me.”

He did just that. Unfortunately for Sean, Ty went on to have a great year—the greatest of any sophomore quarterback in NCAA history. Sean rarely got in a game again.

Life, in this instance, was not fair to Sean, but he chose to do his very best and to contribute to the success of the team in any way he could. He was, and is, a young man of faith, of righteousness, and of prayer, with an eternal perspective on life. These attributes help him to make the right choices and to use the difficulties he encounters as stepping-stones to progress.

You know that feeling where you’re surrounded by people but still feel completely alone?
Since leaving my home country of Uganda and moving to Dubai for work, I’ve felt lonely almost constantly. Back home in my neighborhood, people greeted each other on the street. We knew each other. We supported each other. I had many friends and family who were of my faith.
But it’s not the same here. I live in a very different culture, in a big city and surrounded by people who work busy jobs. And even though I do attend my ward and have tried to get to know other young adults and ward members, our busy work schedules make it almost impossible to see each other for more than just the couple of hours we spend at church each week.
Dubai is big and glamorous, and I’m grateful to be here. But it can be so overwhelming, especially when you’re feeling lonely. People have so much here and seem to have their lives figured out. However, as I’m living among all this fancy stuff and these beautiful buildings, I sometimes wonder:
What am I doing with my life? Is this even the right place for me?
Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles explained that “a sense of belonging is important to our physical, mental, and spiritual well-being.”1 I hadn’t realized just how essential that sense of belonging was until I didn’t feel it anymore—not at church and not anywhere, really.
How was I going to find it now, far from everyone I loved?
Over time, I started to recognize “the centrality of Jesus Christ to belonging.”2
As much as I still missed my friends and family, I began to see that I hadn’t been separated from everyone in my life when I’d moved—I still had a Savior and a loving Heavenly Father who always wanted to stay connected to me.
So I started doing what I could to connect with Them better every day. I began listening to Come, Follow Me study podcasts when I went running. I put in my headphones at work and listened to the scriptures while I was completing tasks.
Most importantly, I learned what an amazing gift it is to be able to pray directly to Heavenly Father. I speak to Him more frequently and more thoughtfully than I ever have before. When I feel lonely, I pray and feel His comfort. When I’m typing up an email and trying to stay patient with my coworkers, I pray and ask Him for help.
I love what President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) said about prayer: “To those … who are struggling with challenges and difficulties large and small, prayer is the provider of spiritual strength; it is the passport to peace. Prayer is the means by which we approach our Father in Heaven, who loves us. Speak to Him in prayer and then listen for the answer. Miracles are wrought through prayer.”3
By making time for Them in my life, especially through sincere prayer, I began to see that although I wasn’t surrounded by my people and my own culture, I could still be surrounded by the Spirit and feel God’s love.
Things are still hard, but I have hope for the future. And I’ve come to believe what Brother Milton Camargo, First Counselor in the Sunday School General Presidency, taught: “The Lord Jesus Christ lives today. He can be an active, daily presence in our lives. He is the solution to our problems, but we must lift our eyes and raise our sights to see Him.”4
I’m still lonely at times, but I know that I will always, always be able to pray to my Heavenly Father and access the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
Standing or kneeling, alone or in a group, I can pray.
I can cry to Heavenly Father.
I can give thanks.
I can ask for guidance and protection.
And through my covenant connection, I know that I, a daughter of a loving Heavenly Father, will always belong to Him. Through His guidance, I can feel confident that I am in the right place, doing what He would have me do.

