Gospel Story Finder

The musty smell of the subway always seemed stronger during the hot summer months. Still, it never really bothered me. My sense of smell was always overcome by the sights in the tunnel. There was so much to see. I guess at first you wouldn’t think that. After all, what’s there to see in a subway besides a scheduled train stopping or whizzing by every ten minutes, or shiny rails converging into the darkness in either direction?
But the people—that’s what I liked to watch. There was always someone interesting to see. There were short, tall, medium, stout, and skinny people, of all colors. And if their style of dress didn’t reveal their nationalities, their different languages or accents certainly did. Waiting for the next train was always a pleasure, for the time afforded me the opportunity to learn from what I saw.
On one particular afternoon I learned an unexpected lesson about charity. While waiting for the three o’clocker, I watched a blind man on the other side of the tracks waiting for the train going in the opposite direction. I marveled at how this man with dark glasses enjoyed a type of sight: the guidance of his dog. And I wondered, How will he know which train to get on? The man can’t see, his dog can’t read, and the train operator doesn’t shout out destinations.
When the first train on the opposite side of the tracks arrived, the man didn’t get on. When the next train stopped and its doors opened, the dog moved, and before the man had taken a second step toward the doors, a woman who had just exited the train unhesitatingly took the man’s arm and helped him board. It was more than her smile that showed me she cared; her quick willingness to respond said more.
Inside the train, another passenger also took the blind man’s arm and guided him to the seat next to his. As the train took off I followed its lights into the tunnel until they finally disappeared.
All the way home I thought about the blind man and those who had helped him. Sure, the man could have entered the train and seated himself with little trouble. But those who had helped him acted naturally and without hesitation. That’s when the idea of charity popped into my mind. Charity isn’t doing something just for someone who can’t do it for himself. Nor is it doing something just for someone who can return the favor. It’s doing good because it has become our nature to do it.

I did not serve a regular mission until we were called to preside in New England. When I was of missionary age, when I was your age, young men could not be called to the mission field. It was World War II, and I spent four years in the military. But I did do missionary work; we did share the gospel. It was my privilege to baptize one of the first two Japanese to join the Church after the mission had been closed 22 years earlier. Brother Elliot Richards baptized Tatsui Sato. I baptized his wife, Chio. And the work in Japan was reopened. We baptized them in a swimming pool amid the rubble of a university that had been destroyed by bombs.

President Quashigah is grateful for the very practical truths that he continues to learn daily as a member of the Savior’s true Church. He remembers the very first time he attended Sunday meetings in the Aflao Branch. The lesson topic for the second hour was forgiveness. A principle that he was struggling with. After the lesson, he understood what he needed to change in his life to be able to forgive unconditionally. He testifies that the principles and doctrines of the Church continue to help him in all aspects of his life.

During the message I delivered at general conference in October 1975, I felt prompted to direct my remarks to a little girl with long, blonde hair who was seated in the balcony of the Tabernacle. I called the attention of the audience to her and felt this small girl needed the message I had in mind.
At the conclusion of the session, I returned to my office and found waiting for me a young child by the name of Misti White, together with her grandparents and an aunt. As I greeted them, I recognized Misti as the one in the balcony to whom I had directed my remarks.
I learned that as her eighth birthday approached, she was in a quandary concerning whether or not to be baptized. She felt she would like to be baptized, and her grandparents, with whom she lived, wanted her to be baptized, but her less-active mother suggested she wait until she was 18 years of age to make the decision. Misti had told her grandparents, “If we go to conference, maybe Heavenly Father will let me know what I should do.”
As we continued our visit after the session, Misti’s grandmother said to me, “I think Misti has something she would like to tell you.” This sweet young girl said, “Brother Monson, while you were speaking in conference, you answered my question. I want to be baptized!”
The family returned to California, and Misti was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

