Gospel Story Finder

Growing up, I was always inclined to perfectionism. So when I received my patriarchal blessing, one admonition in particular seemed natural: to complete the tasks I was given “to the best of [my] ability, to perfection.” Only later would I start to realize how little I understood perfection—or the role of grace.
In 1998 I returned home early from a mission due to health problems. I felt a tremendous amount of guilt because I felt I had not completed my mission “to perfection.” Added to this sense of failure was uncertainty about my illness. So far, doctors had been unable to diagnose it.
In spite of my health challenges, I knew I needed to move forward, so I enrolled in a university to continue my education. After only two quarters, however, I returned home again, in pain, for urgent surgery. It was at this point that doctors discovered I had an autoimmune disease.
While I was recovering from surgery, I began working part-time at the chocolate store where I had been employed as a teenager. Even though I was doing what I could, I didn’t feel that I was pursuing anything worthwhile, much less completing it “to perfection.” I began to compare myself to others, especially to my friends who were completing their college degrees, serving missions, or starting families. I felt left behind.
Then I met Stephanie. She came into the candy store one day wearing a black scarf around her head. As I pointed out to her my favorite chocolate, I felt impressed to inquire about her situation. She smiled, removed her scarf, and, pointing to her bald head, told me she was going through chemotherapy. That exchange was the start of a special and candid friendship.
Stephanie came by the store regularly to enjoy a treat and talk about life. I learned that she was a member of the Church and that she had struggled spiritually as well as physically. She told me about some rebellious choices she had made and about her efforts to repent. She was working toward being sealed to her husband in the temple.
One day I shared some of my own challenges. I confided in her how discouraged I was by my circumstances. “I am scooping the same ice cream I scooped in high school,” I explained. “I didn’t complete my mission or college, and I don’t know what to do now.”
Stephanie responded, “Why do you have to finish the race of life in a set time? Why not just run the race?”
For the first time, I realized that the efforts I was making were my best, and my best was enough. The Savior loved me, and His grace, through His Atonement, was sufficient for me, for my deficiencies. Although I felt I had been looking to Him all along, until Stephanie shared her insight with me, I had somehow missed an important lesson about His role in my life.
Ether 12:27 says, “My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.” As I have been able to humble myself and have faith in the Lord, I have seen over and over again that He does indeed make weak things become strong. My increased testimony of this truth has helped me face my challenges with greater faith and hope.
A few months after that conversation, I left my hometown to start a new job and lost contact with my friend. One day my mom called to tell me that she had seen Stephanie’s obituary in the newspaper. I came home to attend her funeral and learned she had been sealed to her husband just three weeks before her death.
My heart sighed with gratitude for having had Stephanie in my life and for what she taught me about running a perfect race. I don’t always need to sprint. Occasionally, it will be all I can do to simply face the finish line. Doing our best to move forward—no matter what speed “our best” is—is OK. Our efforts can be made perfect because the Lord’s grace is sufficient for us all (see Moroni 10:32).

Gift of baptism. My companion and I had been teaching a 14-year-old girl named Martha, and she was nearly ready for baptism and confirmation. We had a few more lessons to teach, and she needed to stop working on Sundays so she could come to church. She loved what she was learning and believed it, but she worked for her aunt and was too young to get any other job. Martha struggled with the decision, so we taught her the blessings of the Sabbath day and encouraged her to pray.
Christmas Eve was a rainy day, and when it was almost time to go home, we felt we should stop by and say hello to Martha. Almost before we knocked on the door, she came running out and hugged us, jumping up and down with enthusiasm. She said, “I don’t have to work on Sundays anymore! I’m coming to church! I’m going to get baptized!” Even the rain seemed wonderful after that. Christmas Eve seemed like the perfect time to see someone make the decision to devote her life to Christ. We were two of the happiest missionaries you’ve ever seen.Erin B., Utah

Two such faithful members, James Ewudzie and Frederick Antwi, assisted me one day in the Accra Ghana Temple. Several years before Latter-day Saint missionaries arrived in Ghana, James had been part of a group of about 1,000 people who used the Book of Mormon and other Church materials in their church services. They prayed for the day that the Church would come to Ghana. He joined with other young men traveling around Ghana and teaching the gospel as found in our materials. Once missionaries arrived in 1978, he was baptized on the first day that Latter-day Saint baptisms were performed in Ghana.

