Gospel Story Finder

When the stranger with bloody feet asked to come in, Father questioned the “new” religion the stranger talked about. But Father read Brother Reed’s Book of Mormon and was willing to hear Brigham Young preach. It was Mary Ann’s best friend, Betsy, who called Brother Reed and Brigham Young fakes!
Just as Mary Ann returned to sit with her family at the meeting, Brigham Young was getting up to speak again. He told of the need to have faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. After testifying that the Savior lived and spoke to a prophet today, Brother Young told them to repent and to be baptized.
One old man from the back called, “I’ve been baptized. Why do I need to be baptized again?”
Brother Young told them about the authority brought to earth by John the Baptist to Joseph Smith. Joseph gave that authority to him and to Brother Reed. Brigham Young asked if any wanted to be baptized.
Mary Ann’s mother stood up. Then her father stood up, and Nathan and Mary Ann did too. No one else in the whole congregation did. Brother Reed beamed at them. They sat back down, and Brother Young closed the meeting. As Mary Ann walked by, Betsy turned her face away.
Mary Ann touched her arm. “I’m sorry I got mad at you. It’s just that I believe what these men are telling me. I know it’s true, and I want you to know it too.”

When Josiah heard about the tornado, he was scared. He kept thinking about pictures he’d seen—pictures of the tornado and pictures of all the damage it caused. In one picture, Josiah saw a little girl in pink rubber boots. She looked about his age and was standing on a heap of rubble that used to be her home. What would happen to her? To all the people who lost their homes?
“You look so sleepy,” Mom said the next morning. “Are you feeling OK?”
Josiah shrugged.
Mom felt his face. “No fever. Should we see how you feel at breakfast? Dad’s making pancakes.”
In the kitchen, Dad stood next to the stove, flipping pancakes. He kept glancing at his phone.
“Lots of damage from the tornado,” he said. “Thousands still don’t have power.”
“I hope they get it back soon,” Mom said. She and Dad kept talking about the tornado. Josiah sat down at the table. He put his head in his hands.
“You OK, bud?” Dad asked.
Josiah looked up. “I’m scared,” he said. “Are we gonna have a tornado? I don’t want our house to blow away.” He started to cry.
Mom sat down and put her arm around Josiah.
“We don’t know if something scary will happen to us, but we can trust Heavenly Father to help us no matter what happens.”
“But what about all those people in the tornado?” Josiah said. “Why didn’t Heavenly Father help them?”
“Heavenly Father is helping them,” Dad said. He put a big stack of pancakes on the table. “He won’t stop all bad things from happening, but Heavenly Father always helps His children.”
“How?” Josiah said.
“Well, sometimes He sends little miracles, or helps people feel comfort, or inspires other people to help out.”
Mom nodded. “A lot of times, Heavenly Father helps other people through us.”
“Remember when the Johnsons had a fire and we invited them to stay with us? You shared your room,” Dad said.
“And you played with the baby so we could help them rebuild their house,” Mom added. “That was a big help. Now the Johnsons are back in their home.”
Josiah smiled. He liked helping the Johnsons. Was that Heavenly Father helping through him?
“And then there was that spaghetti dinner to raise money for the people in the earthquake,” Dad said.
“I helped sweep the floor,” said Josiah.
“Yes, you did,” Dad said.
“What about the people near the tornado?” asked Josiah. “Can we help them?”
“I think Heavenly Father is inspiring you to help. What do you think we could do?” asked Mom.
“Would my birthday money help?” asked Josiah. “I still have it.”
“Yes, it would,” said Mom. “Dad and I have some money we can send too.”
Josiah looked at the pancakes. They looked yummy. “Can I say the prayer?”
“You sure can,” Dad said.
Josiah bowed his head. He thanked Heavenly Father for their food and for always helping His children. Then Josiah prayed for the people hurt by the tornado. He asked to know more ways he and his family could help.
Afterward, Josiah took a big bite of pancakes. There were lots of ways to help! And Josiah felt much better.

