Gospel Story Finder

The darkness seemed to come out of nowhere. I started feeling anxious and depressed about all the unresolved issues in my life. I lost confidence in myself, I began questioning my faith, and the list goes on. It seemed like even small inconveniences were blown out of proportion, and my good life was suddenly catastrophic.
I felt like I was fighting an internal battle with demons inside my head.
Darkness seemed to engulf me. And as these feelings consistently got worse, I started asking myself things like, “What if I wasn’t here anymore? Would people even care?” And the demons in my mind would answer, “You’re just dust in the universe. No one would even notice if you were gone.”
These thoughts paralyzed me with fear.
But all while I was dealing with this in my mind, I acted normal. I talked to my family like everything was fine—out of fear, I locked my feelings away from others. I felt like I couldn’t share how catastrophic my mind was.
I was also in denial that something was actually wrong. I told myself I couldn’t have depression. I didn’t want to admit it that I needed help. I was so afraid that if people knew what I was thinking and feeling, they would reject me or think I was weak or crazy. I felt so ashamed for being unable to get out of the dark.
I went on like this until one day, I found comfort from Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s words. He said: “If you had appendicitis, God would expect you to seek a priesthood blessing and get the best medical care available. So too with emotional disorders. Our Father in Heaven expects us to use all of the marvelous gifts He has provided in this glorious dispensation” (“Like a Broken Vessel,” Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2013, 41).
This touching message helped me finally accept that I was facing the reality of mental illness and that there is no shame in needing help. Most importantly, I was reminded that I am not weak and that I could be healed.
That night, I said the most sincere prayer I have ever said in my life. Sobbing, I humbled myself and poured out my heart to Heavenly Father. I asked Him for guidance to know what I should do.
After that prayer, I felt prompted to talk to my bishop. He was kind and understanding—I shouldn’t have expected anything less. And he immediately helped me feel peace and great comfort from my loving Father in Heaven. He helped me know that the Savior understood all I was going through, even if I didn’t understand everything myself. He also helped me use the tools I needed.
I learned that mental health issues can be made lighter by faith and by the healing power of Jesus Christ, of course, but that healing sometimes needs to be supplemented by other resources too. I have felt strength and hope and light come from both spiritual and temporal tools. Here are a few practices that bring light into my life each day that you can try too:
Start and end your day with a sincere prayer—ask specific questions, seek guidance, and express gratitude.
Know and accept that it’s OK to be sad and cry sometimes, just don’t let sadness consume you! Talk to a trusted friend or a loved one to help lift you up on hard days.
When you go to bed at night, be proud of yourself for making it through another day! Remind yourself that you are strong.
Read scriptures and general conference talks or even uplifting self-help books to sharpen your mind and your faith in Jesus Christ.
Open up to your trusted friends, family members, or your bishop for support. He can help you find a counselor if needed.
Know there is nothing wrong with seeking professional help! Professionals can be very helpful in learning to overcome and manage mental health struggles. Taking advantage of the free counseling program at my university was very helpful to me.
Don’t be ashamed to see a doctor or of taking antidepressant medications—these are tools Heavenly Father has provided for us to heal.
Do family history and temple work to help you remember that others beyond the veil are praying for your healing too! Elder Dale G. Renlund’s talk, “Family History and Temple Work: Sealing and Healing” gives more insight into promised blessings of doing temple work.
For so long I didn’t think it was possible to hear the voice of the Spirit or to feel God’s love in the midst of depression. I felt like I was constantly floating in an abyss of darkness. But a little glimmer of light from the Savior helped me hold on to hope. And by opening up about my struggles, I’ve learned that many of my friends also experience mental health struggles—and we have helped assure each other that we are not alone.
Who I was before I turned to Heavenly Father for help and who I am today are two very different people. I wouldn’t have the faith and testimony I do in Jesus Christ today if it wasn’t for that period of darkness I went through. I am beyond grateful for the light that He brings into my life that helps me defeat the demons and fears in my mind. I know that He suffered for all our afflictions and that He understands exactly what we are going through (see Alma 7:11–14) and with Him, we can always hold on to hope and light.

