Gospel Story Finder

About five years ago, two missionaries came to my home in Ecuador. I was impressed with their appearance and kindness and agreed to listen to their message. I found their message interesting, but I had some doubts about it. However, I completed the reading assignments from the Book of Mormon for each of our meetings and accepted the challenge to pray.
When they finished the six lessons, the missionaries invited me to be baptized. Although I prayed constantly to know if these things were true, I didn’t believe I had received an answer. I expected to see an angel, the gold plates, or some other heavenly manifestation.
One night I was reading something about Ezra Taft Benson, who was then the President of the Church. I felt a strong desire to know if he was a prophet. I no longer aspired to see a vision—I simply wanted a witness of the truth. After praying for some time, I heard a quiet, penetrating voice testify to me that Ezra Taft Benson was a prophet, and I felt a burning sensation in my chest.
I had obtained my testimony—not through an angelic visitation, but through the still, small voice. It was with great joy and gratitude that I accepted the invitation to be baptized.

Marie-Frédérique Carter, 15, is a member of the French-speaking Lemoyne Ward. She lives in a nice, suburban part of town, where she attends a large écolesecondaire (high school) named in honor of a Catholic monsignor. Her friends know her as an aspiring violinist. They also know her as a Latter-day Saint who keeps her standards.
“I got into quite a discussion with one of my friends concerning the law of chastity,” Marie-Frédérique explains. “She thought I was really old-fashioned. She didn’t agree with my standards at all. But she finally saw I was going to stick to my principles no matter what. I want to be a good member of the Church, and I know that obedience now will bring blessings later on.”
Just the same, it isn’t always easy. “It’s hard when you get to a certain age, and you see your friends who aren’t LDS start dating and having boyfriends, and your desire is to remain faithful to the Church and to the standards that have been given to us by a living prophet. At first, I found that difficult. But not anymore. I find that I am happy doing what’s right and knowing that I’m blessed by my Heavenly Father.”

Tom’s family had exercised faith in the face of illness before and had seen miracles as a result. Tom’s younger brother Ailama was sick some years earlier. Their father, Elisala, had a dream in which he was given specific directions on what to do to care for Ailama: find a wili-wili tree, remove some bark, and pound out the juice. Elisala did this and brought the juice to Ailama, who drank it and soon recovered. So Tom had seen how acting in faith can help overcome sickness.
During the 1918 influenza epidemic, Tom exercised faith as he worked hard to care for the people of the village. “Every morning I went from house to house to feed and clean the people and to find out who had died,” he said.
He fetched buckets of water from a spring and brought water to every house. He climbed coconut trees, picked coconuts, husked them, and opened them to collect the juice to bring it to the sick. He also killed all of the chickens in the village to make soup for each family.
The 12-year-old Tom Fanene helped nurse his village to health during a pandemic.
Illustration by James Madsen
During this pandemic, around one-fourth of all of the people in Samoa died of influenza. Some of the people in Tom’s village died as well. Tom helped dig graves and bury more than 20 of them, including his own father, Elisala.
But thanks to Tom’s hard work and loving care, many people in his village survived. He made a big difference to those people and to the building up of the Lord’s kingdom in Samoa. He was “laying the foundation of a great work.”
And in your own way, so are you.
You may not be called upon to do the kinds of things Tom did, but you are, in fact, exercising faith in various ways that will make a great difference to you, to others, and to the work of building God’s kingdom.
You’re setting an example for your family, friends, and others by showing virtue, patience, kindness, and love. You’re serving others. You’re engaging in scripture study and prayer. You’re sharing the truths of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.
During this past year, many of you have even been doing these things while enduring the effects of a pandemic. Maybe you haven’t fetched water and coconuts and nursed 400 people back to health, but you have brought people comfort, hope, joy, and peace in many other ways.
Your age matters less than your faith and your willingness to work and serve others. Examples from the past, such as Tom Fanene’s, can help you see that you are needed in laying the foundation of God’s great work.

My grandparents have had a great influence on my life. Even though they have been dead for many years, I still feel their love. One grandfather, James Akerley Faust, died before I was born. I knew him only through the stories my grandmother and my parents told about him. However, I feel a strong kinship with him because I am in part what he was. Among other things, he was a cowboy, a rancher, and a postmaster in a small town in central Utah. On one occasion Grandfather took a trip in the winter to Idaho, where he met an acquaintance who had fallen on hard times. It was cold, and Grandfather’s friend had no coat. Grandfather took off his coat and gave it to him.