Fred Antwi, a pioneer member of the Church in Ghana

Early in Fred’s time as a member, he attended the funeral of a relative who was a tribal chief. There he found out that the family plan was to make him the new chief. Knowing that such a position would cause him to do things contrary to his gospel beliefs, he sped away after the burial and turned his back on a position that would have brought him prominence and wealth.

Once the Accra Temple was dedicated, both James and Fred traveled over four hours, one way, every week so that they could be temple workers. As I performed ordinances with them, I was overcome with the sense of history that surrounded me. Realizing the Church history in Africa that the two of them represented, I felt like it was akin to having John Taylor or Wilford Woodruff or other early members of the Church with me doing those ordinances.

Illustration by Chris Lyons
I was hesitant about joining the Church when my husband introduced it to me. He gave me a Book of Mormon, and after many lessons and nearly two years working with the missionaries, I was baptized in 2007. I struggled for a while after I became a member of the Church. I did not understand the importance of modern-day prophets. In my mind, a prophet had to be someone like Moses with his staff.
“Does the prophet speak to God?” I asked my husband.
“Yes,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, the prophet speaks to God.”
“Then I am going to ask the Lord to tell the prophet to send me a letter saying this is Jesus Christ’s Church.”
“Oh no!” my husband said. “It doesn’t happen like that!”
I was determined.
“If the prophet speaks to the Lord, then the Lord will speak with the prophet, and he will send me a letter.”
At church one Sunday, a missionary handed me a DVD and asked me to watch it with my family. It contained the testimonies of the prophet and apostles. The first person to speak was President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008). I was impressed. He seemed sincere, and I felt he was telling the truth.
“See, this is your testimony of the prophet,” my husband said.
“No, I still want a letter from him,” I replied.
One night, the missionaries arrived at our home and handed me a magazine.
“We don’t know why, but we felt we should bring this to you,” they said. It was a copy of the October 2006 Liahona, still wrapped in plastic.
I opened it and found an article from President Hinckley addressed to new members of the Church. He said, “I leave this testimony, my blessing, and my love with each of you and my invitation to continue to be part of this great latter-day miracle that is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”1
I felt he was speaking directly to me. I was not even a member of the Church when this was published, but it had been saved for me. I know that the Lord hears our prayers and that He speaks to a living prophet today.

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.

“Sarah, would you like to sing in a program?” asked Ms. Gardner, Sarah’s voice teacher.
“I’d love to!” Sarah said.
“It will be good for you to sing in front of others,” Ms. Gardner said, writing in her notebook. “The program is at the end of August, so you’ll have all summer to get ready.”
Sarah told her parents about the program as soon as she got home. She called her grandparents right after dinner. She was so happy!
At her next lesson, Sarah and Ms. Gardner picked out two songs for the program. One song was from an opera, and the other was from a musical play. Then Sarah got to work.
She practiced her songs with Ms. Gardner. And she practiced at home every day. Soon she had her songs memorized. Still, she kept working.
Finally, the day of the program came. Sarah got ready. She put on her blue dress. She brushed her hair. Then she knelt by her bed and asked for Heavenly Father’s help.
Soon they were on their way to the program. “Are you scared?” her mom asked.
Sarah shook her head. “I know the songs so well I could sing them backward!”
Mom smiled. “You’ve practiced really hard this summer.”
When they got to the program, Sarah sat next to her parents and grandparents. Her friend Megan was the first to sing. Evan sang next. Sarah and the rest of the audience clapped after each song.
When it was Sarah’s turn, she took a big breath and walked to the microphone. She sang the first song perfectly. Ms. Gardner smiled at her. Then Sarah started the second song.
It was all going well until she got to the chorus. And then it happened. She forgot the words! Her mind went completely blank. She looked nervously at the audience and motioned to the pianist to stop.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I’d like to start again.”
Her hands were a little sweaty. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She took another deep breath, nodded to the pianist, and began again.
This time, she remembered all the words. The audience clapped when she finished. Sarah smiled, but she was embarrassed.
After the program, Sarah found her teacher.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Gardner,” she said. “I really messed up.”
“Not at all, Sarah,” her teacher said. “You lost your place. That can happen to anyone. The important thing is that you carried on.”
“That’s right,” Grandma said, joining them. “We’re so proud of you.”
That night, Sarah thought about the program. She still felt bad about messing up. But Ms. Gardner was right. Sarah had carried on. She could be proud of that.
It’s a lot like repentance, she thought.
“Hey, Mom!” Sarah called, running to her parents’ bedroom. “I figured out that the program is like life.”
“How’s that, sweetie?” Mom asked. Sarah flopped onto the bed next to Mom.
“I made a mistake in my solo, but I fixed it and moved on. In life, when I make a wrong choice, I can fix it by repenting. Then I can move on and do better.”
“You know, that sounds like a great theme for home evening,” Mom said. “Want to give the lesson?”
“Sure!” Sarah said. She couldn’t wait to share what she had learned.
Have you set a goal to learn something new?
If you make a mistake, keep trying!
This story took place in the USA.