Recently we toured the Tahiti Mission and had several faith-promoting experiences with the Saints on the many small islands cradled by oceans of water.
Tahitian nights are cool and clear, and while most of the islanders were sound asleep, a small group of Latter-day Saints began packing belongings into their suitcases at 3:00 A.M. to catch a small twin engine propeller plane to Makemo, a small island in the Tuomatu group.
The plane with all 16 aboard taxied down the grassy runway and off we flew into the dark sky, where stars shone brightly and a full moon reflected on the water below.
President Stephen L. Graham, the mission president, was eager to tell us about his mission and how the Lord had answered his prayers. He smiled, spoke softly, and we listened. The roar of the engines was constant, and after a few hours, the sky gradually became lighter as the rising sun brightened on the horizon.
The plane gradually descended, and the short landing strip appeared. We slowly glided to a stop on the grass, gravel, and coral runway. As we arrived safely, we recognized that our prayers had been answered. Many people, our own members, were there to greet us warmly and wish us “Welcome, come and stay. We are happy to see you.” Greetings were exchanged as cheeks were kissed in friendly and familiar tradition. Handmade gifts of shells and flowers were hung around our necks. Their generosity and gifts brought tender feelings, and tears ran down smiling faces.
The island has about 60 Latter-day Saint members, and all had come to greet their visitors. We went a short distance to their new meetinghouse, a beautiful new Latter-day Saint chapel. Many had been waiting for the fulfilling of a promise that their prayers would be answered and one would come by assignment from the prophet to dedicate their building. The chapel was filled to overflowing, and each one sat in solemn silence as a prayer was given. Over 187 attended, many of whom were not members of the Church but who had desires to know about its message.
With that spiritual experience placed firmly in our hearts, we moved on to another assignment on a neighboring island. We approached the wharf. There the three small handcrafted, open boats, each about 20 feet in length with only outboard motors to propel them, were waiting. The mission president rode with us and looked after every detail. Ten to fifteen people crowded into each of these little wooden boats. The big surprise came when a 50-gallon drum was placed in the middle of the boat. We gazed, bewildered, and it was explained that that was our gas supply. An ordinary garden hose was dipped into the opening and a piece of Styrofoam, irregularly fashioned, held it in place. Three men had to sit on the bow, and then the signal was given to push off. The engines started effortlessly and all three boats headed out for the open seas as tearful Saints waved good-bye and anxiously asked, “You’ll come back, won’t you?”
When we were a short distance from shore a remarkable thing happened: the boats met, as if by appointment, and formed a small circle. The engines were stopped. Hats, which shielded us from the heat of the sun, were removed. Then, in a very spontaneous and special moment, the occupants looked at the mission president and he invited one to be voice and petition the Lord for safety during our journey. What reverence and what a sweet spirit touched our souls as we felt the hand of the Lord watching over us—a small band of Saints upon the beautiful blue waters of the vast Pacific Ocean.
Then the engines on all three boats were started, and one by one the boats moved out into the open, choppy waters. In a short time we were out of the harbor and the endless waves became larger and the skill of our skipper was felt. The relentless waves, one after another, persistently pounded our small boats. As the waves became more intense, the boat was tossed and rocked and we held on tightly. The salty spray soaked us, and we had to protect the gas barrel with a plastic cover. Flying fish were frequent sights as they swiftly glided past and narrowly skimmed the water. Land was nowhere to be seen. The salty spray was felt repeatedly and the sun was hot at noonday. The relentless waves tossed the beaten boat so forcefully that the boards on the bow broke and would need to be repaired.
After several hours we finally saw a faint irregularity appearing as a silhouette, and our skipper announced that land was in sight. We approached the tiny atoll of Taenga.
As we neared the island the engines were again stopped, hats were removed, and heads again bowed as President Graham called on one to offer a prayer of gratitude for a safe journey. You see, we were on His mission and He had truly answered our prayers.
Excitement was again felt as we disembarked on this lovely island and more lovely people greeted us. Another new chapel was to be dedicated. Heads were again bowed and prayers of thanks were sounded. What a spiritual experience! Our prayers and their prayers were answered.
The greetings of the Saints of Taenga, Makemo, and then Maniki islands, like those of the Saints throughout the Pacific Isles, were warm and wonderful. Shells, leis, flowers, baskets, handshakes, kisses, and hugs were commonplace, and the hearts of all of us were pounding in prayers of gratitude as heavily as the waves on the water.

My brethren and sisters, at the outset, if you will bear with me, I wish to exercise a personal privilege. Six months ago, at the close of our conference, I stated that my beloved companion of 67 years was seriously ill. She passed away two days later. It was April 6, a significant day to all of us of this Church. I wish to thank publicly the dedicated doctors and wonderful nurses who attended her during her final illness.
My children and I were at her bedside as she slipped peacefully into eternity. As I held her hand and saw mortal life drain from her fingers, I confess I was overcome. Before I married her, she had been the girl of my dreams, to use the words of a song then popular. She was my dear companion for more than two-thirds of a century, my equal before the Lord, really my superior. And now in my old age, she has again become the girl of my dreams.
Immediately following her passing there was a tremendous outpouring of love from across the world. Great quantities of beautiful floral offerings were sent. Large contributions were made in her name to the Perpetual Education Fund and her academic chair at Brigham Young University. There were literally hundreds of letters. We have boxes filled with them from many we know and from very many we do not know. They all express admiration for her and sympathy and love for us whom she left behind.
We regret that we have been unable to respond individually to these many expressions. So I now take this occasion to thank you every one for your great kindness toward us. Thank you so very, very much, and please excuse our failure to reply. The task was beyond our capacity, but your expressions have shed an aura of comfort in our time of grief.