Always dealing honorably with others is part of loving mercy. Consider a conversation I overheard decades ago in the emergency department of Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland, in the United States. A patient, Mr. Jackson, was a courteous, pleasant man who was well known to the hospital staff. He had previously been hospitalized multiple times for the treatment of alcohol-related diseases. On this occasion, Mr. Jackson returned to the hospital for symptoms that would be diagnosed as inflammation of the pancreas caused by alcohol consumption.

Toward the end of his shift, Dr. Cohen, a hardworking and admired physician, evaluated Mr. Jackson and determined that hospitalization was warranted. Dr. Cohen assigned Dr. Jones, the physician next up in rotation, to admit Mr. Jackson and oversee his treatment.

Dr. Jones had attended a prestigious medical school and was just beginning her postgraduate studies. This grueling training was often associated with sleep deprivation, which likely contributed to Dr. Jones’s negative response. Confronted with her fifth admission of the night, she complained loudly to Dr. Cohen. She felt it was unfair that she would have to spend many hours caring for Mr. Jackson, because his predicament was, after all, self-inflicted.

Dr. Cohen’s emphatic response was spoken in almost a whisper. He said, “Dr. Jones, you became a physician to care for people and work to heal them. You didn’t become a physician to judge them. If you don’t understand the difference, you have no right to train at this institution.” Following this correction, Dr. Jones diligently cared for Mr. Jackson during the hospitalization.

Mr. Jackson has since died. Both Dr. Jones and Dr. Cohen have had stellar careers. But at a critical moment in her training, Dr. Jones needed to be reminded to do justly, to love mercy, and to care for Mr. Jackson without being judgmental.

Susa Young Gates, one of Brigham Young’s daughters, also understood that family history was important. She had been ill and very near death. But a priesthood blessing had miraculously cured her, and she was given this promise: "There has been a council in heaven, and it has been decided you shall live to perform temple work, and you shall do a greater work than you have ever done before."* Once she recovered, she devoted much of her time to helping people find their ancestors. She started genealogy classes, encouraged Saints throughout Utah and Canada to do research, and compiled a book on genealogy.

I am a convert to the Church. I was baptized when I was a 23-year-old young single adult attending medical school in Arizona, USA. I know firsthand how Satan works on investigators to confuse them and discourage them when they are seeking truth.

All during my youth, I had watched the examples of Latter-day Saint friends. I was impressed with the way they conducted their lives. I made the decision to learn more about the Church, but I did not want to tell anyone I was studying Mormonism. To avoid pressure from my friends, I decided to make my search a private investigation.

This was many years before the internet, so I went to the public library. I found a copy of the Book of Mormon and a book called A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, by Elder LeGrand Richards (1886–1983) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I began to read these books with great desire, and I found them inspiring.

While my spirit was yearning to learn more, Satan began to whisper in my ear. He told me that in order to be completely objective, I needed to read what was written by the critics of the Church also. I went back to the public library and began to look around. Sure enough, I found a book that discredited the Prophet Joseph.

Reading this anti-Mormon book confused me. I lost that sweet spirit and influence that had guided my investigation. I became frustrated and was about to abandon my search for truth. I was praying for an answer while reading anti-Mormon literature!

To my surprise, I received a phone call from a high school friend who was attending Brigham Young University. She invited me to come visit her in Utah, promising that I would love the scenic trip. She had no idea that I was secretly studying about her Church.

I accepted her invitation. My friend suggested that we go to Salt Lake City to visit Temple Square. She was surprised by my enthusiastic response. She had no idea how interested I was to learn the truth about Joseph Smith and the Restoration.

The sister missionaries on Temple Square were very helpful. Without knowing it, they answered many of my questions. Their testimonies influenced me to “doubt [my] doubts,”9 and my faith began to grow. The power of a heartfelt testimony cannot be overestimated.

My friend also shared her testimony with me and invited me to pray and ask God if the Church was true. On the long drive back to Arizona, I began to pray with faith—for the first time “with a sincere heart, with real intent” (Moroni 10:4). At some point on that trip, it seemed that my whole car lit up with light. I learned for myself that light can dispel darkness.

After I had decided to be baptized, the devil put up a final struggle. He worked on my family, who did everything in their power to discourage me, and they refused to attend my baptism.