A few years ago I had the assignment while at a stake conference to interview a 21-year-old man to determine his worthiness to serve a mission. Now, General Authorities do not usually interview potential missionaries. So this was unusual. As I read some background regarding the reasons for my interview, my heart ached. This boy had committed serious transgressions. I wondered why I would be asked to visit one with such a background, concluding it would be most unusual for me to recommend him for approval as a missionary.
After the Saturday evening session of conference, I retired to the stake president’s office for the interview. As I was waiting, a handsome young man with a wonderful countenance approached. I wondered how I could excuse myself because it was apparent he wanted to talk and I had an appointment with a very troubled young man. Then he introduced himself. He was the young man I was there for.
In the privacy of the office, I asked just one question: “Why am I interviewing you?”
He recounted his past. When he was through, he began to explain the steps and the personal suffering he had gone through. He talked about the Atonement—the infinite power of the Atonement. He bore his testimony and expressed his love for the Savior. And then he said, “I believe the Savior’s personal suffering in Gethsemane and His sacrifice upon the cross were powerful enough to rescue even a man like me.”
Moved by his humility and by the Spirit, I said, “I am going to recommend you to serve as a representative of Jesus Christ.” And then I said, “I am going to ask only one thing of you. I want you to be the best missionary in the entire Church. That is all.”
Three or four months later, Sister Edgley and I were speaking at a missionary training center. At the conclusion of the devotional, I was visiting with missionaries when I saw a young man with a familiar face.
He asked, “Do you remember me?”
Somewhat embarrassed, I said, “I’m sorry. I know I should, but I just don’t remember.”
Then he said, “Let me tell you who I am. I am the best missionary in the missionary training center.” And I believed him.
This young man’s hope was based not only upon a knowledge and testimony of the Atonement but also upon a personalization of this gift. He understood that it was for him personally! He knew the power of the Atonement and the hope it gives when all might seem lost or hopeless.

Another instance of worry: Oliver Cowdery and Rollin Robinson, a printer’s devil, or apprentice, overheard a small religious group of Palmyra townspeople plotting to destroy the manuscript and Oliver reported this to Lucy Mack Smith, who, being warned, could prevent it. Their plan was to trick her into showing them the manuscript, draw her attention elsewhere, then grab it from her hands and throw it into the fire. Mother Smith never showed them the pages and attempted to teach them its purpose, and at one point she said to them:

If you should stick my flesh full of [firebrands] and even burn me at the stake, I would declare, as long as God should give me breath, that Joseph has got that record and that I know it to be true.17

Are we there yet? Most parents and grandparents remember this question. Naume and I were asked this question over and over by all four of our children as they were growing up, but especially on our annual family trip to the Johannesburg South Africa Temple. This drive was between 12 to 18 hours depending on the border situation with immigration officials, which were unpredictable.
During these trips, because of the distance and many hours on the road, our children would constantly ask, “Are we there yet?” Our response in trying to describe the distance of the trip to our children was as follows: “You will sleep, wake up, sleep, wake up, sleep, wake up, and then we will be there, or almost there.” Sometimes our children would try to fake the sleep segments of the trip when it seemed too long and too boring for them, hoping that eliminating sleep would somehow reduce the distance.
We tried to be as creative as possible to make these long trips enjoyable for the children. Although we often faced fatigue and sometimes disappointments, we did not let these circumstances deter us from the goal we had established as husband and wife. Our goal was to make sure that our children had the blessing of touching the walls of the temple and participating in baptisms for our kindred dead at least once a year. When we look back on those experiences, we would never trade them for anything else.

Frequently his help comes silently—on occasion with dramatic impact. Such was my experience of some years ago when, as a mission president, I was afforded the privilege of guiding the activities of precious young men and women, even missionaries whom he had called.
Some had problems, others required motivation; but one came to me in utter despair. He had made his decision to leave the mission field when but at the halfway mark. His bags were packed, his return ticket purchased. He came by to bid me farewell. We talked; we listened; we prayed. There remained hidden the actual reason for his decision to quit.
As we arose from our knees in the quiet of my office, the missionary began to weep. Flexing the muscle in his strong right arm, he blurted out, “This is my problem. All through school my muscle power qualified me for honors in football and track, but my mental power was neglected. President Monson, I’m ashamed of my school record. It reveals that ‘with effort’ I have the capacity to read at but the level of the fourth grade. I can’t even read the Book of Mormon. How then can I understand its contents and teach others its truths?”
The silence of the room was broken by my young nine-year-old son, who, without knocking, opened the door and, with surprise, apologetically said, “Excuse me. I just wanted to put this book back on the shelf.”
He handed me the book. Its title: A Child’s Story of the Book of Mormon, by Dr. Deta P. Neeley. I turned to the foreword and read these words: “This book has been written with a scientifically controlled vocabulary to the level of the fourth grade.” A sincere prayer from an honest heart had been dramatically answered.
My missionary accepted the challenge to read the book. Half laughing, half crying, he declared, “It will be good to read something I can understand.” Clouds of despair were dispelled by the sunshine of hope. He completed an honorable mission. He became a finisher.

