Gospel Story Finder

In my case the Book of Mormon became the keystone of my testimony over a period of years and through a number of experiences. One powerful experience in forming my testimony occurred while I was a young missionary serving in my first area: Kumamoto, Japan. My companion and I were house-to-house proselyting. I met a grandmother who kindly invited us into the entry of her home, which is called a genkan in Japanese. She offered us a cold drink on a hot day. I had not been in Japan very long, and I had recently completed reading the Book of Mormon and had been praying to know with certainty that it was true.
Because of my newness to Japan, I didn’t speak Japanese very well. In fact, I don’t think this woman understood much of what I was saying. I began teaching her about the Book of Mormon, describing how Joseph Smith received from an angel an ancient record engraved on plates and how he translated them by the power of God.
As I offered her my testimony that the Book of Mormon is the word of God and another testament of Jesus Christ, I received the strongest impression, accompanied by a warm feeling of comfort and serenity inside my chest, which the scriptures describe as “your bosom [burning] within you.”4 This feeling reaffirmed to me in a powerful way that the Book of Mormon truly is the word of God. At that time my feelings were so strong that tears came to my eyes as I talked to this Japanese grandmother. I have never forgotten the special feeling of that day.

I started playing the clarinet in sixth grade, and it came fairly easy to me. In junior high and high school, I always joined the school band. One year, I missed school on the day of the band tryouts. We weren’t trying out for acceptance into the band, but rather for what “seats” we would have and in what sections. I was horrified to learn that because I’d missed the tryouts I would be placed in the very last seat in the last clarinet section. I’d always been a first section player and often first chair. Sitting in the last chair embarrassed me and made me a little angry. My band teacher understood this and reminded me that I didn’t have to stay there—I could work my way back up throughout the year. I worked hard and eventually reached first chair again.