“If I’d been in the Church for the length of time I have now (one year), and they’d asked me to leave England and follow the Prophet, I would have said yes,” says 17-year-old Paul Lindsey, from Nottinghamshire, England.
But he admits it would have been the hardest of tests, and he’s not sure about swapping the 1800s for the 1990s. “I’m too comfortable with modern wonders—and I don’t like wearing these trousers,” he laughs.
So why is Paul in Victorian costume, parading around the streets of Preston, England? He’s one of 210 seminary students who’ve ridden into town in three coaches.
Students came from Nottinghamshire, Leicestershire, Warwickshire, and Northamptonshire. Some made outfits from curtains; some wear rented costumes or modified old clothing from their parents.
Arthur Hardy, their seminary coordinator, is about to bring Church history to life as their trip into the past begins.
“We may look a bit stupid,” grins a friend of Paul’s, Daniel Liddicott from Leicester Stake, “but it does lead to questions. One person said there’s absolutely nothing in Preston, so why are we here? It’s a good opportunity to tell them Preston was a place of great history for our church when the missionaries first came over.”
The obelisk in the market square was the scene of those mighty beginnings—a place for many outdoor sermons. The fruits of those beginnings are hard to take in. At one time, in 1850, there were 30,700 Saints in Great Britain, and only 26,000 in the United States.
But that’s jumping ahead. The adversary didn’t let the gospel into this land without a fight.
The youth are at the scene of the first battle—a tiny lodging house on the corner of Wilfred Street. There’s only room for eight students at a time. They climb a narrow, rickety staircase up two flights.
In this lodging house, the elders in England were tormented by evil spirits and feared for their lives. (See Orson F. Whitney, The Life of Heber C. Kimball, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, pp. 129–31.)
“It’s a bit creepy thinking about what went on in this house,” says Paul, “when they were attacked by legions of Satan’s followers. I can imagine it all happening.”
“It really adds to my testimony,” admits Paul, “to know that these men made the difficult decision to leave their families, come across the seas to England, and go through so much to teach people who’d never heard of the Church.”
“The sheer number converted shows how hard the Spirit must have been working to get a good base for what would follow, right up to us today,” says Paul.
Sara-Jayne Soverall, another of Paul’s friends, adds, “I wish we could be back in those times for a moment. I’d love to have seen them all.”
Apparently so would Preston’s Evening Post reporter, according to 16-year-old Michelle Armstrong. “It’s the best thing, walking around in Victorian costume,” she says. “Especially when that newspaper bloke took photos. He was trying to get us to reenact those first river baptisms, but it wouldn’t have been proper, so he got pictures of us pretending to teach people instead.”
Paul thinks it must have been harder then for a young person to be the only family member seeking baptism.
“My own family was cautious at first,” he remembers, “but now Mum sticks up for me, and my sister lends me her car to come to church. The Church today has been established long enough to be known, but then it was so new. I think people may have been more suspicious.”
The next stop on the pilgrimage is the Cockpit, a building rented for church meetings by early Saints from the local temperance movement, where people were taught the evils of alcohol.
Then, on by coach to the beautiful villages of Downham and Chatburn. To Paul Lindsey, in the 20th century, it seems a strange thing for the whole community to get up and go to Utah. He concludes, “The Spirit must have been very strong for that to happen.”
That same Spirit is still here in 1994. And amazing things still happen in England—not the least of which is the final site, the highlight of this seminary outing, a place which unites past and present in an excellent way.
Currently, it’s an empty field. Soon it will be the site of Britain’s second temple. The youth are impressed with the architect’s plans, marvel at miracles leading to the permission to build the temple, and can’t wait to enter its doors.
Wouldn’t those early Saints have loved to be here today? Maybe the strength of their faith and ours brings them closer than we realize.

A long time ago in a faraway village lived a man who everyone did their very best to avoid. He was the type of person who believed that there was only one competent person in the world, and that one person was himself. Consequently he was never satisfied with anything. His shoes never fit right. His shirt never felt comfortable. When his food wasn’t too cold, it was too salty, and when it wasn’t too hot, it was too bland.

If a field wasn’t sowed by himself, it was not sowed well. If he didn’t close the door, the door was not closed properly.

In short, he made a career of frowning, lecturing, criticizing, and mumbling about the incompetencies of every other person in the rest of the world.

Unfortunately, the man was married, which made matters all the worse. No matter what his wife did, in his eyes it was wrong. No matter what the unfortunate woman cooked, sewed, or cleaned, or even when she milked the cow, it was never satisfactory, and he let her know it.

She tried very hard to be a good wife, but it seemed the harder she tried the less she pleased him. Finally, one evening she could take no more.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” she told him. “Tomorrow I will do your chores and you will do mine.”

“But you can’t do my chores,” the man replied. “You don’t know the first thing about sowing, hoeing, and irrigating.”

But the woman was adamant. And on top of that, she was filled with a righteous anger that frankly astonished and frightened the man to the point where he didn’t dare disagree.

So the next morning the wife went off to the fields and the man began the domestic chores. After thinking about it, he had actually convinced himself he was looking forward to it. Once and for all, he would demonstrate to his wife how things should be done.

Unfortunately, not everything went according to plan. In fact, nearly everything the man touched turned into disaster. He spilled the milk, let the pig get into the house, lost the cow, burned the dinner, and ultimately set the house on fire, narrowly escaping with his own life.

When his wife returned, she discovered her husband sitting on a pile of ashes, smoke still rising from his clothes. But the woman wasn’t the type to rub things in. She helped him up, wiped the soot from his beard, fixed him a little something to eat, and then prepared a bed of straw for them to sleep on.

From that day forward, the man never complained about anyone or anything else for as long as he lived.