When I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at age 35, one of the many things I quickly learned was that I needed to be willing to serve others. Whether it was to help someone move, offer lawn care, do repairs, or provide transportation, I tried as much as possible to respond to requests for service from my quorum or from individuals.
I felt that I was serving in a good way. In retrospect, however, I realize that I was serving out of a sense of duty and not out of a sense of love for those who needed help. I didn’t really view my service as trying to become the Lord’s hands.1
After I moved to central Missouri, USA, I had the opportunity to serve an older couple. Their small, old country home needed a lot of repairs, including its leaky roof. The couple, however, suffered from serious health challenges that prevented them from doing physical labor.
On a hot day in July, my good friend Dallas Martin and I were up on the roof putting down new shingles. We were uncomfortable and dripping with sweat. Suddenly, Dallas stopped nailing, stood up, and looked at me.
“Do you realize how blessed we are to be the ones capable of being up here doing this work and not the ones inside who can’t?” he asked.
His question hit me like a bolt of lightning. It was literally a life-changing moment. My whole perspective on service took on new meaning. I realized how blessed I was to be able to do all the things that I could do.
At that moment, I felt that Dallas and I were not simply helping because of a sense of duty but were helping with a sense of gratitude. The Lord had blessed us with the ability to truly be His hands. With that realization, it was easy for me to feel love for those we were helping.
Since that day, whenever I have helped with a service project, or whenever someone has needed assistance that I was capable of providing, I have tried to keep that perspective in mind. I have not always been successful, but that perspective has been a huge blessing in my life. It has truly helped me keep a positive attitude about service.
When I have problems or challenges, I try to think of people who face more serious trials than I do. Then I express my thanks to the Lord for all the blessings He has given me.

Grant was only six weeks old when his father, H. Grant Heaton, was called to preside over the Southern Far East Mission. Unlike most children in the United States, Grant spoke his first words in Chinese. His little sister, Lisa Lee, who was born a year and a half after the family moved to Hong Kong, also learned Chinese first.
The mission home was filled with happiness until March 1958, when Grant was three years old. One day his neck became stiff, and there was pain in his chest. Soon he could not walk on his legs. President and Sister Heaton asked the missionaries to fast and pray for their son, but still his condition grew worse.
Grant’s father gave him a special blessing before taking him to the hospital. After tests, the illness was diagnosed as paralytic polio. The doctors said Grant would soon need an iron lung to help him breathe. Polio is not common among the Chinese, however, and the only iron lung in the country was being used by a British sailor.
By the end of a week in the hospital, Grant was completely paralyzed. Only his eyes moved, and the little body that had seemed healthy just a week before was quickly wasting away.
One morning Sister Heaton was with Grant. It was so hard for him to breathe that she thought surely he would soon return to our Heavenly Father. Two men came to the hospital that morning. They represented the Chinese Saints who had held a special fast and a prayer meeting the day before.
Both men had been members of the Church less than a year and neither held the priesthood, but they wanted to help. They asked permission to pray for Grant. Sister Heaton readily agreed and bowed her head to join them. She felt the faith of these humble Chinese men as they knelt beside Grant’s bed and prayed that this little boy’s health might be restored.
As they rose to their feet and left the room, Grant’s mother followed them down the hall. She thanked them and then went to the refrigerator where special food for Grant was stored.
Just as she opened the door, a familiar little voice called from down the hall and she turned around quickly to see Grant coming toward her.
“Look, Mommy,” he exclaimed with a happy smile. “I can walk!”
The doctors were amazed, but when the polio symptoms did not return, they let Grant go home. President and Sister Heaton and the missionaries gratefully acknowledged the power of the Lord and the faith of the Chinese Saints in behalf of their son.
Grant is now eighteen and lives with his family in Salt Lake City, Utah. He doesn’t remember his illness in China. His strong legs that helped him make the football team and wrestle for his high school don’t remember either!

A few summers ago our family visited Catalina Island just off the coast near Los Angeles. While there we visited the excellent aviary, which has the most interesting collection of birds I have ever seen. But even though the birds were fascinating, the most important part of the visit for me was the acquaintance I made with a man whom I shall never forget. He told me something that still lingers vividly in my memory, even though this must have been ten years ago.

He worked at the aviary. I first noticed him as he was feeding the birds in the cages. He seemed to know each bird individually, calling them by name and chatting with them as though they were children gathered around him. It was easily apparent that he loved every bird in the place, and the birds seemed to feel the same way about him. After he had finished his feeding chores, I felt compelled to talk to him for a moment.

“It was interesting to watch you feed the birds,” I said. “It’s easy to see that you enjoy your work here.”

“Yes sir, I enjoy it here more than I can tell you. In fact, I can’t think of a single person I would trade places with—none of the movie stars, none of the bankers or lawyers, none of the merchants, none of the presidents, premiers, or kings. I like it right here, and I like what I’m doing.” We chatted a few minutes longer. Then he said, “You know, mister, there is one important thing I’ve discovered in life—at least as far as I personally am concerned. It’s this: If you like what you do, and if you’re doing something that is really worthwhile, and if you do the best job you can do, then, brother, you’ve got it made!”