Why does it feel so different? Laura wondered, staring down at her hands and nervously twisting her CTR ring.
The chairs were the same. The carpet was the same color. The songs were the same. Even the teacher, Sister Wright, happened to have the same name as Laura’s Primary teacher in her old ward. Mom, who had moved many times as a child, had reassured Laura that the Church was the same wherever you went. “Saints are Saints, and that means friends,” she always said.
Well, it doesn’t feel the same to me! Laura thought as a tear dropped onto her hands.
“Boys and girls, let’s welcome Laura Bybee, a new member of our class,” Sister Wright announced. “Laura, where do you live?”
Laura struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. “We’re staying in a motel for a week, until we can move into our house. I think our address will be 48 Earl Street.”
“That’s close to my house!” the girl sitting next to Laura exclaimed.
“How nice, Stacey.” Sister Wright smiled. “Let’s all introduce ourselves to Laura.”
Laura managed a quick glance at each of her new classmates as they said their names. Everyone was trying to be nice, but still Laura wanted to run out the door and never come back. She wanted to return to her old ward, where she knew everyone and where everyone loved her.
She wanted elderly Sister Glove to hug her and tell her how tall she’d grown in just one week. She longed to have Brother Webster squeeze her small hand in his huge, rough one and tease her by asking when she was coming to slop his hogs. She wished she could help catch Brother and Sister Jensen’s active twin boys when it was time to load them into the car. Most of all, she wished she could sit in the shade of the pine tree on the church’s back lawn and laugh with her friend Rachel while they waited for their parents.
As Sister Wright began the lesson, Laura realized it was the same one the other Sister Wright had taught the week before in Laura’s old ward.
“Why is it important to keep the Sabbath day holy?” the new teacher asked.
“It’s a commandment,” a boy named Daniel answered.
Laura remembered what the other Sister Wright had taught: “It is a commandment, but it is also a way to show that we are Christ’s followers. By keeping the Sabbath day holy, we receive help to stay clean from sin. Keeping the Sabbath day holy is a privilege.” Laura had promised herself and the Lord right then that she would always treat the Sabbath with reverence. Remembering that promise helped Laura feel calm and peaceful.
“What are some things we should avoid doing on Sunday?” the new Sister Wright asked.
“We shouldn’t go hunting or fishing or to ball games,” one boy said.
“We shouldn’t work,” answered another.
“We shouldn’t make others work by going shopping or out to eat,” the girl at the end of the row added.
“Excellent answers,” Sister Wright said.
Suddenly Laura’s awful feeling returned. Tears filled her eyes. This time all of them came spilling onto her lap.
“Laura, what’s wrong?” Stacey whispered.
Sister Wright stopped her lesson and knelt in front of Laura. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
“I had this lesson last week,” Laura sobbed, “and I promised Heavenly Father that I would always keep the Sabbath day holy. But I just remembered that we’re staying in a motel and we’ll have to eat in a restaurant today. And it’s Sunday.”
Sister Wright wrapped her arms around Laura’s shaking shoulders. “It’s all right, Laura. The Lord understands your situation.”
“Laura doesn’t have to eat in a restaurant!” Stacey declared. “She can eat at my house. I know my mom will say it’s OK.”
As soon as Primary was over, Stacey grabbed Laura’s hand and pulled her down the hall toward the Relief Society room. “Mom! Mom! Can Laura’s family eat with us? They’re new in the ward, and they’re staying in a motel, and Laura doesn’t want to break her promise to keep the Sabbath day holy by eating in a restaurant, so I told her—”
“Whoa!” Stacey’s mom held up her hand. “I think we already have things worked out.” Turning toward the woman next to her, Stacey’s mom said, “This is Sister Bybee, and I’ve already invited her and her family to come to our house to eat.”
“Yippee!” Stacey clapped her hands and then gave Laura a big hug. “See, I told you my mom would say it’s OK.”
Laura smiled. Her mom was right. Saints are Saints, and that means friends!

Michael Garfield, a priest in the Plymouth Ward, stood his ground last summer when his soccer team was about to go into the state tournament. His coach wanted him to return the next season, but that would mean Sunday matches. The state tournament was also on Sunday. Michael had told his coach he could not play on Sundays already, and he was about to explain to him the importance of the Sabbath day. But before he could explain, one of his nonmember teammates, whom Michael had explained the Sabbath to before, jumped in and told the coach about the importance of the Sabbath day. “My coach understood better because he heard it from someone else,” Michael says. He was glad he had explained to his friend the sacredness of the Sabbath.
Michael has decided not to continue playing on the soccer team because of all the Sunday games. Keeping the Sabbath holy and having family time is more important to him, he says.