In 2016, one of our distant relatives invited us to visit The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My husband and son attended church, where the missionaries taught them about the restored gospel. They were baptized, and later my youngest daughter and I also accepted the gospel and were baptized. We moved from our old house into a better home, which was filled with peace and the love of God. In 2019, my husband passed away at the early age of 42. I was heartbroken and felt helpless. I worried about how I would raise our children without him, as he had been the only earning member of our family. I was a homemaker and did not know Hindi (local Language) well enough to communicate confidently, which made the situation even more difficult.
However, I knew that God had not abandoned me. I placed my faith in Him, obeyed His commandments, and faced these challenges without losing hope. I found work in a women’s sewing company, and three years later, I became a union leader, helping and empowering other women. My children completed their education and began living stable, independent lives. Our home became filled with peace and happiness. I truly felt the love of our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I came to understand God’s Plan of Happiness, that families can be reunited after this life and remain together forever. I have faith that I will reunite with my husband again, and I know that Jesus Christ has made this possible.
As I strengthened my relationship with God, I learned that He wants His children to grow and learn through trials. These experiences help strengthen our faith in Jesus Christ as we obey His commandments and live the gospel. As I did so, I felt myself drawing closer to God. Looking back, I see that it was God’s plan to bring me from a small village to this place and into the restored gospel. I am deeply grateful that my son served a mission and returned home honorably, and that my daughter is currently serving a mission.