A Young Women teacher had a blind girl in her class whose participation was limited because she could not study in the usual way. The teacher would go to the girl’s home and read out loud while the girl translated her Personal Progress book into braille. The work took two years. The teacher also encouraged the other girls in the class to help. Under her direction, they went to the blind girl’s home and read to her from the manual until it was translated into braille.
The Master’s touch through that teacher reached out and blessed not only this girl but many others who are blind, because the braille translation was made available at the general offices of the Young Women organization.

Early in the year 1884 the beautiful Mormon temple in Logan, Utah, was almost ready to be dedicated. …
While the temple was being built, Bishop Henry Ballard, who had worked on the temple from its beginning, prayed earnestly that in some way he would receive names of ancestors who had lived in far-off England.
On the day before the dedication of the temple and while several of Bishop Ballards’s daughters were playing … two strange men suddenly approached!!!
One of the men gave the oldest girl a folded newspaper saying …
“Give this to your father and to no one else, go quickly and don’t lose it.”
The girl hurried to take the paper …
… to her father.
It was the Newberry Weekly News, printed in his hometown in England just three days before. One full page was filled with birth and death dates of people buried in the Newberry Cemetery.
The temple president said, “Bishop Ballard you are authorized to do work for these people, you received the record through messengers of the Lord.”

When I was a sophomore in high school, I was very small for my age. I was 5?2? and weighed 105 pounds. When you’re 5?2? and 105, not many coaches want you playing basketball, unless you have exceptional talent, which I didn’t. You also don’t make a very good linebacker for the football team.
I was sitting in the gym one day watching the basketball tryouts, when the wrestling coach walked by and said, “We need a few tough guys your size who can wrestle for us.”
I thought to myself, “Obviously I look pretty tough to the coach, so I’ll give this wrestling a try.” I told him I would do it.
My first problem was finding the wrestling room. After some searching, I found it was three stories under the basketball court in an unventilated, very dimly lit cubicle.
As I entered the room, I found the first thing you need to overcome in wrestling is the odor produced by 50 young men sweating in a room with no air circulation.
I found the coach. Instead of being polite and friendly as he had been the day before, he seemed grouchy and mean. He pointed to a kid across the room and said, “Wrestle him.”
I looked at the kid and thought to myself, “This will be a snap.” He was shorter than I was and looked as if he had missed a few meals. I turned to the coach to say he had made a mistake and surely there was someone else I could wrestle. As I did this, the kid grabbed me and for the next three hours gave me a wrestling lesson I’ll never forget. He rubbed my face in the mat and twisted me into positions I didn’t think possible. Finally, after three hours of mat work, I thought we were done. Not quite. Up to the halls we went, where the coach led us in wind sprints and jogging. Finally, four hours after practice began, we were finished. I sat on the bench in the locker room totally exhausted.
The coach called me into his office. He said, “How much do you weigh?”
I replied, “About 105.”
He said, “You’ll be wrestling 98 in three days.”
That was 7 percent of my body weight. “I’ll have to go without eating,” I protested.
He said, “I know.” So to my surprise, a wrestler not only had to work out for four hours, he couldn’t eat after the workout. I made weight at 98 pounds and put up with this difficult schedule for three weeks. Finally I had had enough.
I went home and told my dad that I was going to quit. I thought he would be elated after seeing how much I had suffered. Instead he said, “I never took you for a quitter. I always thought when you started something, you finished it.”
Well, if he was going to say that, I certainly would not quit now. I said, “I guess wrestling is not so bad after all.”
I stuck it out. For four long months I stuck it out. It was never easy. In fact, it was the most difficult thing I had ever done. It wasn’t glamorous. The basketball team got all the recognition. They got the nice locker room and all the new facilities, and the entire school showed up to their games. The school had to assign four members of the pep club to go to wrestling matches. No, it wasn’t glamorous. But much to my surprise, at the end of the difficult season, I had a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction that I had never felt before. The most difficult thing I had done in my life turned out to be the most rewarding.