Some time ago Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Seventy, with his wife, was serving in an Area Presidency in Chile. One Friday he needed to travel 900 miles (1,450 km) from their home in Santiago to reorganize a stake presidency.
After he arrived at his destination on Friday night, he received a call telling him that his wife was in the hospital. When he spoke with Sister Johnson, she explained that she had fallen down some stairs and shattered her kneecap. Assuring him that she was being well cared for and wouldn’t be in surgery until Monday or Tuesday, she encouraged him to finish his assignment to reorganize the stake and preside at the stake conference.
Calmed by her words, Elder Johnson immediately sent an email to his quorum leader in Salt Lake City to report the situation. Then he made plans to continue his assignment. There is a lesson to be learned in his response: first, he reported the situation to his quorum leader, and then he went ahead with his assignment.
The Quorums of the Seventy are organized in such a way that each member has specific stewardship over others, including tender watchcare for emeritus members of the quorum. Because of assignments around the world, quorum members normally cannot visit in person; however, they keep in contact through telephone calls, emails, texts, and other electronic means. Each member is asked to advise his quorum leader immediately of any significant changes in personal or family situations, which is exactly what Elder Johnson did.
In Elder Johnson’s case, his priesthood leader was Elder Claudio R. M. Costa, who was then serving as a member of the Presidency of the Seventy. Elder Costa called Elder Johnson the next morning while Elder Johnson was in the middle of interviewing local leaders. Elder Costa felt that Elder Johnson should return home but listened carefully as Elder Johnson explained why he felt his wife was all right and he could finish the stake reorganization. Elder Costa told Elder Johnson to continue while he did some checking.
About two hours later Elder Costa called Elder Johnson and told him that he had talked with quorum leaders about the situation and that they felt he needed to be with Sister Johnson. Elder Johnson was advised that a ticket was waiting for him at the airport and that Elder Carlos H. Amado was on his way to finish the reorganization of the stake presidency.
When Elder Johnson arrived at the hospital, he found his wife in a great deal of pain. Adding to her distress was the fact that she didn’t speak the language of the medical staff that surrounded her. She needed her husband. The inspired, brotherly concern of his quorum leaders had brought Elder Johnson to her side.
“I feel cared for in this quorum,” said Elder Johnson, “and there is a lot of faith and energy behind that care. I truly feel part of a quorum. I think that if I were ever called into the presidency of an elders quorum, I would be a better president because of my experience in this one.”

A few weeks ago we had the opportunity of being in Suva, Fiji. I was surprised after registering at a motel to have the clerk look up and say, “Elder Ashton, could my husband and I and our children visit with you tonight?” I didn’t know that she knew who I was. Because we had meetings until ten o’clock in the evening, I told her the situation and she said, “We’ll come at ten o’clock in the evening.” And at ten o’clock in the evening this lady—and we will call her Jessie because that is her name (I would hate to try and pronounce her last name)—and her husband and six children crowded into our motel room.

After proper introductions and getting as comfortable as possible in almost impossible conditions, Jessie led off with this question. “Our son over here is nineteen years of age. The question we want to ask you, Elder Ashton, is, should we continue to save our money so that our son can go into the mission field, or should we continue to save our money so that some day all of us can go to the temple in New Zealand and be sealed to each other?”

My answer: “In the Church we do both.”

Another question. “Is it true that some missionaries can get money from other families for assistance when the missionary’s own family doesn’t have very much in the way of money?”

I said, “Yes, that is possible, but never deprive your family of the opportunity of taking part in some way to furnish money monthly to your son. Do not let that opportunity escape your family no matter how slight the contribution.” Brothers and sisters, money, like people, is only valuable when it is put to worthy purposes. In this case, money will be nothing more than a means to an end. It is not money, but a lack of it, that is making this family strong.

Just last Friday Sister Ashton and I had a letter from Suva, Fiji, indicating that the nineteen-year-old son was now in the mission field. I am pleased to add that to the remarks tonight.

Sister Mayra is a recent convert from Ecuador. Her joy in the gospel skyrocketed immediately following her baptism as she invited friends and loved ones around her through social media accounts. Many family members and friends who saw her posts responded with questions. Mayra connected with them, often inviting them to her home to meet with the missionaries together.
Mayra’s parents, her siblings, her aunt, two cousins, and several of her friends were baptized because she courageously invited them to “come and see,” “come and serve,” and “come and belong.” Through her normal and natural invitations, over 20 people have accepted her invitation to be baptized members of the Church of Jesus Christ. This came about because Sister Mayra simply invited others to experience the joy she felt as a member of the Church.

May I share today a story about a person who lived in such a way, in an eternal, loving companionship in Hawaii.

In 1850, Brigham Young sent ten missionaries to the Hawaiian Islands. Without understanding the language and culture, the missionaries found the work extremely difficult. Eventually they became discouraged, including the mission president. They became so discouraged that five of the ten left to go home. The youngest of the remaining missionaries, Elder George Q. Cannon, was determined to stay. He went to the Lord in prayer. The Lord inspired him to go to Lahaina on Maui. He did so.

As he approached this town, two ladies went screaming into a nearby house and brought out a local gentleman. The previous night, this man had had a dream that a messenger of God was coming to his town and that he must feed him. Elder Cannon was invited to stay and preach in the home of this man, Jonathon H. Napela, who was a very well-educated man and the magistrate of that district (see Alma 10:4).