“Can’t we go any faster?” I asked anxiously as we rode along the graveled highway in our newly purchased secondhand pickup.
Mama smiled. “Why the big hurry?” she teased as if she didn’t know.
“I can hardly wait to buy the shoes,” I answered. I was so excited, for it had been nearly a year since I was 11 1/4 and had been taken to the store to buy new shoes. I had thought lately that they would never wear out, and I knew they wouldn’t be replaced until they did. But at last Mama had spoken the long-awaited words.
“I think it’s time to buy you another pair of shoes,” she said. “There is certainly no more wear in those.”
The town with the big country store was four long miles away, and it seemed like forever before we finally arrived.
As soon as we were parked, I jumped out of the pickup and ran into the building. I hurried past the canned goods, down through the hardwares, and wasn’t quite to the shoe department when suddenly I saw them. There on a middle shelf that was tilted up a little was a pair of bright red shoes sitting on a silver stand. I stopped short and caught my breath in awe at the beauty of their color and the daintiness of their sandal-type straps. Printed on a cardboard in the background were the words, “Newest 1940 Fashion in Footwear.” For a long time I stood and looked.
Mama came up behind me, and I led her directly to the shelf.
“May I have these?” I asked hopefully. Mama studied the shoes for a long moment.
“They aren’t very practical,” she said finally, “and you know they will have to last a long time. I think we should buy something more sturdy.”
“I’ll be ever so careful with them,” I coaxed. “Please.”
The clerk came up and measured my foot.
“The red shoes are a half size too small,” she said, “and it is the only pair we have left. However,” she added when she saw the disappointed look on my face, “sometimes sandal-type slippers run a little larger than the average shoe. Would you like to try them on and see?”
Mama reasoned with me, telling me my feet needed room to grow even if the shoes did fit now.
“But maybe there is a little extra room,” I said. “May I at least try them on and see?” I put my whole being into the pleading expression of my eyes.
“Well,” Mama puckered her forehead into a sort of deep-thought furrow for a moment before she answered, “all right.” I had the feeling that she sensed how important this was to me.
The shoes, with a built-in toe and heel, felt tight, but nevertheless I succeeded without too much effort in getting them both on, and I stood and looked down in admiration.
“May I have them?” I asked, feeling, without doubt, that I could stretch the tiny straps in a short period of time to fit comfortably.
The shoes didn’t look too small, but Mama seemed certain that there wasn’t enough room for my feet to grow.
“They will be getting more of this style in next summer,” she said. “Perhaps it would be better to wait and buy a pair then.”
My hopes declined. I was sure there would never be another pair of shoes as beautiful as these, but I said nothing. Mama focused her forehead into another deep-thought wrinkle as she walked over and picked up a pair of brown oxfords in the size I needed.
“Why don’t you try these on,” she said, “then you can make the decision yourself.”
I was elated. Even though I had made decisions before, I had never made one as important as this. I felt that Mama considered me sort of an adult, and I knew that she understood about 12-year-olds and growing up.