In my fifth-grade class, we started studying Russia. We planned a “Russian Party.” There was mostly Russian food, and we had a quiz.
When the Russian party was about to begin, I put the potatoes and vinegar I’d brought on the table. We all went to our seats. When our teacher called our names, we went up and got a little bit of everything from our teacher, who was standing behind the table.
Before we started eating, she asked everyone who had made something to tell the class what it was. It turned out that the drink was a Russian tea.
When I ate everything on my plate except the tea, my friends who aren’t members of the Church asked me why I didn’t drink it. When I told them about the Word of Wisdom, they understood. So, when our teacher came around to see that we all tasted everything, my friends and I told her that I didn’t want to drink the tea.
I didn’t have to drink it. I’m glad that I can try to set an example to be like Jesus Christ.

While we were expecting our ninth child, an examination revealed that I had cancer. The doctors could not determine the source or extent without endangering the baby, and she wasn’t old enough to survive birth. But they did know the cancer was spreading. So we were asked to decide whether the doctors should operate despite the risk, or if they should wait until the baby had developed more fully.
To me there seemed to be no answer. I wanted to live and to rear our eight children. But I also felt protective of the child I was carrying. We struggled for several weeks, giving the baby more time to mature, prayerfully seeking to know the will of the Lord. Our answer came when, after much prayer and fasting, Dan said to me, “Barbara, it will be all right. I have scheduled surgery.”
Because of priesthood power, he could do more than make that difficult decision. He called our home teacher, a neighbor who had had his own struggle with cancer, and my brother. In the name of Jesus Christ, my husband, assisted by those men, blessed me and our baby that what was done would be best for both of us.
Dan again wrote me a letter the night before surgery: “These past days have been filled with more anxiety and soul searching for me than any time in my life. … As we have passed through swells of faith and depths of fear, I have experiences a purging I didn’t know I needed. The priesthood blessings you have received are from the Lord. Tonight as we sat in your hospital room, I was aware of your struggle between fear and faith. I experienced it myself for many hours after I returned home. Just now I have received, with burning assurance, the Lord’s seal upon the blessings you have received. … [The doctors], as instruments in the hands of our Father in Heaven, will do what is needed to perform His work.”
The surgery was successful. Our healthy daughter, now fifteen years old, was born seven weeks later.

“She’s just a better version of me.”
Months after coming home from my mission in California, this thought was still tormenting my mind. There hadn’t been a day that went by without me thinking about my mission and who I was while I was serving. “Mission-me,” as I called this past version of myself, was better than my current self. Mission-me prioritized the gospel over everything else. She was kind, selfless, and acted on what she knew was right.
The current me?
She was different.
My scripture study habits had all but gone out the window. My prayers were sporadic at best, and though I was still attending the temple and church weekly, I knew I could be doing better at inviting the Spirit into my life.
But no matter how many times I tried, it seemed I could only keep up my spiritual habits for a couple of days—a week at most—before failing. I knew how much I loved the gospel and my Savior, but for some reason, I just couldn’t grow into the person I wanted to be.
I finally felt relief after nine months of being home. I was attending an institute class, trying desperately to learn from The Divine Gift of Forgiveness, a book by Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Just then, a paragraph jumped out at me.
It reads, “If we find ourselves temporarily facing setbacks, we don’t become discouraged. We focus on our love of the Savior and His love for us, and we move forward. Week by week, year by year, our repentance and resolve draw us closer to Him.”
I froze—his words felt like they were meant specifically for me.
I knew that through His Atonement, Jesus Christ could help me. I had faith that He was cheering me on, but I’d been missing one key detail: timing.
See, God wasn’t expecting me to be perfect right then. That’s the whole reason Christ atoned for us. God knows that we will never be perfect in this life, and He loves us so much that He sent His Only Begotten Son to save us.
Instead of trying to become perfect right then, the Savior’s enabling power could help me continue to grow over the course of a lifetime. Week by week, year by year. The best version of myself was going to take my whole life to develop—that’s how it’s supposed to be, as we learn to walk with Him.