Subsequently, Elder Cannon and Jonathon Napela became very close friends, like Alma and Amulek in the Book of Mormon (see Alma 10–15). Because of the guiding hand of God and Brother Napela’s great help, along with the hospitality and kindness of the Hawaiian Saints, the missionary work began to excel in Hawaii, and the foundation was laid.

When my husband, David, and I found out we couldn’t have children, I wept. Then, in 2016, my doctor called me back to her office after a routine medical checkup and mammogram. After more testing, what she at first thought was a small problem had become a big one: cancer.
That was a shock, and we had some bad days. Before we knew how things would turn out, I told Heavenly Father, “If this is the end for me, please take care of David.”
I was able to hold on emotionally during the day, but when nighttime came and all was quiet, the tears would come. But that was also when I would sense through the Holy Ghost that everything was going to be all right—not necessarily because I was going to live but because Heavenly Father was there. So, during my treatment, we went forward one step at a time.
Certain hymns and scriptures became more meaningful. Doctrine and Covenants 122:8 really struck me: “The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater that he?”
No, I realized, I am not greater than He. If going through infertility and cancer enabled me to better appreciate the Savior and His atoning sacrifice, then I was willing.
We kept our eye on the Lord so we could see our blessings, including an amazing support system. My Relief Society president was wonderful. People from the school where I taught did a cancer walk for me. A colleague who wanted me to know she cared gave me a pink pen. During moments like that, you say, “You were my angel today. You were my evidence that God knows I needed a hug or a pink pen.”
People watch us as members of the Church. They want to know why we can go through tough things and still smile.
“How are you not a mess?” people often asked us. We explained that the peace we felt came from our faith and beliefs, our love for Heavenly Father, and our trust in His will for us. Sharing our faith strengthened our faith.
Peace didn’t come the second I was diagnosed, but it came. The peace was the miracle.

One day at school before I was eight, they were inspecting our hands and nails to see if they were clean, and the principal saw my CTR ring. After the principal checked the rest of my row, she came back to me and said, “Rebeca, come with me to the principal’s office.” Then she said to my teacher, “Can I take Rebeca for a while?”
In her office, she asked me what the ring meant. I said, “Choose the right.” I explained that at church they teach us to do good, pray, and read the scriptures. She asked which church I went to, and I said, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Then she asked me what that church was about, and I told her about Joseph Smith going into a grove to pray and seeing the Father and the Son. I told her about going to the temple to be sealed to my parents and that I would be baptized when I was eight. She said, “You can tell me more later because you need to be in math class right now.”
Later I took the principal a copy of the Book of Mormon with my testimony inside.
I have a goal to be a missionary when I grow up. But right now I am trying to share the gospel with my friends.

One of my favorite stories is the story of Lambert the Sheepish Lion. It became famous in a cartoon some years ago.
Lambert was a lion cub that had lived with a flock of sheep from the time he was born. Because of that, he thought he was a sheep. One spring night Lambert and the flock were sleeping peacefully. Suddenly Lambert heard the scary howl of a wolf in the distance. Because Lambert thought he was a sheep, he began to tremble.
The howl grew louder, and the wolf came closer and began dragging one of the sheep away. Suddenly Lambert felt a strong feeling inside that he had never felt before. Like lightning, he ran toward the wolf to save the sheep!
Just then Lambert realized something. “I am not a sheep. I am not the son of a sheep. I am the son of a lion!” Lambert thought. When he chased off the wolf and protected the sheep, he knew his true nature.