On January 7, 2023, I woke up to complete blindness in my right eye and only about 10 percent vision in my left eye. The world had suddenly faded to gray—literally. Color and light were gone. I was left in darkness, fear, and doubt.
As an artist, all I ever wanted to do was add to the beauty of the world through art—a passion I have had nearly my entire life. What would I do if I could no longer see, participate in, or appreciate beauty in the world?
A few days earlier, my eyes became sensitive to light, and sharp lines of light began flashing in my vision. Concerned, I went to see an optometrist. After examining me, he said a buildup of cerebrospinal fluid was causing pressure in my skull, creating symptoms that mimic a brain tumor, including vision loss.
He told me my vision would decrease slowly over the next several months if left untreated. He assured me, however, that I had plenty of time to find a neurologist, who could treat the fluid buildup.
Worried, I asked for a blessing of healing and comfort from my father, who serves as a bishop. As he and one of his counselors blessed me, my favorite Bible story came into my mind:
“And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?
“Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him” (John 9:2–3).
Over and over in my mind, I thought, “God’s power is going to be manifest in this.” I didn’t know if that meant I would be healed or remain blind. I just knew that His will would be done and that He would carry me through my trial.
I had an appointment scheduled a few days later with a neurologist, but that January morning, my older sister, Kylie, felt prompted that my family should take me to the emergency room at a nearby hospital. Doctors quickly ordered a computed tomography (CT) scan and the first of several spinal taps to reduce cerebrospinal fluid pressure. The next day, I had two MRIs (magnetic resonance imaging). Then an ophthalmologist examined me.
“How many fingers can you see?” he asked, holding up several fingers right in from of my face. I couldn’t see anything.
After his examination, he concluded that I had symptoms of both pseudotumor cerebri and optic neuritis. Neither condition on its own seemed fully responsible. He explained that with the severity of my vision loss, recovery could take over a year and that my vision might not fully return. He recommended a high dose of intravenous steroids and other medication.
After he left, I started crying. My mother reassured me, “If you can’t hold on to your faith right now, you can rely on ours.”
On my third day in the hospital, my neurologist requested an MRV (magnetic resonance venography) of my spinal column and brain, looking for a tumor or blockage. At 4:00 a.m. two days after I woke up blind, I began a five-hour MRV. In preparation, my family planned to pray and fast for me that morning. My father, who slept by my side on a bench each night in my hospital room, gave me another blessing—the second of several blessings I received.
When a hospital technician asked if I wanted to listen to music during my test, I asked for songs from my favorite singer. The tech placed a set of rubber earphones into my ears and pinned my head down with a facial mesh to hold me in place. In the process, he bumped the headphones nearly out of my ears. I could barely hear any music as the MRV began.
The longer the procedure took, the hotter I felt inside the tubular imaging machine. After what seemed like forever, I was told I was doing great and to keep going a little longer. But I felt scared and distraught from the heat, loud sounds, and constraints holding me still.
In silent prayer, I cried out: “Heavenly Father, please comfort me. I’m so alone. I need Thy help. I need my family.”
Immediately, a soft piano chord echoed in my ears. It was from one of my favorite songs—one that my younger sister, Morgan, plays on the piano. I would not have expected to hear it from the loose earphones over the noise of the machine. It seemed like Morgan was with me, and I wasn’t alone. The noise went away. The heat went away. The claustrophobia went away.
I felt out of my body, like I was floating on a sea in space. I felt surrounded by God’s love and by my family’s love. Just like that, I was calm. It was 7:30 a.m., the time my family started fasting for me. The rest of the five-hour MRV passed in an instant, and then I heard, “You’re done.”
The love I felt from that experience left me in tears and eased the weariness I felt during the rest of my stay in the hospital. I didn’t know if my sight would return, but I knew that God was there and had heard my prayer. After four days in the hospital, I was released.
Each day for the next two weeks, I returned to the hospital for medication, and each day I looked for changes in my vision—dark gray fading to lighter gray, silhouettes appearing around my fingers in front of my face, an orange blur on the TV turning into a flower. Every slight improvement was a win.
Two weeks after I was released, a test showed that my vision had gone from zero to almost perfect in both eyes.
“Bronwyn, what has happened?” my ophthalmologist asked.
“Well, we’ve been praying, and I’ve received blessings,” I answered.
“This is miraculous!” he said. “I’ve never seen this happen. We shouldn’t have results even near this for at least six months.”
Later he told me that patients who have zero vision seldom regain normal vision. In a matter of weeks, I had gone from one of his worst cases to his best case.
At the end of 2022, leaders in my father’s ward chose a ward theme for 2023. It was inspired by teachings from President Russell M. Nelson, who earlier that year had said, “Seek and expect miracles.”
At the time, my father thought the theme would help ward members who were enduring hard times. He had no idea it would become so personal to our family.
“Follow the light of Christ,” the theme read. “Expect miracles! Expect joy!”
Two years later, my vision is better now than it was before I lost it. I thank Heavenly Father every day for my miracle and for my family’s unwavering faith. Through this trial, God’s work manifested itself. I grew a stronger testimony, a deeper appreciation for life, and a greater love for Him and for family and friends.
Today, I am doing everything I can, including as an artist, to make the most of the blessings, gifts, and joy God has given me—to glorify Him and to bless others.
Today, Bronwyn uses her art, like this illustration of the Savior, to glorify God and to bless others.

Newell B. Stevenson, a lifelong friend of Elder Faust, recalls that Butler Hill was also the local ski resort. “We used to go skiing there,” he relates. “That was back in the days when we didn’t know what ski boots and ski bindings and all those sorts of things were. We built ourselves a jump, and if you had a little good luck, you made it all the way down to the bottom. Of course, once you got to the bottom of the hill, you had to walk back up. Once Jim (Elder Faust) lost a ski and fell and broke his collarbone.
“We used to swim together a lot during the summer at a cold-water, spring-fed lake near our home. If we could have spent our lives there, we would have. A couple of times we went there in the early spring and dared each other to get into the water. We were so cold we got out in a hurry!”
Other sports also attracted Elder Faust’s interest, especially football and track. His father was his most ardent supporter. In recalling those days, Brother Stevenson said, “I don’t think I ever went to an athletic event that one of those Faust kids was in when their father wasn’t there to support them.
“Even as a boy—but particularly when we got into our teens—Jim was the spiritual leader of our group. We did everything together, and I have to give him a lot of credit for keeping us out of trouble. He wasn’t overbearing, domineering, or falsely pious—he just always did what was right.”