I grew up attending Sunday School at a church next door to my childhood home in Michigan, USA. I had a wonderful teacher who filled me with a love for Jesus Christ.
Each week she passed out cards illustrating events from the Savior’s mortal ministry, including principles He taught and miracles He performed. Each week I pasted the cards into a scrapbook and reread the stories in the Bible. As I grew older, I continued to study the Gospels in the New Testament.
Years later, during the summer of 1968, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints visited the home of a family member. She declined the elders’ invitation to learn about the Church but sent them to my home.
At our first meeting the missionaries taught me that “a falling away” had occurred from the Church that Jesus Christ had established (see 2 Thessalonians 2:3). What they taught coincided with my personal study, so when they asked if they could visit me again, I agreed.
During their next visit, I had a list of questions. Did Latter-day Saints baptize by immersion? Did they believe in priesthood authority? Did they believe in the healing of the sick? Their answers supported what I had studied in the New Testament. At the end of the visit, they left me with a book they said testified of Jesus Christ.
I set the book on top of the TV and went to bed. But in the middle of the night, I was awakened by a strong feeling I later recognized as the Holy Ghost. I felt prompted to start reading, so I read for an hour and a half before returning to bed. A short time later, I reawakened with the same feeling, so I read some more.
This pattern continued for the next two nights. I loved what I was reading and recognized that the Book of Mormon testified of Jesus Christ.
I decided to ask God for direction. For the first time since I was a little girl, I knelt to pray. I asked Heavenly Father to help me know what to do with the fire I felt inside of me. When I finished my prayer, I felt prompted to revisit the account of the Lamanites’ conversion in 3 Nephi 9. I read that they “were baptized with fire and with the Holy Ghost, and they knew it not” (verse 20).
The phrase “they knew it not” spoke to me. The thought came to me: “The Church of Jesus Christ really is on the earth!” I was eager to talk to the missionaries about what I had read and what I now knew. But when they responded to my questions with an invitation to be baptized, I told them I couldn’t. My husband wouldn’t understand.
As I continued to think about that verse, however, I realized that it contained clear direction for me to offer the sacrifice of “a broken heart and a contrite spirit.” I prayed and asked my Father in Heaven to help me, which He did. After my husband took the missionary discussions, he gave his consent for me to be baptized.
How grateful I am to a loving Heavenly Father for that precious and powerful experience I had as a young mother in reading the Book of Mormon. It led me to the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. As a result, the influence of the Holy Ghost I felt those nights in 1968 is now a constant gift—something that has guided me during my more than 40 years as a member of the Church.

Matilda the Jungle Tracker carefully smeared mud over every inch of her face. Then she clung by her fingertips to the grass at the top of the bank by the creek. Of course, if I were a real jungle tracker, she admitted, there would be a hundred-foot drop here and alligators would be snapping at my heels. But then, she thought, scrabbling up onto the creek bank, in the jungle I would have a vine to swing on.
Matilda surveyed the area. The boys were just disappearing into the woods, and they hadn’t seen her.
“I think I’ll be Matilda the Spy,” she muttered, and she flitted from tree to tree, keeping the boys just within sight.
Suddenly the boys stopped, then turned around and listened. Matilda fell flat on her stomach and peered at them through the tall grass, while they scanned the terrain. A bug crawled over Matilda’s wrist, but she lay perfectly still and thought about something else so that her whereabouts wouldn’t be detected by the boys. When she looked up, the boys had disappeared again.
Matilda sprang softly to her feet like a panther. Her trained mind was alert and ready, and her reflexes were still sharp from her experiences as Matilda the Intrepid Explorer. As she darted across the clearing, she heard the boys shouting.
“Aha!” she whispered, shutting her eyes halfway as she did when she was Matilda the Super Sleuth. “They’re heading for the pond.”
Matilda knew a shortcut. When she had been Matilda the Mapmaker, she had mapped this entire section of country. She easily reached the pond before the boys did, then watched them through the cattails growing there. Just as I thought. They’re building a dam.
Matilda slipped behind a tree. She quietly aimed her camera at the boys and took a picture. She had bought the camera when she was Matilda the Newspaperwoman on her school newspaper.
Of course, she thought, if I were a real secret agent, I could blow up the dam. But they may be building it for the government as a special assignment. I’ll have to observe.
Matilda got down on her stomach again on the steamy jungle floor. Raucous cries of exotic jungle crows echoed in her ears. She narrowed her eyes to tiny slits—the boys were coming.
The boys sloshed into the water halfway up to their knees and started piling more mud onto the dam. They stuck a piece of cardboard into the mud for reinforcement, then built up both sides of it with more mud.
Matilda inched up onto her elbows and snapped another photo. Then she wriggled back until she was out of the boys’ sight and hearing. She hacked her way home through the jungle.
“Matilda!” her mother scolded. “What have you been doing? We’re going out to dinner, and you’re covered with mud. Get washed up now and put on a dress. Hurry up!”
Matilda didn’t argue because now she was Matilda the Diplomat. Besides, she liked bathing. It reminded her of when she had been Matilda the Long-distance Swimmer. She quickly bathed and put on a dress and combed her hair. Her hair looked quite nice because she had once been Matilda the Famous Hairdresser.
“That’s better,” her mother said. “You look nice and pretty, like a little lady. Come along now.”
Outside, the boys were passing by and they snickered at Matilda. She stared at them with her stern Matilda the Judge look. Then Matilda the Civil Engineer smiled at them and said, “You’re building your dam all wrong.”
They goggled at her unbelievingly.
“I have a piece of outdoor plywood,” she said, remembering the leftovers from when she was Matilda the Carpenter. “It’s much stronger than cardboard. I’ll give it to you.”
“But how … ?”
“Who told you … ?”
“Uh, thanks for the wood.”
But Matilda wasn’t listening. Her eyes were inscrutable, and her fingertips were pressed together. She was Matilda the Scientist, thinking about her next invention. It would be a quadruple-stage rocket that could orbit the earth, then reenter and leave the earth’s atmosphere at will at a billion miles an hour.