“Oh, Mom, it’s just not fair!” Sarah heard Ben say as she neared the kitchen. She stopped, a wave of guilt sweeping over her. She knew what he was referring to.
“I know it isn’t, Ben,” Mother replied in a soothing tone, “but you’ve got to remember that it’s not Sarah’s fault. She knows she shouldn’t be afraid of dogs, but when that little dog bit her on the lip when she was just a little girl he left more than just a scar on her face. The scar in her mind is a deeper one.”
“I’m not blaming her, Mom,” Ben sighed. “But you know how much I’ve wanted a dog.”
Sarah silently tiptoed away from the kitchen, not wanting her mother and brother to know she’d overheard. She walked slowly upstairs to her bedroom and flopped on the bed. Why do I have to be such a baby? she berated herself, unconsciously tracing the scar on her lip with her finger. Ben really wants a dog, but whenever I get near one I’m scared out of my mind!
Sighing, Sarah got up and mechanically prepared for bed. After calling goodnight to everyone and saying her prayers, she climbed under the covers. But she couldn’t go to sleep.
The sudden, far-off howling of a dog broke the stillness. Sarah sat upright in bed, shivers running up her spine. I must be imagining things, she thought disgustedly. The sound’s not coming from the direction of the Johnson’s farm, and they’re the only ones with a dog around here. She lay back down and tried to make her mind a blank. Again she heard the faint but piercing cry. Thinking of Ben, tears welled up in her eyes, and she said out loud to the blackness, “But I can’t help it!” Then, burying her head under her pillow, she fell into a fitful sleep.
The next day was a busy one, for there was a lot to do on their farm. The events of the night before were forgotten until lunchtime. As everyone walked into the kitchen, Sarah lagged behind, exulting in the freshness of the air and the stillness of the countryside when the noise of the tractor was stilled. Suddenly she heard the unmistakable barking of a dog.
“Ben, Ben!” Sarah called, running after her brother. “Did you hear that dog barking?”
Ben frowned and glared at his sister. “That’s not funny, Sarah, and please don’t joke about it.”
“I’m not joking, Ben! I heard it last night and again just now—a dog barking and howling, but it sounds like he’s far away. Don’t you hear it?”
They both stood still for a moment. Then Ben shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, Sarah, but I don’t hear anything—except my stomach growling! Let’s go in and eat. Your mind must be playing tricks on you.”
Sarah tried to forget what she’d heard until that night when she lay in bed again. However, she was so exhausted from the lack of sleep the night before that she soon fell asleep.
The next morning as she climbed into the truck to go to church, Sarah thought she heard the phantom dog again. Her dad declared it must be the Johnson’s dog, but Sarah had an uneasy feeling that he was wrong. When she heard the dog again late Sunday evening, she tiptoed into her brother’s room and shook his shoulder gently.
“What is it?” Ben asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes.
“Ben, you’ve got to listen. I keep hearing that dog and I’m not imagining it! I’m sure it isn’t the Johnson’s dog. Please, just listen for a minute.”
After a few moments of silence, the unmistakable yowl of a dog came drifting faintly on the night air. “You’re right, Sarah!” Ben whispered excitedly. “It’s a dog in trouble, all right, and it isn’t the Johnson’s dog. We’d better go see if we can find it.”
“Right now?” Sarah asked. “You know we could never find anything in the dark!”
“You’re right,” Ben admitted reluctantly. “Let’s get up early and start looking as soon as it’s light. We can split up so we can cover more ground before school.”
“But Ben,” Sarah’s voice quivered a little, “can’t I go with you? What’ll I do if I find him? You know that I …”
“If you find him, you can come and get me, OK? Don’t worry. Now go back to bed and get some sleep.”
The next morning as soon as it began to get light Ben and Sarah were up and out looking for the dog. After nearly an hour they still hadn’t found anything, so they decided to try again after school. As soon as they got home that afternoon, they each got a couple of cookies and went out the door.
“You may want to take your waterproof cloak Sarah,” Ben said, glancing up at the sky. “It looks like it might storm.”
Sarah grabbed her cloak off the nail on the back porch and went toward the cornfields. “Why don’t you try over by the south boundary of the farm, Sarah?” Ben suggested. “Dad covered a lot of ground plowing Saturday, but he didn’t get down that far. I’ll go the other way.”
Sarah had been looking around for about twenty minutes when she heard the mournful wail again. I’m getting close, she thought apprehensively. “Where are you?” she called, hoping the dog would bark at the sound of her voice. It did. Feeling a few drops of rain, she pulled her poncho over her head and went in the direction of the sound, calling again as she went. The dog responded each time she called, even though she could tell from its tone that it was getting weaker with each bark.
Coming to the edge of a large irrigation canal, Sarah stopped and sharply drew in her breath at what she saw. The dog was caught in the partly flattened end of a pipe—probably crushed by a tractor, Sarah surmised. He must have gotten stuck chasing a rabbit or something. I’ve got to go get Ben so he can help get him out. Sarah turned to go, but the dog’s pleading whimper brought her back again. Rain was beginning to pelt down harder now. She looked back into the ditch and realized that if the rainwater increased the water level of the canal, the dog would drown. The way this storm is increasing, by the time Ben gets here it will be too late! Sarah thought.
For a minute she panicked. “I can’t! I just can’t go near him!” she cried. Then the words seemed to enter her mind, You’ve got to, or he’ll drown! She looked again at the stricken animal and took a few faltering steps. Oh, help me! She silently prayed, then plunged down the bank.
She stopped a couple of meters from the dog and looked at him. When the dog saw her, he whined plaintively and stared at Sarah with the most incredible look of relief and joy that Sarah had ever seen. That look is almost human, Sarah thought, surprised. Impulsively, she fell to her knees and stroked the dog’s head. “You poor thing!” she murmured.
She began to tug at the dog’s shoulders in an effort to free him. The water was already beginning to collect in the canal. I’ve got to work fast, she determined. The dog was too weak to help, but he licked her hand with his tongue as she tried to lubricate the end of the pipe with a little mud and water. Days of going without food had helped to make the animal a little thinner. Before long she had him free.
“You’re going to be all right,” she said over and over as she stroked his muddy fur. Then suddenly she realized what she was doing. Sarah Blackhurst, you’re petting a dog! And you’re not scared at all! The thought took her breath away. The years of fear had been forgotten in the love and pity she felt for the suffering animal.
The dog was too weak to walk, so Sarah, already muddy and wet, wrapped him in her cloak and carried him out of the gully toward home. The dog never quit looking at her, even when Ben took him out of her arms at the door to the kitchen.
“Sarah! Where did you find him? I was beginning to worry about you!” Ben cried breathlessly. “I was about to …” Suddenly Ben stopped and turned, staring into Sarah’s eyes. “Sarah, you’ve been holding a dog!”
“I know,” Sarah grinned sheepishly. “I know.”
Later that evening after the dog had been fed and given a warm bath, the family sat around the fireplace talking. The dog lay curled on a blanket in front of the hearth. “You know, Sarah, I don’t think that dog’s taken his eyes off you since you found him!” Father said.
“I’ve never seen such a look of love and devotion in my whole life,” Mother commented.
“From Sarah or the dog!” Ben said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Where do you think he came from, Dad?” Sarah asked. “Do you think we can keep him?”
“Well, I think we should advertise in the newspaper that we’ve found him,” Dad responded, “but I doubt anyone will come for him. He’s probably a stray dog, abandoned in the country by somebody who wanted to get rid of him.”
“I hope we can keep him,” Sarah murmured.
“I never thought I’d ever hear you say something like that!” Ben teased. Then after a minute he said, “I thought I was supposed to be the one who got a dog!” But he winked at Sarah as he said it.