I was baptized anyway, and gradually their hearts were softened. They began to help me research my family history. A few years later, I baptized my younger brother. The friend who invited me to visit her in Utah is now my wife.

It was a noisy evening in my dormitory at the University of Ibadan in Nigeria. There was a downpour outside, and a cool breeze blew through the window. Music of different sorts came from many rooms on my floor, and girls were singing and calling to one another.
My older sister had gone to visit friends, but I chose to stay and prepare supper for myself and my roommates. I couldn’t explain why, but I had a strong feeling that I should stay behind.
As I began making soup, Ifeoma came in. She was a missionary for a church that met on campus. A discussion ensued between Ifeoma and my roommates. She preached to them for some time and invited them to attend her church. My roommates willingly accepted her invitation.
I was disappointed because my invitations for my roommates to attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had been unsuccessful. The first time I invited them, they ridiculed me and the Church. Subsequent attempts during the following three years were also failures. I felt like a poor member missionary. But a voice within me insisted, “Don’t give up.” So I often fasted and prayed to meet someone in school who would listen to the gospel.
“Hello!” Ifeoma said, turning her attention to me. “Would you mind listening to me while you cook?”
“Not at all,” I answered.
“Are you born again?” she asked.
“Yes, if you mean by ‘born again’ what Jesus taught Nicodemus,” I said (see John 3:1–21).
“That’s interesting,” she said. “May I know which church you attend?”
“I attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I answered.
“The Mormons?” she asked in amazement. “I understand they use a different Bible.”
“It is not a Bible but the Book of Mormon,” I explained. “It is another testament of Jesus Christ.”
“Would you tell me what your beliefs are?” she asked.
“Certainly,” I answered with confidence. I told her about the Articles of Faith and the Book of Mormon. I told her about faith in Jesus Christ, repentance, and baptism. She listened quietly. Then I bore my testimony and gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon I had intended to give to someone else.
“You mean I can keep this?” she asked.
“Yes. It is a gift from me to you,” I said. Then I asked her to open the book and read 2 Nephi 25:26. She did so gladly: “We talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”
When Ifeoma finished reading, her countenance had become sober. I sensed she was convinced that what I had said was true.
“And I thought members of your church didn’t believe in Christ,” she said softly.
I invited her to attend church with me the next Sunday, and she agreed. “Thanks, Ngozi,” she said. “I have never felt such a warm feeling as I did today while talking with you.”
She left, and I understood why I had had the strong impression to stay rather than go with my sister. I had been led by the Spirit and had at last succeeded in sharing the gospel with someone who was willing to listen.

One such story is about the hymn “Lead, Kindly Light”. It describes the Savior as a guiding light during our personal moments of darkness.

As a young Catholic Priest from England, John Henry Newman became very ill while visiting Italy in 1833. He was unable to travel for almost three weeks and during that time became despondent with his situation. He sat on his bed and sobbed bitterly. When asked by his nurse what was wrong, all he could answer was that he had “work to do in England.” Finally, he was able to gain passage on an orange boat bound for Marseilles; one step closer to England. While passing through the Straits of Bonifacio the ship was beset by a dense fog. For one week the ship sat anchored, unable to move, surrounded by a thick, gray fog. It was during this time that John Newman pleaded for the Savior’s help and penned the words to the hymn “Lead, Kindly Light”

On 18 September 1989, Marc Modersitzki and Bradley Saunderson entered Lesotho, the first young missionaries assigned to teach the gospel in this small mountainous kingdom. Three member families excitedly awaited their arrival: the Masseys, the Scotts, and the Daffendols. These three families formed a group with Brother Massey as the group leader. All were anxious to begin doing missionary work with the new elders. By the end of the first two weeks, the missionaries had 18 families in their teaching pool.
Elder Saunderson recorded in his journal, “I am impressed with the incredible potential that the area has: its fields are very white.” In the first month of tracting, they were refused only four times.
Sister Scott, the mother of one of the families who met the elders on their arrival, was so excited about the first convert baptism that she wanted it to take place at her home. However, the Scotts did not have a pool, so Brother Scott bought a lattice wall pool. The next problem was that there was no level spot on their property big enough to put the pool. That did not dampen their enthusiasm. With the help of Brother Lawrence Van Tonder, one of the first two to be baptized, they dug up the Scotts’ backyard to accommodate the pool.
Thanks to the many efforts of members and missionaries, there are now more than 1,300 members in Lesotho.