As I slipped one of the brown shoes on and tied the lace, it felt good in comparison to the red one on my other foot. I pondered silently as I tried to decide fairly, considering the good and bad points of each pair of shoes. The oxfords would last longer, and they were more comfortable, but they were so brown and plain, sort of ordinary looking really, and besides, they were the kind I had always worn. The red shoes were beautiful, and I wanted something different. If I was careful, they could last a long time. Admittedly, they did squeeze, but I could suffer for a day or two if need be, for I was very sure that I could stretch them in that length of time. Yes, I would take the red ones.
Mama didn’t say anything as she paid the clerk. After all, she had told me the decision was mine.
I strutted toward the door and was so preoccupied with how much older the shoes made me look that I knocked over a small display of cooking utensils and bumped into the candy counter on my way out. I was so happy over my purchase that I didn’t ask Mama what she had in the other package she was carrying when she got in the pickup.
The next two days I wore the pretty shoes in misery. Then a blister appeared on each of my big toes, and the misery turned to agony. Furthermore, I was becoming discouraged, for the tiny straps weren’t stretching at all as I had felt so sure they would.
If Mama saw me wrap small white strips of cloth around my toes to protect the blisters, she made no mention of it. I went outdoors as often as I could and slipped the shoes off. The cool air felt good on my hot feet, and each time I stayed out as long as I dared.
Slowly, out of desperation and pain, I became more brave, and the shoes lay forgotten on the floor of my closet as I went barefoot both inside the house and out. Mama, I am very sure, was aware of my bare feet, but as she didn’t question me, I hoped she supposed that I was trying to be careful of the shoes and make them last as long as the brown ones would have.
With Sunday came the sudden realization that I couldn’t possibly go barefoot to church. I put off the dreaded task of wearing the shoes until the last minute, and it wasn’t until everyone was ready to go that I carefully started the insertion of my foot into one of the slippers. As it entered the enclosure at the end of the shoe, my big toe rebelled hotly, and I pulled it quickly out. Several times I tried to put on the shoe, but each time my foot resented the tight squeeze and throbbed the resentment painfully.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. With tears close to my eyes and the red shoes held firmly in my hands, I went to Mama. My lip quivered, but I was determined not to cry. After all, I was 13 years old, in ten months, that is. I stood for a minute trying to gain my composure and to think of something sort of, well, mature to say.
“They pinch and they hurt,” I blurted out honestly.
Her answer came as such a surprise that all I could do was stand with my mouth open saying nothing.
“We do not always make the right decisions,” Mama said as she went to a drawer and took out a package containing the brown shoes. As she handed them to me she added softly, “And sometimes it takes a pinch of hurt to help us be more wise the next time we have something important to decide.”

In February 2021, Texas faced record low temperatures. The freeze impacted millions of people, resulting in broken pipes, power outages, and loss of heat. My daughter’s family, like so many others, experienced a complete loss of electrical power. She bundled up her little children in coats and blankets so they could stay warm.
After several days surviving arctic-like conditions, my daughter noticed lights on in a neighboring apartment. She was grateful to learn that power had been restored. But she was shocked to discover that it had actually been restored days before. She had failed to notice that a circuit breaker had been tripped. The power was already there. She simply needed to flip the breaker back on!