The young single adults (YSA) of the Assin Foso Ghana South Stake recently demonstrated the spirit of Christian service by organizing a blood donation drive to support the Assin Polyclinic blood bank. More than 25 YSA—including both members of the Church and friends from the community—rolled up their sleeves as part of their Gathering Place activity. Their gift of life not only strengthened the hospital’s capacity to respond to emergencies but also highlighted the rising generation’s commitment to service and compassion.
Hospital management expressed deep appreciation for the contribution. “God will surely bless each one of you for this life-saving service,” they shared, noting the example the youth had set for others in the community.
Although the stake president, Ebenezer Quansah, was unable to attend in person, he called by phone to thank the YSA for their devotion and sacrifice. He praised them as living examples of Christlike service and encouraged them to continue lifting and blessing others through their talents, time, and willingness to serve.
This simple but powerful act stands as a testimony that faith in Christ inspires action—and that even one donation can help save many lives.

Although I am from Kingsley, Western Australia, I recently spent a year in Thailand as an exchange student, and it was there that I gained an appreciation for the scriptures in my life. Before I went there, if I ever had problems or a decision to make, I would go to my parents for their counsel and advice. Suddenly my parents weren’t there to tell me what to do, and for the first time in my life I was really on my own.
I attended a large girls’ school with 4,000 Thai students. Thailand is a Buddhist country, and about 95 percent of the population are of that faith. Being the foreign guest at the school, I was expected to participate in all of the cultural activities and learning experiences. This meant attending meditation and religious classes with the monks and praying to the large Buddha statue at the front entrance to the school. As every girl walked through the gate she was expected to pay her respect to the Buddha. As she did so, teachers standing beside the statue would inspect her uniform, hairstyle, etc.
The school was very strict, and any girl not paying respect to Buddha would be punished. My teacher informed me of this the first day and told me that even though I was Christian, there was no harm in paying respect to Lord Buddha. The continual use of the phrase “paying respect” made it difficult to decide whether or not I should honor this statue. My Buddhist friends insisted they were not worshipping the statue, but remembering their religious leader and the principles he stood for. I had always been taught to respect the beliefs of others, and by paying respect to the Buddha I would be doing this. All it required was for me to wai the statue. To wai is to put your hands together in a prayer-like gesture in front of your chest and bow your head briefly. I figured that if I did wai but did not pray, it would not be classified as worshipping. So I gave the statue a brief wai every morning as I entered the school gates.
After one week I still felt uneasy doing this, so I decided to seek help from the scriptures. In 1 Corinthians 10:14 [1 Cor. 10:14] I read: “Wherefore, my dearly beloved brethren, flee from idolatry.” And in 1 Jn. 5:21 I read, “Little children, keep yourselves from idols.”
These two very short and simple scriptures gave me immediate inspiration. Though my Buddhist classmates were doing something they considered dignified and right, for me to do it would be wrong. I knew without a doubt that I must not give the impression that I was anything other than a Christian. Even though I had great respect for my classmates, their culture, and their religion, I felt I should not wai to the Buddha.
At first my actions were not looked upon favorably, but my teacher soon realized my devotion to the principles of my own religion. It was difficult to continually explain to people why I was not participating in such activities, as past exchange students had done so and were all “Christians.” I knew I was doing the right thing, however, and I would be blessed for it. It also gave me the opportunity to tell others about my religion.
This was just one of many experiences where I was given direct answers to my prayers through the scriptures. The scriptures are true. They are a source of comfort and inspiration in times of sorrow, depression, or uncertainty. And I have learned to love them.