In spite of the many negative occurrences in life, there are those who seem to have the knack of seeing the positive side. A young businessman was opening a new branch office, and a friend sent a floral arrangement to help celebrate the occasion. When the friend arrived at the opening, he was appalled to find the wreath bore the inscription “Rest in Peace.” Angry, he later complained to the florist. After apologizing, the florist said, “Look at it this way. Somewhere today a man was buried under a wreath that said, ‘Good luck in your new location.’”

Even the youngest children weren’t bored. The little Batemans of Trumansburg, New York, all bore their testimonies. The fourteen Batemans were special to everyone because one or another of them was always there. Coming down in two Volkswagens loaded with fifteen people, fourteen suitcases, and a hundred dresses, they were the epitome of the always-laugh-at hardships genre. It was one of their littlest ones that brushed by me in testimony meeting as I was looking a bit dejected from only three hours sleep the night before. With a sweet smile on her face she said, “Smile—Heavenly Father loves you!” and the day was once again mine.

A little later, I was granted an interview for a job. I competed for the position against a dozen others who were more qualified with degrees and certifications. But I had been on a mission, and I had faith and confidence the Lord would bless me. I said a prayer and then walked before a review panel.
At the end of my interview, I blurted out, “When do I start?” Two weeks later, I was one of two who were hired. I soon distinguished myself as a top salesman, which opened doors to advancement, including a call from a chief executive officer to join his large company. Today, I have the blessing of being a husband and a father and of serving as the bishop of the Langata Ward.
“Today, I have the blessing of being a husband and a father and of serving as a bishop.”

My mission president, Kirt M. Olson in the Colombia Bogota Mission, listened to know the heart of his missionaries. He connected us to the ancient Book of Mormon leaders and living prophets of our time. He was friends with President Spencer W. Kimball. Both had a great love for the children of Lehi. These men were shorter than I am physically, but to me, they seemed giants. I was a Welfare Services missionary and trained local leaders. President Olson’s question was always, “Hermana Hannonen, if you were in my shoes, what would you do?” I gave him my recommendations and justifications. What surprised me was that he implemented those recommendations right away. I knew I was valued, my opinions mattered, and my confidence grew. I worked harder and better all the time.

President Olson also encouraged missionaries to find better ways of teaching the gospel to more people. Returning back from a district conference, one elder pointed to lonely huts and yelled from the back of the bus, “Hermana Hannonen, how are you going to take the gospel to those people?” Others laughed! I paused, turned around, and responded, “We are going to teach the gospel on radio.” There was a long silence. I continued, “President Kimball in his dedicatory prayer of Colombia said that the people would hear the gospel preached on their transistor radios… and we are going to do just that.”

Missionary work is not for the faint in heart. The next day, my companion and I went to all the radio stations in the city and asked them to play tapes from Bonneville International, which included music and messages of inspiration. No one accepted our proposal, but the director of the last station looked at me and said, “I want you to make the programs.” In shock, I said, “Si, senor!” and walked out. Neither my Colombian companion nor I had any idea how to do this, but President Olson did: everything had to come from the scriptures and printed LDS Church materials. The first program was on the following Sunday morning. The topic was the appearance of Jesus Christ on the American continent after His resurrection. When these words, “Behold my Beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased, in whom I have glorified my name—hear ye him” (3 Nephi 11:7) were carried over the radio waves to far away huts in that region, we cried because the Spirit changed everything, and we felt it. There became a tangible transformation in missionaries, members, the whole city, and the mission.