The second counselor spoke first. He talked about his childhood in a small Wyoming town and how he went out of his way to befriend a boy who had been rejected by all the other kids at school. He told us how, 20 years later, that friendless boy, now a successful man, came to him and thanked him for his kindness. He concluded his talk by quoting a scripture about the worth of souls and bearing his testimony of the gospel.

In junior high, I didn’t think life was fair. I was short—not just a little below average, but officially vertically challenged. One day my entire grade lined up by height for a picture. I was at the end of the line—the short end.

Despite my height, I loved basketball and was determined to make the team. As a gym full of boys began running drills to win their places on the squad, I hoped my many hours of practice would pay off. The coaches stood in the middle of the gym, observing us and taking notes on their clipboards. At my size, I just prayed they would notice me.

After warm-ups, the head coach blew his whistle and explained our first shooting drill. He handed me a ball. I was one of the first to dribble from half court and pull up inside the three-point line for a jump shot. I knew everyone was watching; my shaking hands reminded me with every dribble. I stopped at the top of the key, jumped, and let go of the ball. I hoped that it would at least hit the rim. The ball rolled around the iron and dropped through the net.

Sooner than I wanted, it was my turn again. Again my shot found its way through the hoop. Through the next rotation, my luck continued. The returning center of the team noticed me and decided to help out an underdog. He began calling attention to me right before each of my next shots. Thankfully, I kept making my shots.

At the end of the day, when the list of those who made first cuts was posted, my name was there. I had just climbed the first leg of my Mount Everest.

After a few more days of tense nerves and early-morning drills, another cut was posted. I made it past my second hurdle. With only one or two cuts left, my chances were getting better, but my competition was stiffer.

At the end of the week, tryouts were over. I tried to remain calm as I walked to the coaches’ office to see if I made the team. My name was missing from the list.

The assistant coach, who was also my science teacher, pulled me aside. “You’re a good little ball player. You’ve got a lot of potential.” His compliments didn’t help my disappointment. “It’s hard to cut people. It’s just that right now you don’t have the size to play for the team. Maybe next year.”

Why me? One of my dreams crashed, and it wasn’t because I didn’t try or practice. It was because of something out of my control. Life just didn’t seem fair.

Now 15 years old, I went to live with a foster family for about a year. That was when the fifth miracle came. While sleigh riding with two friends, I met an LDS family with two nice daughters. During the ride home, one of the daughters spoke up, saying, “I think the Lord wants us to adopt Ephrem Smith.” Remarkably, the other three members of the family had also received the same inspiration. The father worked with the Department of Social Services, and soon I moved to my new home. From the very beginning my amazing new father gave me agency. For example, he explained that their family goes to church on Sundays. He allowed me to choose to join them or stay home; he said that they still would love me if I chose not to attend church. I chose to attend church, and I have since made many other righteous decisions.

One of the Twelve recently shared a story that illustrates this principle. As a priest in high school, he was hanging out with his friends. After they got something to eat, they were driving around when someone suggested they should go to a certain movie. The problem was he knew it was a movie he shouldn’t see. Although he immediately felt pressure and anxiety about the situation, he had planned for this. This was a page straight out of his priesthood playbook.

Taking a deep breath and summoning his courage, he announced, “I’m not interested in that movie. Just drop me off at my house,” which they did. A simple play leading to a victory! Years later, one of the friends with him that night described how this example proved to be a great strength for him to courageously face similar circumstances in his own life.

One day my instructor was giving an explanation to five of us in the ready room. In order to explain a certain maneuver, he went to the blackboard. Inasmuch as he was smoking a cigarette, he handed it to me to hold while he made the demonstration, and by this means I had the “privilege” of holding my first cigarette. After he had finished his demonstration at the blackboard, he took his cigarette back, and then he said, “Mr. Bangerter, I apologize for handing you my cigarette. I know you don’t smoke, do you?”
I said, “No, sir, I don’t.”
He said, “You don’t drink either, do you?”
I said, “No, sir.”
He asked, “Do you drink tea?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you drink coffee?”
“No, sir.” He turned to the other four students standing together and said, “Now, men, that’s the Word of Wisdom. We would all be much better off if we lived that way.” You can appreciate that I felt uplifted by that experience.