We headed for Sister Campbell’s first. She was living by herself in a tiny farmhouse in the middle of an apple orchard. We rang the doorbell and waited.
“Treat or trick,” we yelled, when she answered the door.
“What?” asked Sister Campbell. “Oh, girls, I wasn’t expecting anyone clear out here. I’m sorry, I don’t have a scrap of candy. But you’re welcome to the apples.”
“That’s okay,” we told her. “We’re reverse trick-or-treating. We bring you the treat.” She laughed and invited us inside. She told us about the things she used to do at Halloween.
“Some of us played terrible pranks.” Jill and I looked at each other. “We knocked over an outhouse while a boy was in it.”
“Oh, no!” I laughed, though I didn’t mean to.
“I felt awful about it,” Sister Campbell said.
“What happened? Did the boy get even with you?”
Sister Campbell giggled. “I’ll say he did. He married me.”

I was told of a conversation by a Primary teacher, who related what transpired in his class. He was teaching the eleven-year-olds. He asked the question, “Suppose the Lord asked you to build a spaceship big enough to take you and your family and provisions off this planet? Could you do it?”
Steve spoke up and said, “Yes.”
And the teacher said, “Have you ever built a spaceship?”
“No.”
“Have you ever built a model spaceship?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
Steve said, “Yes, on TV.” But then he declared, “You said the Lord told me to build it. If the Lord told me to build it, I could do it.”
I wonder how many of us as adults have that kind of faith.

I have in mind today a blessing given to someone precious and close to me who was told by her physicians that the child she was to bear would unquestionably have Down’s syndrome; an abortion was recommended. She refused, and in the next few weeks calls from the hospital and others came encouraging that the little fetus be aborted. Finally, in desperation, she called her doctor and said, “Get those people off my back. This little child will have a right to life regardless of its condition.” She had been given a priesthood blessing by her father and had been promised that the little child would be normal and healthy. When the little child involved was born, so it was. Today she is an unusually beautiful, bright, charming child.
I have thought, how many times in her life she would have had cause to reflect had she followed that counsel which was contrary to that given her by her father.

When I was 10 years old, I was on a swim team. One day when I was leaving the pool, I noticed something on the ground. It was a wallet. I picked it up and looked inside. There was about $250 in it.
I wanted to keep it and almost decided that I should. But I prayed for Heavenly Father’s help to guide me to the right decision. The Spirit prompted me to take the wallet inside to the front desk. Even though I really wanted the money, I gave the wallet to the lady at the desk, and she thanked me. I’m glad I made the right decision.

One day the sister missionaries knocked on my door and my mother answered. I remember her telling them, “Well, I am not interested, but my daughter would be. Wait, I will get her.”
When I started to talk to them, I could feel the Spirit telling me to listen. After a few months of listening and learning, I knew that this was what I had been looking for. Even though it didn’t feel like it to begin with, my decision to be baptized helped me to come not only closer to the Lord and but also closer to ending my ongoing battle against loneliness.

For Vaea Tangitau Ta‘ufo‘ou, being a faithful member of the Church has involved significant physical sacrifices. When he joined the Church at age 19, he lived on Foa, one of the outer islands in the Ha‘apai group. One of his first callings was as a leader working with the youth. Like other leaders he often had to attend meetings in Pangai, a town on the next island. To get there he had to walk seven miles (11 km) to the end of the island. Then he would have to wait for low tide so he could walk to the next island through the shallow water—assuming the current wasn’t too strong at the time—and then continue on until he arrived. The trip would take most of the day, and sometimes he would have to wait overnight to return home.
“It was a challenge to make our meetings,” Vaea says. “But it did not discourage us. It strengthened our testimonies.”
Early in his life Vaea hated the Church because of untrue stories spread about it by others in the village. Then his family was befriended by members of the Church. Their good example softened the hearts of Vaea’s family, and his sister was baptized. A year later he joined the Church and was soon serving diligently.
Some years later their district had grown significantly and had the potential to become a stake. Following meetings at Pangai, Vaea and others had to return home. But the district president wanted them to be back for meetings the next morning and asked them to be on time. To make the round trip successfully, Vaea had to run most of the way.
“I was so exhausted I almost felt like dying because the district president had also asked us to fast so we could organize the stake. But I made it. I learned the importance of making it to our meetings and being on time despite the challenges. I believe my calling as bishop shortly after this was because I was willing to make the sacrifice to serve and be obedient. I also believe our fasting made a difference. Not long after, President Howard W. Hunter [1907–95] came and organized the stake.”