In April, the branch start ed a Young Women program. At first there was only one participant: me! Even when I didn’t go, the teacher would wait for me. That seemed strange, too. Why was she so patient? Why did she wait so long even when she wasn’t sure I’d show up?
About that time, the mission presidents changed and the Suzuki family came to Sapporo. There was a young lady in the family, Naomi, who was my same age. We quickly became friends, since we were the only young women our age in the branch. She set a good example for me, and with her as a guide, I began to understand the patience of our teacher and the beauty of the gospel. Naomi’s example helped keep me going to church weekly and praying diligently. I was able to gain a small testimony and wanted from the bottom of my heart to be baptized.
I had talked to my parents once before about receiving that blessing, but they were against it. This time, armed with a tiny testimony, I tried again.
“Faith,” my father told me, “is not something that is grown in one or two days. It is the process of many years.” He felt that, to a student, school is more important even than religion, and he emphatically refused to give permission for baptism.
That had been a painful experience. But I got a grasp on myself, thought over what my father had said, and decided that one thing he had said was right. Religion should not be just a two-day spree, but a life-long adventure! I began attending seminary and studying the Old Testament in earnest. Fun lessons helped me gain insight into a subject new to me, and my knowledge of the gospel became fuller. However, I could not buy the home study manuals because that year was also the year for high school entrance exams, and my parents wanted me to spend time on school work, not religious homework.
I was overjoyed when the students in the class gave the manuals to me as a present! What could I give them in return? The best thing was to study those manuals hard. Even though my progress was slower than others, I was able to finish the manuals and turn them in to the teacher.
I also passed the high school entrance exams and felt relieved. My heart was lighter as I once again approached my parents about baptism, figuring I had proven I could be active in the Church and still succeed at school. Their response knocked me back into reality. “No,” my father said, “from now on school will be even tougher. You won’t have time for church and school too.”
My parents became increasingly upset by my diligence in attending Church meetings and would speak harsh words when I left the house on Sundays. After many months, however, they finally realized I wasn’t going to stop attending, and their resistance slackened somewhat. I continued studying seminary manuals, and my testimony grew more and more firm. But baptism still seemed impossible.
Finally, Naomi suggested that we should fast and pray about the situation. So every Sabbath day—for an entire year—we fasted. Naomi fasted and prayed right along with me. I could always feel God’s presence nearby, and my testimony became unshakable as we realized many other blessings that year. But my parents remained firm.
Last of all, my thoughts drifted to the beginning of this school year—my last in high school, the year of preparation for the college entrance examinations. I knew I would not be allowed to join the Church until the exams were over. I also wondered if my parents would allow me to be baptized even after the tests. One thing was certain, though. If I failed the exams, my parents would say, “The reason you failed is because you spent so much time with that church!” I had to prove that what they were thinking just wasn’t right. Somehow I knew that passing those tests was the key to my baptism, but I couldn’t see how.
I studied harder than I ever had before. Schoolwork passed ahead of everything, even Church assignments. Seminary studies began to pile up, but I rationalized that in order to be baptized, it was worth neglecting seminary in favor of schoolwork. The lack of seminary study worried me, however, for it was there I had grown the most and felt the strongest testimony. Now that testimony seemed to be shrinking as 13 home study books cluttered my shelf. My conscience told me I wasn’t doing what was right, that even with school there should be time for Church work and seminary too. On February 25 I promised myself I would complete all 13 books by March 4, the day exams began. Sandwiched in between my other schoolwork, seminary workbooks became a welcome break. On March 2, I handed all of my assignments, completed, to my amazed seminary teacher.
“It’s time,” the teacher supervising the exam said. I looked at the clock and whispered a prayer. Like a squadron of robots, the college entrance exam candidates rose and entered the testing area. Reluctantly, I joined them.
I passed! I couldn’t believe it! I was so excited! But several days later, when the scores were posted, I was listed. I would be able to go to college! I rushed to my parents with the good news and also asked if now I could finally have my wish—to become a member of the Church.
“No,” my father said simply. He startled the words right out of my mouth.
But my mother, although she had never done so before, came to my defense. She reminded him that I had been true to my studies and true to my religion for four years. “That’s such a good church that I don’t think my daughter would be doing anything wrong by joining it,” she said. “It is such a good church. I can understand why my daughter wants to go to it all her life.”
The three of us talked for hours, and I slowly realized my parents weren’t against me but loved me. They were concerned for my welfare and didn’t want me doing something blindly. I’m grateful to have such wonderful parents. I think they realized, too, that I wasn’t joining the Church on a whim. They gave me permission to be baptized! I made that covenant and received that ordinance on the same day I graduated from the Young Women program. My friends from seminary helped plan the baptismal service, and most of my family attended.
Of the high school- and college-age members of the Church in Japan, only about 5 percent have parents who are members. They may find that sharing the gospel with their families can be difficult and that parents of the Buddhist and Shinto faiths don’t always understand the joy that comes into someone’s heart through the knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ. But I truly believe that the Lord is mindful of us and will provide a way to help us. For me, it was through four years of patience that allowed my faith to grow strong.