Walking home from school in the autumn rain, I sloshed through every puddle. Little rivulets of cold water drizzled down my head and plopped to the hood of my blue jacket. I usually forgot to tie the hood over my head, so it just hung over my shoulders, catching raindrops.
“Hi, Mrs. Carver,” I called as I neared the small yellow house down the street from ours.
“Darcy, just look at you—you’re soaking wet!”
Mrs. Carver closed the mailbox and peered at me from under her plaid umbrella. Juggling the umbrella and a little stack of envelopes with one hand, she reached for my arm with the other. “Come on in and get dried off.”
I followed her as she shuffled up the concrete walk to her front door. When she opened it, a fragrant warmth met my face. She smiled. “I just baked some gingerbread. Would you like a piece?”
As I nodded eagerly and stepped inside, she reminded me to wipe my feet. Then she hung my dripping jacket on the back of a kitchen chair.
“Land’s sake, girl,” she said, passing me a hunk of warm gingerbread, “I hope you didn’t catch cold out there in that freezing rain.”
“Not me. I like rain. This is the best time of the year. Next week is Thanksgiving, you know. Wow—this gingerbread sure is good!”
“I’m glad you like it, Darcy. I used to make goodies for my son when he was your age.”
Adjusting her glasses, Mrs. Carver thumbed through the little pile of envelopes. I glanced up between bites of gingerbread, wondering if she’d found anything interesting in her mailbox.
“I’m waiting to hear from my son,” she told me. “He’s coming home for Thanksgiving.” A hopeful smile creased her face.
“We’re going to my grandma’s house,” I said, wiping my hands on a paper napkin. “My cousins will be there, too—I can’t wait! Well, thanks for the gingerbread. I’d better get home.”
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. Mrs. Carver sat still in her kitchen and watched me go out into the rain.
“When are we leaving for Grandma’s house?” I asked Mom a few days later. I hadn’t seen my cousins since last summer. My favorite cousin, Trevor, was in the fourth grade too.
“Very early Thanksgiving morning. It’s a long drive.”
“What if there’s a lot of snow in the mountains?” Amy wanted to know. My younger sister didn’t like long car trips, especially in the winter.
“Dad will just stop and put chains on the tires—no problem,” I assured her.
Curling up in the window seat in the family room, I watched dozens of raindrops drip from a branch of a cedar tree. They splattered on the yellow and brown leaves that layered the ground. A squirrel skittered across the branch and up the tree to the roof of our house.
I wonder what he’s doing for Thanksgiving. I grinned at the thought of a squirrel family gathered around a Thanksgiving feast. Then I daydreamed about Grandma’s cheery smile and Trevor’s dumb jokes. Just four more days until we’d sit down to a big turkey dinner at Grandma’s house! Mashed potatoes with her good gravy, pumpkin pie . … My mouth began to water.
Every day after school, I passed Mrs. Carver with her plaid umbrella, checking her mail. I could tell by the look on her face that there was still no letter from her son.
The day before Thanksgiving, she called to me. I liked her smile. In a lot of ways, she reminded me of my grandma.
“Hi, Mrs. Carver,” I said, wiping a strand of wet hair from my forehead.
“Oh, Darcy, why do you think that jacket of yours has a hood? It’s supposed to keep your head dry.”
She bent down, holding her umbrella over both of us. “Come on in. A letter came from my son.”
I followed Mrs. Carver up the walk to her door. She stepped a little faster than usual, even though she was trying to keep the umbrella over my head. Inside her warm kitchen, she handed me a yellow towel and a freshly-baked chocolate chip cookie. “Here,” she said. “Dry that wet hair. Then you can eat that cookie. Chocolate chip was always my son’s favorite.”
I rubbed the dampness out of my hair and sat at the table to eat my cookie. Mrs. Carver opened an envelope and pulled out a single sheet of white paper. As she read the letter, her smile faded. “He’s not coming! My son’s not coming home for Thanksgiving, after all.”
Mrs. Carver seemed so surprised and hurt that I didn’t know what to say. I just watched her take off her glasses and wipe her eyes. Then she turned and gazed out the window. “When is it ever going to stop raining?”
“Uh, maybe your son is just too busy,” I suggested.
“Yes,” Mrs. Carver said, almost in a whisper. “He’s too busy.”
I had the feeling she wanted to be alone, so I muttered a thanks for the cookie and crept quietly out of the house.
On the way home, the gray, swollen sky seemed to close in around me. Whipping down the street, a sudden wind picked up some damp leaves and slapped them against my shoulder.
“Don’t forget to wipe your feet, Darcy,” I heard Mom say as I took off my jacket in the hallway. She was sitting on the couch in the family room, thumbing through a magazine without looking at the pages. Amy was slumped next to her. It seemed like a long time before anyone said anything. That was pretty unusual at home. Finally Mom set down the magazine and turned to me with her serious look.
“Darcy, we can’t go to Grandma’s for Thanksgiving. There’s a blizzard raging in the mountains. Your dad says it’s too dangerous to drive through the pass when the weather’s this bad.”
I just stared at her. No Thanksgiving at Grandma’s! I crawled up on the window seat and tried to keep from crying. Some Thanksgiving we’d have with no cousins and no Grandma! Even though I figured my sister was just trying to cheer me up, it bothered me when she came over, chattering on about some silly thing. Then she scolded me for getting home late from school. “I’ve been home for ages. What took you so long?”
“I stopped to see Mrs. Carver.”
“Oh?” Mom asked. “How is she?”
I sat quietly for a long time, thinking. “Mrs. Carver is going to be all alone for Thanksgiving. …”
Mom came over and put her hands on my shoulders. “Not if I know my Darcy, she won’t. Don’t forget to put your hood up when you go to invite her.”
Picking up her notepad and a pencil, Mom started making plans for Thanksgiving at our house. I looked out into the backyard. It had finally stopped raining.