The compact omnibus speedily wound its way up the winding switchbacks of the El Alto road leading out of the main city of La Paz, Bolivia. I sat on the edge of my seat, aware of nothing other than my thoughts. “What will I say? How can he be persuaded to do the right thing?” I asked myself, as the bus bounced around another curve in the worn cobblestone road. I then peered intently through the window at my right toward the mud streets and houses we swiftly passed, as if I could find an answer in the dirty, yet somehow serene surroundings. I had been given an urgent assignment to work that afternoon with one of our native Bolivian missionaries, Elder Sanchez.
Arriving in Elder Sanchez’s area, I stepped off the bus and walked determinedly to the corner apartment of a dirt-colored adobe house. Elder Sanchez stood apprehensively in the doorway of the small apartment to meet me. I sensed a look of concern in his face as I approached and we shook hands.
Elder Sanchez was not just an ordinary Bolivian, though his features were typical—a staunch 5 feet tall, jet-black hair, dark, intense eyes, and a deep brown complexion. His shoulders were broad and muscular from the year he had spent as a construction missionary before his proselyting mission. This missionary was a special Bolivian—a Lamanite called to serve his own people.
Elder Sanchez was the only member of the Church in his family, and they did not fully understand why he had to dedicate himself in such a manner to his religion. He was also somewhat older than the average missionary, and his family felt that he should be completing his education at this important time. These pressures had weighed heavily on Elder Sanchez, and at times he felt the burden was too great. Possibly he would be more of a positive influence were he with his family. These questions had to be dealt with immediately.
Ducking to fit through the small doorway, I followed Elder Sanchez into the dimly lit room—a typical missionary apartment. The furnishings were the standard items: two identical, well-worn beds, which sagged terribly in the middle; three or four new copies of the Libro de Mormón stacked on a small table in the center of the room, and several tracting pamphlets and Church books nearby. We sat on the edge of one of the beds and reviewed the plan for the afternoon’s work. We knelt together on the bare brick floor, and Elder Sanchez offered prayer. Silently I pled in my heart with the Lord: “Please help Elder Sanchez. Help him to realize just what he should do.” He had to stay—he was vital to the program. We paused briefly at the conclusion of the prayer and looked each other in the eye. We shook hands and rose to leave.
We left the apartment and talked about prospective converts and investigators as we walked down the unpaved dirt road toward the proselyting area we would be working in. I could sense that although Elder Sanchez was a little nervous about our visit, he wanted to talk. Trying to concentrate on cheerful and positive events in the mission, I complimented Elder Sanchez and his companion on the work they were doing, for things did appear to be going well for them.
We turned from the road onto a well-worn pathway that twisted its way up a small hillside. At the top we stopped to rest and catch our breath. The sun was bright and warm, yet a gentle breeze made things cool and refreshing. From the crest of the hill we looked down upon the streets and houses of the community below. The adobe structures all were roofed with sheets of rippled tin, which reflected the bright sunlight like giant mirrors. These were familiar sights to me now. I thought about how I had gone through struggles with the language, adjusting to the customs, and learning how to love these people. Elder Sanchez had not had to go through any of these changes. He knew the language, including the Aymara dialect. He knew the customs; he knew humility; he knew the language of the Lamanite heart.
We continued along the path. The top of the hill leveled into a long, narrow plateau. The other side of the plateau dropped vertically at the edge into a deep and wide ravine. At the bottom of the canyon was a small stream, polluted by garbage and other refuse that people had thrown over the side of the gulch. The stench that rose from the pollution made me shudder, and I breathed through the material of my suit sleeve to try to filter the air. This was one of the poorest areas of the city, and it was evident.
Our pathway ran parallel to the ledge of the ravine, and I scanned the scene below as we walked. In the distance was an ancient-looking railroad bridge that crossed the canyon. The path we followed appeared to pass near it.
Elder Sanchez opened up more as we talked about his family and his missionary calling. He was confused about who to listen to and who to rely on for direction. There were so many pressures!
Suddenly my concentration was interrupted as the pathway crossed an old pair of worn railroad tracks. My heart jumped as Elder Sanchez abruptly turned to follow the railroad tracks instead of continuing on the pathway. I stopped. The old railroad bridge was directly in front of us! My heart began pounding as I realized what was happening. I reached for Elder Sanchez’s arm and beckoned him to stop. “Are we going to cross the bridge?” I asked. He shrugged and replied simply, “Yes.”
I paused. “Isn’t there some other route we could take?” I began to perspire as I looked past Elder Sanchez to the canyon and the bridge. Elder Sanchez walked toward the bridge and replied, “This is the shortest way.” Unwilling to confess my fear of heights, I silently tried to muster courage.