Having recently completed basic flying instruction in Phoenix, Arizona, I had certified after a few hours of solo flying to take my first solo flight across the state. This would entail a two-hour route from Phoenix to Tucson and back to Phoenix.
Excited by the anticipation of flying by myself 10,000 feet (3,000 m) above the earth and viewing the beauty of the clouds, mountains, valleys, and desert, I thought little of my inexperience and any possible dangers that might await me.
I checked the weather, filed my flight plan, and gathered a radio, compass, and basic flight instruments. As is common at this stage of flight instruction, I still lacked training in the use of advanced instruments. But the older plane I would be flying had none of the sophisticated instruments that would allow a pilot to fly without visual cues.
I was a little nervous taking off by myself in my small yellow single-engine monoplane, but the flight from Phoenix to Tucson went well. I was thrilled with my new aerial skills.
Elated and confident and with only 120 miles (190 km) to go, I took off from Tucson for Phoenix late in the afternoon. However, after I was barely airborne, I unexpectedly experienced strong wind currents that made it difficult to control the altitude of my plane. A dust storm suddenly engulfed me, and I could no longer see. Tossed side to side, I lost control and became frantically disoriented and afraid, realizing that I was dangerously close to the Catalina mountain range.
In a panic I thought of my life. I was engaged to be married the following month in the Mesa Arizona Temple. I had served an honorable full-time mission. I had always tried to obey the commandments and listen to the promptings of the Holy Ghost. If I ever needed divine guidance, it was now. Almost despairing, I uttered a silent prayer. The Spirit immediately whispered to me, “Rely on your radio, your compass, and your instrument panel, and drop your altitude.”
I quickly descended several hundred feet. Visibility was still poor, but below me I could make out a highway and railroad tracks. By using my instruments and following visual landmarks, I was able to finally land at the airport in Phoenix after a harrowing two-hour experience.
I will always be grateful for the promptings of the Holy Ghost and the promise in Psalms: “In the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge” (Psalm 57:1).

A number of years ago, my son Nelson called me on Christmas Eve. The week before, an attorney who did not speak Spanish had asked him to serve as an interpreter. The attorney’s client, an older man who did not speak English, was requesting custody of his grandchildren.
After the hearing, Nelson wished the client merry Christmas. The man replied that Christmas that year would be a sad time. He was struggling financially to support his family. In addition, his 29-year-old daughter had just passed away, leaving behind five little children, the youngest just two years old. Their father was in jail, so the client and his wife would be taking in their grandchildren.
Moved by the man’s situation, both Nelson and the attorney decided not to charge him for their services. Then Nelson asked for the names and ages of the children and for the man’s address.
That night, Nelson couldn’t sleep as he thought about how he could help the family. As he knelt and fervently prayed about them, he felt inspired to write a letter, explaining the family’s situation, sharing the names and ages of the children, and asking for donated gifts. The next day he distributed copies of the letter to the judges, attorneys, and other workers at the courthouse.
The response was so great that he soon filled his car’s trunk and seats with gifts. Those who had no time to purchase gifts donated money for the family.
“Mamá,” Nelson said, “there are a lot of good people in the world. If you could just see how they responded! I requested just one gift for each child, but many more were donated.”
Nelson arrived at the family’s home Christmas Eve. The children were excited and happy as they helped him unload the gifts from his car. Their grandfather and grandmother just shook their heads in disbelief.
When Nelson sat down to rest for a minute before leaving, the two-year-old approached him and climbed onto his lap. Then, touching Nelson’s face affectionately, he asked, “Are you my daddy?”
With that, Nelson wept, thankful to those who had helped brighten the family’s Christmas.
“Mamá,” he said, “there is no greater joy than serving others. I’m thankful to have been an instrument in God’s hands to bless this good family.”
Nelson’s joy was a reflection of the Savior’s teaching that “it is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35).