By December 1827 there had been several attempts to steal the plates, so Joseph decided to move with Emma to the home of her parents in Harmony Township, Pennsylvania.

When Joseph and Emma arrived, Joseph allowed Isaac Hale, Emma’s father, to heft the plates in a box. Isaac later stated, “I was allowed to feel the weight of the box, and they gave me to understand, that the book of plates was then in the box.” Yet he was unconvinced and dissatisfied with the situation. He told Joseph to either show him the plates or remove them from his house. Joseph hid the plates in the nearby woods until he and Emma moved into their own home on the Hale property.

“Savannah, have you thought about helping build the battery-powered car?” Mr. Murdock asked. “You could compete in the engineering fair.”
Savannah looked at her science teacher. She never thought she was very good at science, but maybe it would be fun to join the team building the car.
“Do you think I’d be good at it?” Savannah asked.
Mr. Murdock smiled. “Well, I can tell that you are sharp and have a unique way of looking at things,” he said. “That’s just what the team needs! Why don’t you come to the team meeting today?”
Savannah promised to think about it.
During lunch Savannah told her friends about Mr. Murdock’s suggestion.
“Do you really want to do that?” Amber asked. “It sounds pretty boring.”
“I don’t know,” Savannah said. “My grandpa’s an engineer, and I think it’s interesting.”
“It’ll just be more schoolwork for you to do,” Tess said.
Amber nodded. “Totally. Hey, why don’t you come downtown with us after school? My mom’s driving us.”
“No thanks,” Savannah said. “The team meeting is after school, and I want to go.”
Savannah knew her friends didn’t understand why she would pick building a car over shopping, but she wanted to try it.
After school Savannah went to Mr. Murdock’s classroom. During the team meeting, Savannah got more and more excited. Designing and building a car sounded really cool!
But as Savannah walked home, she remembered what Amber had said. What if it was boring? What if she got too busy with the car to see her friends? What if they stopped liking her?
“I really want to join the team,” Savannah told Mom that night. “But Amber and Tess think it will be boring.”
“Well, why do you want to join?” Mom asked.
Savannah thought for a minute. “I want to know how things work,” she said. “And maybe I want to be an engineer like Grandpa.”
“Those sound like good reasons to me,” Mom said.
They sounded like good reasons to Savannah too. Still, she worried about her friends.
“There will be lots of times when your friends say one thing but you think another,” Mom said. “It’s important to base your choices on what you feel is right.”
That night Savannah thought a lot. She asked Heavenly Father for help making her choice. Eventually she decided what she would do. She felt peaceful and excited.
The next day Savannah talked to Mr. Murdock. “I’ve decided to join the team,” she said.
“You’ll spend a lot of time here after school,” he said.
“I know. I’m looking forward to it.”
For the next month, the team met twice a week. Savannah volunteered to come up with a design for the car. After hours of drawing and throwing away ideas, she finally had one for the team to build. She loved working on this project! Even when she wasn’t working on it, she was still thinking about the car and how they could improve it.
The day of the fair, the car was ready. Savannah hadn’t been able to spend as much time with Amber and Tess, and it had been scary to try something new, but she was glad she had joined the team. Maybe it wasn’t the popular choice, but for Savannah, it was the right one. She imagined Jesus smiling at her. He hadn’t always made popular choices either, but they were always the right ones.
After testing more than 50 entries, the judges awarded Savannah’s team second place!
She couldn’t wait for next year’s fair. She already had a few ideas.

My first few months of being a new member of the Church were rough ones—especially for my friends. On one hand, I was excited about what I had found, the feelings of inner peace and the joy I felt in my close relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
On the other hand, in my excitement to share my new understanding of the restored gospel and its teachings, I started to regularly tell my non-LDS friends when they did something I thought was wrong.
Of course, I was about as subtle as a bull elephant on a charge.
One evening in the early summer, I finally realized how judgmental and self-righteous I had become. About five months after my baptism, I went to an outdoor concert with a good friend. As we walked around the grounds trying to find a spot to eat our picnic before the concert began, I noticed many of the people around us had brought wine to share with their dinner. Not one to pass up an opportunity to show how much wisdom I had acquired by being a member of the Church, I hissed to my friend, “Look at all those people drinking wine—that’s disgusting!”
My kind and patient friend turned to me and said, “I’m sure that when Jewish people go into a restaurant, they don’t walk around and criticize everyone with ham on their plates.”
I finally had the good sense to be silent for a little while and ponder what he said. I realized that in all the lessons I had been taught, there had been no mention of members going forth and judging their neighbors. As a matter of fact, the terms “silent example” and “loving nature” had been used a lot.
Embarrassed, I thanked my friend for his wisdom and apologized for my lack of consideration.
I am happy to report that his message came through loud and clear. I stopped demanding changes from my friends and started demanding change from myself. I still stand strong for the things I believe in, but in a polite way—a way that, happily, has made my friends comfortable in talking to me about the Church.

One mother did her best to teach the steps of repentance in her home. Then came the day she helped her five-year-old son internalize the principles when she accompanied him to the store to account for a candy bar he had stolen. That experience is one the boy will never forget. He learned firsthand about taking responsibility for his actions. With fear in his heart, he returned the candy bar, offered an apology to the store manager, and promised never to steal again. I am pleased to report that he has kept that promise. I know—because I was the mother, and my son was the five-year-old.

This very Tabernacle was the scene for such a faith-inspired miracle. It occurred several years ago at general conference time. During the session when I was assigned to speak, my attention was drawn constantly to a little blond-haired girl seated on the first row in the balcony. The more I looked at her, the less I felt inclined to present the formal message I had prepared. I yielded to the inspiration 1 felt and spoke rather about the faith of a girl in far away Louisiana, Christian Methvin. I directed my remarks to my young friend in the balcony.