Elder Dallin H. Oaks described an experience his great-grandfather Abinadi Olsen had on his mission to the Samoan Islands in 1895. Obedient to the call of the prophet, he left his wife and four small children and traveled by train and ship for twenty-six days to the island of Tutuila.

After many weeks of living in what he called a grass hut, eating strange food, suffering severe illnesses, and struggling to learn the Samoan language, he seemed to be making no progress in his missionary work. Homesick and discouraged, he seriously considered boarding a boat back to Apia and telling the mission president he didn’t want to waste any more time in Samoa. The obstacles seemed insurmountable, and he wished to return to his wife and children, who were struggling to support him in the mission field.

A friend who heard Abinadi Olsen describe the experience some years after his return, quoted him as follows:
Then one night, as I lay on my mat on the floor of my hut, a strange man entered and in my own language told me to get up and follow him. His manner was such that I had to obey. He led me out through the village and directly up against the face of a perpendicular solid rock cliff. “That’s strange,” thought I. “I’ve never seen that here before,” and just then the stranger said, “I want you to climb that cliff.”

I took another look and then in bewilderment said, “I can’t. It’s impossible!”

“How do you know you can’t? You haven’t tried,” said my guide.

“But anyone can see”—I started to say in objection. But he cut in with, “Begin climbing. Reach up with your hand—now with your foot.”

As I reached, under orders that I dared not disobey, a niche seemed to open in the solid rock cliff and I caught hold. Then with my one foot I caught a toe hold.

“Now go ahead,” he ordered. “Reach with your other hand,” and as I did so another place opened up, and to my surprise the cliff began to recede; climbing became easier, and I continued the ascent without difficulty until, suddenly, I found myself lying on my pallet back in my hut. The stranger was gone!

“Why has this experience come to me?” I asked myself. The answer came quickly. I had been up against an imaginary cliff for those three months. I had not reached out my hand to begin the climb. I hadn’t really made the effort I should have made to learn the language and surmount my other problems.

It is hardly necessary to add that Abinadi Olsen did not leave the mission. He labored for three and a half years, until released by appropriate authority. He was an exceptionally effective missionary, and he was a faithful member of the Church for the rest of his life.

Like Carolina, 16-year-old Katarina Echaniz quickly made friends after being introduced to the Church by a ward member. Through the missionary discussions and her friends’ example, she also quickly gained a testimony. Shortly after her baptism, she was called to the Mia Maid presidency. “I felt responsible because there were girls depending on me to do my calling,” she says. “I wanted to do everything well.” Katarina says the assignment has helped keep her strong in the gospel.