“Mary, what do you see?” Mary’s stepmother spoke softly from her sickbed.
“The fighting seems to be getting closer,” said Mary, looking out the window. The American Civil War was being fought just a few miles away. The sound of gunshots had filled the air since morning. Mary turned to her stepmother. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think we can leave the house to get the doctor.”
“Come closer.” Mary sat next to the bed and took her stepmother’s hand. “I know your father is still not well,” Mary’s stepmother said quietly, “but you need to take the family to Zion—your brother, your sister, and the twins. Don’t give your father any peace until he goes to the Rocky Mountains! Promise me!”
Mary knew how much her family wanted to go to Salt Lake City. After they heard the gospel and were baptized, they had left England to join the Saints in Zion. But would it even be possible? She glanced at her father, who sat silently in his chair. Three years ago, Father had suffered a terrible stroke that had paralyzed his left side.
Mary took a deep breath. “I promise,” she whispered.
Soon Mary’s stepmother closed her eyes for the last time.
One morning soon after, Mary decided it was time to tell her father about her promise. “I know I’m just 14,” she said, “but I must take our family to Zion.” She heard the twins waking. “I need to go get breakfast started,” she said. “But just think about it, please.”
A few days later, Father called Mary’s name. “It’s all arranged,” he said. His speech was still slurred from the stroke. “I’ve sold our land and the coal mine so we can buy a wagon, some oxen, cows, and a few supplies. A wagon company is leaving soon for the West. They’re not Latter-day Saints, but we can travel with them as far as Iowa. When we get there, we can join a party of Saints going to the Salt Lake Valley.”
Mary threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Father.” Soon they would go to Zion!
The days passed quickly as Mary helped get the family ready for their travels. “Everything is going to be all right,” she told herself. “Soon we’ll be in Zion.”
But then Father fell ill. From the way his mouth drooped on one side, Mary feared it was another stroke.
“He’s too sick to travel,” she told the leader of the wagon company. “We just need a few days for him to recover.”
“We can’t wait,” the man said briskly. Seeing Mary’s face, he softened his tone. “You can stay here until he’s ready to travel, and then you can catch up with us.” With no other choice, Mary agreed.
A week later, Mary got her family ready to travel again. “The twins and Sarah can ride on the oxen,” she told Jackson, her nine-year-old brother. “Father can ride in the wagon, and you can help me drive the oxen.”
“I’m scared,” Sarah said in a small voice. She was only six, and she looked tiny on the ox’s broad back. The four-year-old twins looked at Mary with wide eyes.
“We’ll just make good time and catch up with our group!” Mary said with forced cheerfulness.
On and on the Wanlass family traveled, for miles and then for days. Finally, even Mary had to admit the truth.
The wagon party had not waited for them. Mary and her family would have to travel to Zion alone.
“Whoa, there!” Mary pulled back on the reins, and the oxen slowed. “Everyone all right?” She looked at her three youngest siblings, who rode on the oxen’s backs. They nodded.
The Platte River lay before them, wide and muddy. “What now?” her younger brother, Jackson, asked. He was only nine, but he was helping Mary drive the oxen. Father lay in the back of the wagon, still sick from his stroke.
“We don’t need to cross the river,” said Mary. “But we can follow it.” There was no road to Zion, but the river should guide them as they headed west. “Giddyap!”
Mary didn’t know that Mormon pioneers traveled on the other side of the Platte River and went a different way. By not crossing the river, they were entering Indian Territory. They would not see another wagon train for the rest of the journey.
They traveled on. Weeks later, Mary saw a cloud of dust approaching. “Steady,” she whispered to the oxen and herself. “Steady.”
The dust cleared to show a small group of Indians riding on horses. One of the riders moved toward the back of the wagon, where Father was lying.
The rider’s eyes were kind. “He is sick?” he asked, pointing to Father.
“Yes,” Mary whispered. The man called out something in his own language, and the men rode off as quickly as they had come.
Mary looked at the sun in the sky. “We’ll stop here,” she told Jackson. She lifted Sarah and the twins down.
“Mary, come look!” Jackson said. The man with the kind eyes was riding toward them, something heavy in his hands.
“Wild duck,” he said. “And rabbit. For you.” Mary could only stare, speechless, as he dropped the game into her arms. With another nod, he rode off into the twilight.
“Food!” Mary exclaimed. “Meat!” The man’s gift was truly a miracle.
More miracles happened on their journey. A buffalo herd came near them but then parted around the wagon, going on either side of it. A dust storm carried one of the twins into a river, but Mary was able to save her.
But the journey was still difficult. Every day the wagon looked more worn, and the oxen looked more tired. The ground was steep and rocky. The mountains were hard to cross. But Mary and her family kept plodding forward.
They were just coming down from a tall summit when Mary saw a man driving toward them in a wagon.
“Maybe he can tell us the way to Lehi, Utah!” she said to Jackson. They had an uncle who lived there.
“You’re in Echo Canyon, not far from the Salt Lake Valley,” the man said when she asked where they were. “But where is the rest of your party?”
The whole story came out, and the man listened with amazement. “You’ve traveled over 1,000 miles (1,609 km) all by yourselves?” He shook his head with admiration. “You are one brave girl. Let me tell you the way to Lehi. You’re nearly there.”
“Nearly there,” Mary whispered to herself as the man drew a rough map in the dirt. Nearly to Zion. “I think we might make it, after all.”
Mary and her family made it to Lehi, Utah. She later married and had a large family of her own. Her example of faith and courage has blessed many people.