Upon returning to my office, I found waiting for me this same young lady and also her grandmother. The young girl’s name, Misti White. Her home, California. Here is her story. She began: “I have had a problem, Brother Monson, but not any longer. A person very dear to me told me to wait until I was 18 to be baptized. My grandmother said I should be baptized now. I prayed for an answer and said to grandmother, ‘Take me with you to conference. There Jesus will help me.’”

To conference they came, and so did divine help. Eagerly Misti took my hand and exclaimed, “You helped Him answer my prayer. Thank you.”

Upon returning to California, Misti sent me a treasured letter, with this beautiful ending: “Brother Monson, I was baptized on November 29th. I am now very happy. Love, Misti.” Faith does precede the miracle.

There I was, sitting in my house with my aunt crying and urging me to read the book she had brought with her. She said she was scared for me because of my desire to be a member of the Mormon church. Although I didn’t have a good feeling about reading the book, my aunt begged me to promise I would. Torn between my loyalty to the Church and my desire to please my aunt, I finally consented.
That episode with my aunt was the beginning of a difficult summer during which I was presented with a test of faith—a test that nearly destroyed my testimony and my happiness.
My interest in the Church had been sparked the winter before, and with the help of a friend, I began receiving the missionary discussions at her home.
After my fifth discussion with the missionaries, I went to church. That Sunday was fast Sunday, and during the testimony meeting I had an overwhelming feeling of peace and warmth. I had never felt so much love in one room. That day, my testimony of the Church started to grow.
A few weeks later, I went to my first Mutual activity. The people there were so welcoming, and their actions set them apart from the other kids I knew at school. It was a fun activity that added to my fledgling testimony.
I had started to feel like I was on my way to building a strong gospel foundation, but my aunt’s visit really shook me up. Since I had promised to read her book, I did. I decided that reading the book couldn’t do much harm. Boy, was I wrong.
After reading the book I was confused and sad and didn’t know where to turn. To make matters worse, a friend of mine encouraged me to read more material that was critical of the Church. I found that much of the literature had little or nothing to do with the Church, and little of it made any sense. Now I had more questions than ever.
In search of some answers, my friend and I went to the temple visitor’s center. Two missionaries showed us videos and bore their testimonies. I asked them all the questions I had about the books I had read. The missionaries answered every single one.
Shortly after my experience on the temple grounds, I received my first priesthood blessing. The special feeling I had experienced in my first testimony meeting returned. I was awestruck by the power of the Spirit.
Finally, it seemed everything was getting back on track, except for one thing. My mom was trying hard to talk me out of going to seminary. Although it was difficult, I stood my ground. Seminary is important to me.
I can now relate to the pioneers who traveled across the country to Utah so they could practice their religion. I used to think, “Why would anyone give up that much just for a religion?” Now I know.
I know the Church is true, and I have been able to build my testimony ten times stronger through prayer and studying the scriptures.
Because of this trial of my faith, I have learned not to take the valuable messages of the gospel for granted. I can’t be baptized until I’m 18, and even though three years seems a long time to wait, I am happy to have the time to prepare. I cannot deny the feelings that the Church and the scriptures give me, and I cannot deny what I almost lost forever—my testimony of the gospel.

Recently I was in the temple with others to witness a marriage. In the company was a couple who had been pleading with Heavenly Father to help resolve a particular family problem—in spite of their prayers, the condition was not resolved as they had hoped. I noticed this couple stealing away to a quiet room in the temple, where I sensed they laid their trials again before the Lord. They were not bitter. They only wanted to endure whatever the Lord would have them endure. The Lord himself set the example as we recall the events in Gethsemane that caused him to utter, “Nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt” (Matthew 26:39).