When I was 11 years old, I won my first state cross-country title and vowed to become a national champion before I graduated from high school. Full of boldness and determined to conquer mediocrity, I stormed the gates of excellence as I began a routine that was to last for years. Every day I ran from three to ten miles. I loved training. Neither mud, rain, sweat, nor pain were to deter me from my goal. “You only get out of it what you put into it” became my motto. I even learned to like healthy foods.
By the time I was 14, things could not have been going better. I was undefeated in the 1,500-meter run and praised by our local newspaper as the fastest freshman in the state of Oregon. I felt good and knew I was ready.
Three teammates and I had been invited to participate in the prestigious Meet of Champions in Portland. Full of confident chatter, we piled into the team van with our coach on our way to the meet.
As we pulled onto the highway, I noticed how congested the traffic was and subconsciously decided to fasten my seat belt. Everyone began joking about the seat belt law. In the midst of the teasing, I casually looked up and noticed a car flying over the top of a hill approximately 200 yards ahead of us. Completely out of control, it was coming directly toward us in our lane. It began swerving back and forth between the borrow pit and the road, barely avoiding several cars ahead of us. Crippled by a sense of sickening helplessness, the occupants of our van were seized by an ominous silence as we focused on the inescapable disaster that surely would occur.
I awoke to the sounds of screaming sirens, two-way radio lingo, and shouting policemen. We had been hit head-on by a wanted man in a stolen car who was being pursued by a policeman. My teammate and good friend, Lenny, who was in the seat behind me without his seat belt buckled, had been thrown across my seat. I had been propelled forward and pinned under the weight of his unconscious body and my doubled-up seat.
I managed to move just enough to see out of the window. A dozen policemen dotted the hillside and roadway. The other car looked like a crumpled piece of paper. Two ambulances whirled in beside our crushed van, and I was very carefully extracted from the totaled vehicle. “I think this one has a broken back!” I heard one medic say as he looked at me with pity and concern.
It turned out my back wasn’t broken—just my nose. However, serious back strain, several pulled muscles and joint displacement prevented me from walking for a few days and kept me from running normally for several months. This had not been in my plan. I became discouraged as my timetable for being in top form for nationals was once again interrupted.
After regaining my strength I began to work out. But as I watched my ten-year-old brother, Tyler, run, I began to feel more frustration and irritation. He ran strong and smooth strides, like I used to. He could keep up with several of the high school runners and was getting better every week. Even though I loved him, I resented how easy it all seemed for him, and how the luck that had thwarted my progress favored him.
I watched Tyler take state, defeating his nearest competition by 500 meters. A horde of excited fans swarmed around him as I stood back. In spite of myself, an uncanny sense of pride swelled inside of me, and as Tyler’s blue eyes shot past all the well-wishers, seeking my approval, the warmth was so intense that I felt we were the only two in the noisy stadium. His need for my approval drew from me a depth of response that shredded my resentment. At that moment, I vowed that my little brother would go to nationals equipped with all I knew and the might of my support.
We ran together after that. I talked about form and strategy, how to pass and maintain a lead. We ran up hills to build his endurance, sprinted on the track to build his speed, and made up all sorts of drills to improve his reflexes, surges, and kick. We talked racing whenever we could. We ran in pouring rain and sweltering heat.
Tyler and I both took first in the Northwest Regional Championships that qualified us for the national meet in North Carolina. Because of the break in my training caused by the accident, I realistically hoped to place in the top 25. I achieved that by taking 21st out of 300 runners. I reached my goal and earned all-American status.
Satisfied and happy with my performance, I then turned my attention to Tyler. As we sought out his place among the other 265 runners on the starting line, I felt as nervous as when I had lined up for my own race. Tyler was tense, and I could sense his apprehension as if it was my own. How I wished I could transform his pain to joy.
“Be tough, Ty. Just remember, no one is better than you. No one can take The Kid,” I said. My arm slipped around his slumping shoulder, and I felt like I was deserting a desperate man when I walked away and noticed the tears in his eyes.
I watched him run a flawless race as I sprinted from place to place on the course cheering him on and hoping he could feel my support. Could he hear me above the crowd? Could he sense how I was pulling for him to find the strength? He came out of the trees in second place. “Stay on his shoulder, Ty!” I screeched. “Use your arms! Breathe deep!”
He was turning the corner for the last 100 meters we had run over and over together. It was a moment we had planned. “Pull, Tyler! Give it all you’ve got! Come on!” I pleaded. My voice choked as I thrilled at the sight of my little brother, a picture of perfect health striding down the homestretch to a spectacular finish as the national champion I had planned to be.
My pride in him told me I had won something too. Shaken and jubilant, I was consumed by a riot of emotions. I had given myself away and felt something far richer and more powerful than I could have ever imagined. Breathless and filled with fatigue, Tyler again sought my eyes over the crowd. As he came to my side, he gasped out the words which taught me the lesson of my life.
“Jason, I felt terrible—but I could hear you cheering the whole way. I knew I could win. I knew I had to win!”