One Sunday in July, I could feel the Spirit in the room as I passed the sacrament. After passing to the people in the back, I checked to make sure everyone had a chance to receive it. I then reverently walked over to the line of the other young men who had finished passing the sacrament.

As the other young men lined up, I looked around and saw a family on the far side of the chapel. I realized that they had not received the sacrament yet. It seemed too late, because the priests stood up and the line started to move. As the young men in front of me took the sacrament, all I could think about was that family and how they didn’t receive the sacrament.

I felt a great urge to break from the line and pass to that family. I knew it was the Holy Ghost telling me to do it, so I left the line and walked down the aisle toward the family near the back. As I grew closer, I felt warmth overcome me. I looked up and saw the family smiling at me. I could feel their appreciation for not forgetting them.

I passed the sacrament to the family even though I felt like everyone in the congregation was looking at me. I could almost sense the Holy Ghost whispering, “Good job.” You don’t need words to know that someone truly cares and appreciates your love and respect for them. All you need to do is a good deed.

Recently I met a young man who was receiving the missionary discussions. He had read the Book of Mormon and felt he had received answers to his prayers. He was now faced with the decision of whether or not to be baptized.

This was a rather remarkable young man. He had experienced some severe tests in his life, and he had demonstrated great courage and resourcefulness. The prospect of becoming a member of the Church, however, gave him a different kind of challenge.

As we talked about this newest and most important decision with which he was faced, he asked, “Why are so many people critical of Mormons?” He then described some of the things he had experienced at the hands of friends, family, and fellow employees for having associated with the missionaries. “I’m not sure I can live with that kind of feeling against me if I join the Church,” he said. “Why can’t I believe what your church teaches, but just go on being a good Christian without becoming a Mormon?”

It isn’t difficult for us to know what the consequences will be for this young man if he chooses not to be baptized because of the fear of incurring ill feelings from family and friends. He is, of course, perfectly free to make this choice, but he is not free to determine the consequences of that decision.

The young man to whom I referred in the beginning of my remarks has a very important decision to make. In the final analysis he cannot hedge on his decision. He must be willing to face the consequences of baptism and membership in the Church if he is ever to enjoy the blessings that Church membership can bring. He must be willing to pay the price. This will require much trust and faith on his part. It is so with each of us whenever we face challenging choices. You young men of the Aaronic Priesthood have a tremendous trust placed in you by the Lord, and he expects you to measure up—to stand up and be counted. All of you came here to be winners. The Lord’s work will prevail, and you will have much to do with the success of his kingdom.