I followed my companion to the edge of the canyon and stopped, stretching my neck to look over the edge. The bottom of the gully was several hundred feet below. My confidence evaporated, and my stomach twisted into a tight knot. I swallowed hard as I studied the bridge. Although it was still in use, it was very old and in poor condition. There was nothing above the rails to aid in crossing—no hand or guard rail, no supports, no girders—nothing at all. The iron rails rested on greasy, black, wooden ties, old and worn from use and cracked from the weather. I looked up at Elder Sanchez—he was already halfway across.
A silent prayer rose from my heart as I braced myself and carefully placed my foot exactly in the middle of the first tie. Then ever so slowly, the second, then the third. Slowly, I moved away from the solid ground. Through the gaps between the ties I could see the ground far below. I seemed to lose my equilibrium and my muscles tightened. I tried to relax and concentrate completely on the ties, avoiding as much as possible the view between the spaces. As I developed a rhythm, each step became easier and smoother.
I proceeded slowly and steadily ahead. One by one the ties moved under me, until I had stepped on each one in the bridge. I leaped from the last step onto solid ground, smiling with pride and relief as my fright turned into exuberance. My heart was still pounding as I joined Elder Sanchez, who had been watching and waiting patiently for me on the other side. With pride in my step we continued together.
Elder Sanchez and I spent the rest of the day tracting and visiting families. For a time, we became so involved in the proselyting work that our concern for the original problem was completely forgotten. It was late afternoon and the sun was beginning to set behind the distant Andes mountains as we finally directed our steps back toward the apartment. In near desperation I reviewed all that Elder Sanchez and I had talked about during the day. So far I had only been able to listen to Elder Sanchez’s feelings about his situation. I had not been able to offer any convincing suggestions. There seemed to be no conclusions. I searched for the key. Surely Elder Sanchez had problems that would be resolved with patience and faith. The Lord understood his problems, and he would help. We needed Elder Sanchez; the people needed Elder Sanchez; and the Lord needed Elder Sanchez. He was vital to the program! Surely he would sense he must stay.
Suddenly my concentration was shattered as we rounded a corner, and there in front of us again lay the railroad tracks! Panic-stricken, I searched down the rails, and in the distance it loomed—the bridge. Body and mind reacted instinctively. My knees and legs went weak, and my stomach began to tighten again. My heart began to pound quickly. We continued forward. To maintain composure, I tried to be logical: “I’ve done this once,” I thought. “Why not again?” But fear answered: “It’s impossible!” My chances of being able to cross again were too slim! Yet we approached the bridge, and Elder Sanchez again started out in front of me.
Repeating positive phrases and words of encouragement to myself, I reoffered my silent prayer and started out. Step by step, slowly and surely, I tried to follow the same process as before. Again confidence grew with each step. Again I was on my way.
I was near the halfway point on the bridge, concentrating on steady rhythm, when I heard voices—then footsteps. I cautiously stopped and slowly looked up. I froze. In front of me was the largest Bolivian woman I had ever seen in my time as a missionary. The woman was coming directly toward me, and her steady pace clearly indicated who was to make room for whom. I was stunned. I painstakingly lifted my right foot and placed it on the portion of the tie extending several inches to the outside of one rail. I kept my left foot firmly planted on the inside of the rail for balance. I strained to make enough room for her to pass by. Uncontrollably I glanced down over the edge of the bridge to the bottom of the ravine. The stream of water trickled and wound through the debris far below. I felt myself begin to gently sway. Quickly I looked back to the rails.
The woman approached and moved past me. Her long full skirts brushed me gently, and I leaned as far forward into the bridge as I could. But there was another small figure directly behind the woman I had not noticed before—a slender eight-or nine-year-old girl. She clutched her mother’s full skirts with tightly clenched fists. As they both moved past, tears ran down the little girl’s brown cheeks, and she cried out to the woman, “Mamá, tengo temor! ¿Qué hago?¡Tengo temor!” (“Mother, I’m scared! What do I do? I’m scared!”) The old woman merely kept her steady pace, eyes fixed directly ahead, and replied in her native tongue, “Mírame a mí, hija. No mires hacia abajo, sino mírame a mí.” (“Look at me, dear. Don’t look down, just look at me.”)
I stood motionless and watched mother and daughter continue across the bridge. As if a wave of warm air had blown about me, all fear left and inspiration came. I stood in reverence as I realized the simplicity of the answer to Elder Sanchez’s questions. Just as the wise Indian mother had counseled her daughter, I seemed to hear in my mind, “Keep your eye on the prophet.” “Look to the Brethren.” “Come, follow me.”
I looked across the bridge to the other side where Elder Sanchez stood. The affirmation of the Spirit came to me, and I knew what Elder Sanchez must come to understand. Although he was fearful and uncertain, he had received a call from the Lord through his prophet; there was no question about what he should do. With childlike faith he had to look to Him, not look down—keep his eye on Him, and he too would cross the bridge.