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has blessed the lives of Russians since at least 1895. In that year, Johan and Alma Lindelof were baptized in St. Petersburg. Years earlier, Brother Lindelof had heard the gospel preached in his native Finland when a missionary taught and baptized his mother. Later, Johan, a skilled goldsmith, and his wife, Alma, moved to Russia. Sixteen years later, Elder August Hoglund was sent to Russia in response to letters the Lindelofs had written to the Scandinavian Mission president. They were baptized in June 1895 in the Neva River in St. Petersburg.
After joining the Church, the Lindelofs were visited occasionally by missionaries. By 1903, when Elder Francis M. Lyman of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles offered two prayers of dedication in Russia, one in St. Petersburg and one in Moscow, two of the Lindelof children had also been baptized. Many felt the Lindelof family would play a prominent role in bringing the gospel to Russia. Had it not been for the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917, that expectation might have been realized.
In 1918, in an apparent attempt to dispossess the wealthy Lindelofs, the family was imprisoned in a labor camp, their home ravaged and their property confiscated. Of the seven children, only one son and one daughter survived. Two daughters are known to have died in exile. The fate of the other three children is unknown.1

My brother Noah, my nephew Brice, my niece Kaitlin, and I formed the Lost Dog Club to find our neighbors’ lost dogs and return them. We found a dog with no collar and took it around the neighborhood looking for its owner. We were walking up Alhambra Street when a lady saw us and called out the dog’s name in a surprised, joyful voice: “Oh, Peaches!” She ran to her dog and gave it a big hug. I could see tears welling up in her eyes because she was so happy. She said, “God bless you all!” and gave us candy.

Ten years after John Taylor and Wilford Woodruff arrived in England, my own great-grandfather, Henry Ballard, was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by a faithful member:
“Henry was only seventeen years old at the time he joined the Church [in 1849]. … Sometime during the winter months of 1849, Henry traveled to London News, a community … north of London, to live with his married brother George [who] … had established a fairly successful carriage business in the area. They had much to offer Henry—especially material things. George was always kind to Henry, and being eleven years older, felt the need to protect and watch after his welfare. The following incident bears this out.
“It was Sunday evening, and Henry had just returned from church. George, curious about Henry’s whereabouts, inquired as to where he had been. ‘To church,’ Henry replied. George, having already attended church without seeing Henry there asked, ‘What church?’ ‘The Mormon church,’ Henry said truthfully. Amazed and astonished, George vocally wondered why, in heaven’s name, would he attend the ‘detestable’ Mormon church. ‘Because I am a member of it,’ replied Henry. Henry then bore his testimony of the truthfulness of what he believed to be the only true church. George, unconverted, became angry.
“George reprimanded Henry severely and told him he had just made the biggest mistake of his life. Henry remained firm, but feared what his older brother might do.
“When George could see he was getting nowhere, he enlisted the support of his minister. Three days passed as they tried to persuade Henry to change his mind. First one would pray, then the other, in an effort to save Henry. Henry held steadfastly to his convictions, never wavering nor doubting. The Holy Ghost had told him the Church was true. He dared not deny it. Convinced no argument of reason … would ever change Henry’s mind, George took another approach.
“As Satan tempted Christ, George tempted Henry—or tried to. He offered to give him the best carriage in all of London. He would give him a coachman to drive him around and cater to all of his whims. Henry would be a gentleman as he presented himself in his fine clothes, kidskin gloves, and silk hat.
“How could Henry refuse the hospitality of George’s fine home for as long as he wished? Henry would never have to work, unless it became his desire. A part of the business would be his, and he would never again live in poverty, as his father and mother had all their lives. No religion would be worth losing all this. George only asked for Henry to give up the ‘foolish notion’ of Mormonism.
“Like [the Prophet] Joseph Smith, Henry kept the faith. His testimony and strength of character prevailed.
“George was explosive. He expelled Henry from his home—forever. Henry left, heavy of heart over being such a disappointment to the brother he loved, a brother who had been so kind and giving. Henry was never to set eyes on him again in this life” (Douglas O. Crookston, editor, Henry Ballard: The Story of a Courageous Pioneer, 1832–1908 [1994], 4–6).