One time, I was annoying my sisters. My mom sent me to time-out in my bedroom. That made me so angry that I threw a terrible fit.
While I was in my room, I decided to pray. I started thinking of my blessings and thanking Heavenly Father for them. As I did this, I started to feel peace in my heart. The angry feelings I had toward Mom went away. I know that the Holy Ghost helped me feel that way, and I have a testimony of prayer.
Jonah Leavitt, age 6West Linn, Oregon

A woman who is now a mother of 11 children, dreamed in college of the lights of the stage, while taking classes in philosophy, economics, and political science and majoring in theater. Now she’s on her own stage performing magnificently well. She has chosen to enrich, protect, and guard the home. This past summer she and another Mormon woman ran a campaign from their homes and were elected as two of four delegates to help choose a new leader for a political party. These same women later organized a rally in the city park on an issue they felt strongly would negatively affect life in their province in Canada.
I asked this sister how she manages to be so influential. “You have to know parliamentary procedure in public meetings,” she replied. “If you do, you can safeguard democracy and your home by using the rules effectively.”
“When and where does one learn these rules?” I asked.
She laughed and said, “Last night at supper, it went like this.”
Sarah: “Honorable chairman, the soup is good.”
Chairman: “Can I have a motion to that effect?”
Sharon: “I move that we go on record stating the soup is good.”
Chairman: “Could I have a second?” Seconded. “Any discussion?”
Amy: “It’s too spicy.”
Chairman: “We will proceed to vote.”
The results of the dinner: The soup passed. The jam passed unanimously. And the motion in favor of the water was tabled for another time pending further investigation.

Among those who Joseph, 15, and his 19-year-old sister, Alexandra, helped bring to the gospel are their mother and father.
“Our parents came to our baptism,” Joseph said. “It was outside, in a swimming pool. The birds and crickets were singing in the background. The spirit was so strong, and our parents became more interested. The next day, in sacrament meeting, we were asked to bear our testimonies. Dad had to work, but Mom was there, and she recorded us so he could hear us too.”
Joseph and Alexandra quickly became active and energetic members. They both play musical instruments, the recorder and the guitar, and they love to sing, both hymns and folk music. In the ward, their love of music is infectious. So is their love of the gospel. They frequently help the missionaries and are great aids in integrating investigators, especially their parents.
“We would share our Church activities with our parents at dinner,” says Joseph. “We would invite them to come to church with us, and they often came.”
It was really only a matter of time before the senior Szamosfalvis were baptized—by their son, Joseph, of course. And once they joined, Church membership drastically changed their lives. Not only did Joseph Sr. change jobs so he could attend church on Sundays, but he sold the family vineyard and the family bar. They feel the Lord has opened all sorts of doors for them and look forward to a bright future.

This past March, our second daughter, Emma, like many missionaries in the Church, went into mandatory isolation. Many missionaries came home. Many missionaries awaited reassignment. Many did not receive their temple blessings before departing to a field of labor. Thank you, elders and sisters. We love you.
Emma and her companion in the Netherlands were stretched in those first several weeks—stretched to tears in many instances. With only brief opportunities for in-person interaction and limited outdoor exposure, Emma’s reliance on God increased. We prayed with her online and asked how we could help. She asked us to connect with friends she was teaching online!
Our family began to connect online, one by one, with Emma’s friends in the Netherlands. We invited them to join our weekly, online, extended-family Come, Follow Me study. Floor, Laura, Renske, Freek, Benjamin, Stal, and Muhammad all have become our friends. Some of our friends from the Netherlands have entered “in at the strait gate” (3 Nephi 14:13). Others are being shown “the straitness of the path, and the narrowness of the gate, by which they should enter” (2 Nephi 31:9). They are our brothers and sisters in Christ. Each week we “count it all joy” as we work together in our progress on the covenant path.

On his way home from Russia, this friend of animals stopped in England, where he observed the work of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. From that time on, Bergh was determined to form a similar organization in America to protect animals there. He began to talk to people about animals’ rights, he sought support for his views among his influential friends, he used his money as well as his diplomacy, and eventually he got some animal protection laws passed. In 1866 he and his supporters formed the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, generally known as the SPCA.

Massa Moseray (in white blouse) is a single parent and the breadwinner for seven dependents all living in Kissy Stake. Massa returned from her full-time mission just at the end of the Sierra Leone civil war. Due to this circumstance, there were very limited opportunities for her development. Massa was recommended by her stake leadership to join the Start My Business pilot group. She was able to raise SLL 180,000 during the group’s pilot activity which was used as seed money for her business.