My mom was collecting blankets and warm clothing to send to a refugee camp. She told me some children don’t have any blankets to keep warm. I found my favorite blanket, my “cloud blankie,” which is blue with clouds on it. I brought it to my mom and told her I wanted to donate it. She asked if I was sure, and I said yes. It was really hard for me to give up my favorite blanket. I knew I would miss it, but I did it anyway. I knew it would help another child.
Megan B., age 7, Ohio, USA

After my first year of university studies, I began a project to better understand the Bible. I decided to study the teachings of a few religious groups I had heard were not Christian and then compare them to the teachings of the Bible.
As the next semester began, I started studying The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. One of my classes required laboratory work with a partner, and I prayed for someone with whom I could learn what I needed to learn.
I chose a lab bench, and soon a student approached and asked if I had a partner. He introduced himself as Lincoln. I didn’t remember seeing him at school the year before and asked if he had transferred.
“Actually,” he said, “I just returned from serving as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I told Lincoln I had begun studying his church and had some questions. He happily agreed to answer them.
During the next three months, I asked questions about the Book of Mormon, temples, latter-day prophets, and modern revelation. Although I learned a great deal during this time, I still thought that Mormons weren’t Christians.
One weekend our school lost a big game. Some teachers in the lab vigorously discussed the loss, repeatedly using the Lord’s name in vain. Lincoln approached the teachers and asked them if they would please stop speaking about Jesus Christ that way.
“Does that really bother you?” they asked with some doubt.
“Yes,” Lincoln replied. “Jesus Christ is my best friend.”
At that moment, my investigation of the Church changed from an intellectual exercise to a question of faith. If this religion produced men like this, it was Christian in every way that mattered.
As Lincoln and I left that night, I asked if I could attend church with him sometime. After going to church, I asked him if I could have a copy of the Book of Mormon and if I could meet with the missionaries.
For two years I investigated the Church and spent time with its members. I saw a consistent pattern of sincere men and women diligently striving to be disciples of the Master. On numerous occasions the Holy Ghost confirmed to me that Jesus Christ, whom I had always tried my best to serve, really had restored His Church in our day. It was overseen by prophets and apostles and led directly by Him.
I was baptized and have now enjoyed more than a dozen years of blessings from the restored gospel and its teachings. How grateful I am that Heavenly Father answered my prayer to find a lab partner who would help me learn what I needed to learn.

I reflected on this experience some months ago when in Sunday School the class discussed the ministry of President Spencer W. Kimball. I can remember as a student your age hearing President Kimball ask, “Is anything too hard for the Lord?” in reference to being prepared for the gospel to be preached to the Communist bloc countries. This was at the height of the cold war. I marveled at his faith. I doubted I would see the day this would happen. Last year, in joyful irony, I welcomed back my daughter Emily from a mission to Russia.

As we talk, Tyson Warner tells of when things changed in his life. He had just been ordained to the priesthood and felt it was time, as he put it, to step up. “When I was about 12, I had a hard time reading the scriptures regularly. I made a goal that I would give up sleeping in, and I would wake up 30 minutes earlier every morning and spend the time reading my scriptures. It was difficult. I thought, ‘What’s the point in doing this?’ After a month I started to feel changes in my life. I was more in tune with the Spirit. I started noticing things in the scriptures better than I could before. That’s how I knew the Church is true.”
Now, four years later, Tyson says, “I like the book of Alma because that was what I was reading when I really started to feel the Spirit. That book is special to me. It was a turning point in my life. I gained a strong testimony.”

“One day two missionaries got into my taxi,” says Garry Guanilo of Peru. “They asked me if I knew that families could be eternal. That question really had an impact on me. And they spoke to me about the Prophet Joseph Smith. I went home and told my wife, María, about it. We invited the missionaries to our home. During the first lesson, they sang ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ ” (Hymns, no. 300).
María adds, “Since our baptism, we are progressing in many ways. It’s like a staircase—we keep climbing higher and higher, and less important things are dropping out of our lives.”
Garry continues, “I want to marry my wife for eternity in the temple and to have our daughters sealed to us. We had no idea this world existed!”—Garry and María Guanilo, Peru