Some years ago Elder Marion D. Hanks told about a group of Boy Scouts who went cave exploring. The narrow trail was marked with white stones and lighted in sections as they went. After about an hour they came to a huge, high dome. Below it lay an area called the Bottomless Pit, so called because the floor of the cave had collapsed into a deep, gaping hole. It was hard not to jostle each other on that narrow path. Pretty soon, one of the bigger boys accidentally pushed a smaller boy into a muddy area away from the light. Terrified as he lost his footing, he screamed in the darkness. The ranger heard his cry of terror and came quickly. The boy let out another cry as the beam of the ranger’s light showed that he was right on the very edge of the pit. (See Improvement Era, June 1957, 444–51.)
In this story, the boy was rescued. But this does not always happen. So many times young people go to the very edge or even beyond it. With only a precarious toehold, it is easy to be seriously injured or even die.

Lynn hurried up the street to investigate a large box on the ground next to Grandma Cooper’s gate. Shiny red material hung over the rim of the box, and a sign in Grandma’s handwriting said:
FREE
HELP YOURSELF
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” Lynn gasped as she began to pull the fabric from the box. She stretched on her tiptoes until both arms were straight above her head and the material billowed around her. Grandma’s drapes! Lynn thought, hugging the cloth to her. I guess she won’t need them in her new apartment. I can use them to make something wonderful!
Lynn stuffed the drapes back into the box and gave it a tug. It didn’t move. Using both hands, she gave the box another tug. It scraped along the ground a few inches. Lynn squeezed in between the fence and the box and, bracing herself, gave a mighty shove.
“What are you doing?”
Lynn spotted the skateboard under Kenny’s arm. “Hi, Kenny,” she said with a big smile. “Would you help me, please?”
Kenny looked from Lynn to the big box and back at Lynn. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“If I could get these beautiful drapes home, I just know I could make something wonderful,” she told him. “Could we put the box on your skateboard and push it to my house?”
Kenny knelt beside the box for a closer look. “My house is closer,” he said thoughtfully. “We could make a tepee.”
“No!” Lynn wailed. “You’ll use all of it, and I want to make something wonderful.”
“No, I won’t, Lynn, honest,” Kenny promised. “Besides you can play in the tepee too. And I’ll let you borrow my wagon to take the rest of the drapes home.”
“Well, OK,” Lynn agreed.
Together Kenny and Lynn managed to get the box up onto the skateboard. They had pushed it almost to Kenny’s house when Patty rode up on her bike.
“What’s in the box?” she asked.
“Grandma Cooper’s old curtains,” Lynn told her. “We’re going to make a tepee at Kenny’s, and I’m going to take what’s left of them home and make something wonderful!”
“Wow!” Patty peered into the box. “Could I have some to make curtains for my stage?” she asked.
Lynn started to shake her head, then stopped and said, “OK, if you’ll help us make the tepee first.”
Later, when the three children stood back to look, the tall red tepee seemed to glow in the sun. Patty broke the spell. “Come on, Lynn. Now let’s go to my house.”
“Thanks, Lynn,” said Kenny as they tied his wagon to Patty’s bike. “Come over tomorrow and we’ll play in the tepee. You, too, Patty.”
The girls were going through the gate at Patty’s house when Mrs. Whistler walked by with her baby. “Hi, girls,” she called. “You look busy. What are you pulling in the wagon?”
Patty beamed. “My stage is going to have real curtains. Lynn is giving me the material for them.”
Mrs. Whistler reached into the box and ran her fingers over the fabric. “What beautiful material,” she said. “It would make a gorgeous party dress.”
Patty and Lynn looked at each other. Mrs. Whistler couldn’t afford many pretty things.
“If you’ll help us make the curtains for the stage, Mrs. Whistler, you can have some material for a dress,” Lynn offered.
“Really? Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed. “But I’d be glad to help you, anyway.”
That evening Lynn sat on the floor of her room, looking at a single piece of shiny red cloth. When her mother walked by the open door, she stopped and asked, “Where did you get that pretty material, honey?”
“Grandma Cooper gave it away,” Lynn said. “It isn’t very big. But do you think there’s enough to make something wonderful?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Mother. “How about a doll dress or a heart-shaped pillow?” She hesitated, then turned the empty box upside down and spread the cloth over it. “How about a tablecloth for a party?”
Lynn clapped her hands. “Oh, yes! Let’s do that. And let’s invite Grandma Cooper to the party!”

There are various names by which reference is made to the Lord Jesus Christ. These names give us insight into different aspects of the Lord’s atoning mission. Take, for example, the title “Savior.” We all have a sense of what it means to be saved because each of us has been saved at some time from something. As children, my sister and I were playing in a river in a small boat when we unwisely left the safe area of play and found ourselves being propelled by the current to unknown perils downstream. In response to our cries, our father ran to the rescue, saving us from the dangers of the river. When I think of saving, I think of that experience.