Tyler was playing tag with his cousins when he heard his grandma calling.
“Everyone come inside!” she said. “It’s time for dinner!”
Tyler’s whole family was together for a family reunion. Even Uncle Robert and his family had come from far away!
As everyone gathered together, Tyler noticed Grandma holding a basket. He wondered what it was for.
“I’m going to pass this basket around,” Grandma said. “It’s for your phones.”
Tyler heard several of his cousins groan.
“Our family doesn’t get together very often,” Grandma said. “This way we can listen to each other better. We can all get our phones back after dinner.”
Uncle Hyrum made a funny face. “Welcome to the No-Phone Zone!” he said as he put his phone in the basket and passed it on.
Tyler looked at his phone. He liked playing games on it, and he was waiting for a text from his best friend, Ethan. With a sigh, he put his phone in the basket and handed it to his cousin. Then he heard a ping. Was that a text for him? He barely stopped himself from reaching for the basket again.
“Thank you,” Grandma said. “Now let’s say a prayer and eat.”
After the prayer, Grandpa brought in a plate piled high with hamburgers and hot dogs from the grill. They looked delicious! Tyler helped his little brother put a burger on a bun, then grabbed a burger and two hot dogs for himself.
Grandma laughed when she saw his plate. “You eat just like your dad did when he was your age.”
Tyler smiled back. “I’m a growing boy, Grandma.”
Aunt Tracy laughed too. “That’s exactly what your dad used to say!”
After dinner, Tyler’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, and older cousins all told stories. Usually Tyler didn’t stick around to hear the grown-ups talk. But this time he didn’t want to leave the table. He’d never heard these stories before!
Tyler especially liked the stories about Dad.
“Did Dad ever get in trouble?” he asked.
“Oh yes!” Grandpa said. “He was always making crazy inventions—like toasters that also opened the blinds … or at least tried to!”
“What do you mean? All of my inventions worked perfectly!” Dad said.
Everyone laughed.
Grandma looked at Tyler. “We’re proud of your father, and we’re proud of you too!”
Tyler felt a little embarrassed, but mostly he had a happy feeling inside. Suddenly Tyler realized that he hadn’t even thought about his phone for an hour. He had been having so much fun!
When Dad said it was time to leave, Tyler gave Grandma a big hug. “Thanks, Grandma. This was the best dinner ever!”

But there are others in our everyday lives. My most memorable one had to do with modesty.
Some years ago, my daughter was invited by her boyfriend (now husband) to attend a very important work event that needed a reasonably formal dress. They went shopping and came back with this very cute but totally immodest dress. This was on a Tuesday, and the function was on the Friday. They had a minor request of me. “Please, adapt this for it to be modest enough for me to wear comfortably,” my daughter asked. Their trusting eyes and faith in me was touching but misplaced. I was effectively a non-sewer.
After succumbing to a panic attack, I figured that I was in the same boat as Nephi had been. Maybe not. I did at least own a good sewing machine. I beseeched the Lord for help, and quickly. I was a working mom, so I only had a few evenings to perform a miracle.
We found some fabric that could help. This was a strapless dress with a laced-up bodice showing lots of back. Straps were made, a bolero jacket covered bare shoulders, but the back was still a problem. I managed to fashion an insert to go behind the lacing, and at the end of it, it looked pretty good. We dubbed it the “Minnie Mouse” dress, as the black on red spots reminded us of her. That dress represented a very spiritual experience for me. I prayed at almost every stitch! The Lord gave me inspiration where I had no knowledge and guided my hands every inch of the way. Now I wonder why I didn’t call on more knowledgeable sewing friends. The idea didn’t occur to me. As a result, I had the most tangible experience of relying on the Lord to date.