Some weeks later, I had a vivid dream. My three boys had climbed to the top of a cliff. As they stepped to the edge, I felt powerless to keep them safe. Any of them could make a choice at any moment that would lead to a deadly fall. I cried out to God in fear.
I awoke with my heart pounding. I rolled out of bed to pray that Heavenly Father would protect my sons—not from a physical fall but from a spiritual one that now felt just as real.
The Spirit prompted me to open the Pearl of Great Price. His guidance took me on a spiritual journey through the story of Enoch (see Moses 7:21–67). As I read, I realized that our Heavenly Father watches us make choices that could lead us over the ledge toward spiritual death. With my dream fresh in my mind, I now had a better understanding of how hard it must be for Him to watch us make such choices (see Moses 7:28).
But I realized I could not ask God to keep my boys from falling without asking Him to take away the agency He had given them. For a brief second, I understood the draw of Lucifer’s promise that he would save everyone, including our loved ones (see Moses 4:1). But Satan’s promise was deception because it would “destroy the agency of man” (Moses 4:3). And Heavenly Father knew that if we were to become like Him, we must be able to choose to obey Him (see Moses 7:32–33).
I was stunned as I considered our Father’s unwavering commitment to our agency in spite of what it must have cost Him personally (see Moses 7:37). But where did that leave me? Was I really powerless to do anything to help them?
As my own soul ached for my children (see Moses 7:41), the Spirit whispered to me to lift up my heart and be glad (see Moses 7:44). I kept reading and was struck by the following words: “I am Messiah, the King of Zion, the Rock of Heaven, which is broad as eternity; whoso cometh in at the gate and climbeth up by me shall never fall”1 (Moses 7:53; emphasis added).
This climb was what I had just dreamed about! This promise of safety is what I had just prayed for. When I looked at our mortal journey as a climb, I realized my boys were going to slip and fall. We all do. I did. That’s why I wanted to protect them; I was afraid that if they fell off the rock, they might be so hurt that they wouldn’t want to get back up.
But as the Spirit continued to teach me, I realized that the experiences I’d had in turning back to the Savior after my falls had changed me. They created in me an appreciation for what Jesus Christ had done for me. It’s what bound me to Him now. That experience is invaluable, but it is only possible when we are free to choose to turn to Him again if we have chosen to turn away.
I now understood that I couldn’t keep my boys from making choices that would lead to a fall. But I could help them learn to recognize good choices, and I could teach them whom to turn to, not only when they made bad choices but in all things.
Nephi’s metaphor of a path helped me know how I could help my boys learn to turn to Him: “Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life” (2 Nephi 31:20; see also verse 19).
Whether we are talking about clinging to an iron rod or to a climbing rope, the safety I wanted to provide my boys is found in being connected to the Savior by relying upon His word. Instilling in them a love for the scriptures and the teachings of living prophets can give them what they need to press forward—or upward—even if they slip and fall.

Eritai says he feels happy and accomplished after overseeing the construction of a solar-powered Church building and missionary housing in Tabonibara, North Tarawa.
“I have never done anything as critical as this,” Eritai explained.
He told of answers to many prayers during the construction. He found it remarkable the way “every detail of the plans came together, and they were able to finish it so quickly despite setbacks with construction and weather.”

President Marion G. Romney, a former member of the First Presidency, told this story:
"A few years ago as I began to practice law, members of my family were a little uneasy. They were afraid I would lose my faith. I wanted to practice law, but I had an even greater desire to keep my testimony, and so I decided upon a little procedure which I recommend to you. For thirty minutes each morning before I began the day's work I read from the Book of Mormon--I also read from all the other standard works of the Church, but I am talking now about the Book of Mormon--and in just a few minutes a day I read the Book of Mormon through, every year, for nine years. I know that it kept me in harmony, so far as I did keep in harmony, with the Spirit of the Lord."[21]

Let me give you a more recent and relatable illustration. This story is about an experience I had with a student I will call Jen. I was teaching at a private Catholic college, but Jen, if Catholic, was only a Catholic by record. Jen was a philosophy major and an adamant atheist. She would go about campus and challenge the faith of others, telling them that their faith made no sense and trying to convince them how illogical their beliefs were. For some reason, she was interested in taking some psychology classes. So during her junior year, Jen took classes from myself and another professor who also was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She noticed we seemed to be happier than other professors and also how we mentioned regularly with confidence our knowledge of God. She would challenge me saying you can’t prove there is a God. I would talk to her about spiritual ways of knowing.

At the end of the academic year in May, she came to my office just before she left for a philosophy internship at Oxford University. I spoke with her again, telling her if she had an honest desire to know if there is a God, it would happen. She asked how she would know. I simply said, you will know.

At the end of the summer, Jen excitedly entered my office. I asked how her internship went, and of course, she reported it was great, but then she got quiet and simply said, “it happened.” I knew she knew God existed. It totally changed her behavior and attitude. The next several weeks and months, Jen walked from class to class with a smile handing out small pieces of paper with encouraging, kind words expressing her love and God’s love. She was excited and happy.