At breakfast when Mom reminded everyone about their family temple trip on Saturday, Carly frowned. She had completely forgotten about that. Usually she loved going to the temple, but Saturday was the day of Jennifer’s party!
Jennifer was Carly’s best friend, and on Saturday she was having a Halloween party. Carly could hardly wait. But now she didn’t know what she should do.
“Mom, Jennifer’s party is Saturday too,” she said. “Would it be OK if I stay home and go to the party?”
Mom smiled. “You are 12 years old now,” she said. “I think you can make up your own mind.”
Carly sighed.
All week Carly worried about Saturday. The temple was far away, so her family didn’t get to go very often. But Halloween parties didn’t happen that often either.
I can just go to the party, Carly decided.
But that didn’t feel right.
“Why do the party and our temple trip have to be on the same day?” she asked at dinner.
“You’ve got a tough choice to make,” Dad said. “What do you think you should do?”
Carly didn’t see anything wrong with going to the party. All her friends from school would be there, and it would probably be a lot of fun. But it wasn’t a question between right and wrong, and that made it harder. Going to the party was good, but Carly knew that serving others in the temple was better.
“I guess I’ll go on the temple trip,” Carly said. Immediately her heart felt lighter.
The next day at school, Jennifer ran up to Carly. “I can’t wait for the party,” she said. “What are you going to wear?”
Carly took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry, Jennifer,” she said. “But I can’t come to your party. My family is going to the temple that day.”
Jennifer crinkled her nose. “What’s a temple?”
“It’s a special place where we go to worship God,” Carly said. “It’s important to me, but I’m sorry I’ll miss your party.”
“It’s OK,” Jennifer said. But she looked sad.
“How about if you come over after school on Monday and tell me all about the party?” Carly said.
Jennifer smiled. “OK!”
Early Saturday morning Carly took her pillow and backpack out to the car. Mom put her arm around Carly’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re going with us.”
“So am I,” Carly said, and she meant it.
At the temple Carly listened carefully to the words of the baptismal prayer. When she thought about how each name was for a real person, she was sure there was no place she would rather be than here, being baptized for them.
On the way home, Dad said, “Because of our family, 15 people had baptisms done for them today. I know these ancestors are grateful for the opportunity to accept the gospel.”
Carly settled down for the long drive home. She couldn’t stop smiling.

A true story from the USA.
I lean back on my heels and look at the yard. There is a line of dark soil against the side of the Johnsons’ house where Mom and I just planted flower bulbs. I pat the soil and sigh.
“Thanks for helping plant those,” Mom says.
I look at my hands, covered in dirt, and don’t say anything. I’m thinking about Celeste Johnson. Celeste, who used to live in this house. Celeste, who was almost exactly the same age as me. Celeste, who came with me to Primary. We played together and went to each other’s birthday parties. Sometimes we’d set up a tent in her backyard and pretend we were camping. She was my best friend.
Celeste’s gone now. She died in a car accident a few months ago. My family and I cried a lot. Celeste was our friend, and we knew we would miss her. We cried because Celeste’s dad had gotten hurt in the car accident. We cried because Celeste’s family was sad.
I really wanted to help Celeste’s family. I gave a stuffed animal to Celeste’s younger sister, Ella. I also helped some people from the ward make gifts for Celeste’s family. I wanted them to know they were loved.
When I went to Celeste’s funeral, I sat close to friends from church. We sang Celeste’s favorite Primary song, “Faith,” about how we can live with God again. It reminded me I’ll see Celeste again. At the cemetery, I placed a flower on top of the casket. Everyone who knew Celeste was still sad. We missed her. But when I prayed and fasted, I felt less sad. Reading scriptures and talking with friends from church helped too.
Today, we came to visit the Johnsons to help them plant flower bulbs in their yard. The bulbs are small and brown right now. I don’t know exactly what they’ll look like in the spring, but they’re supposed to be pretty.
Mom has been watching me and says, “Do you know what I like about bulbs?”
I shake my head. The sun is bright, and I have to squint to look at her. “What?”
“The flowers from these bulbs die in the winter, but they always come back in the spring,” she says. “They remind me of the resurrection. You can’t see the flowers after they’ve died, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone. Just like Celeste and all of us when we die. Because of Jesus Christ, we will all be resurrected and live again.”
I look at the mounds of dirt. The bulbs will grow, and grow, and push away the dirt. I know that by spring they will be beautiful flowers, and I know that I will see Celeste again.
I lean over the dirt where the bulbs are planted and blow a kiss. “See you in the spring!” I whisper.

The military experience is like other forays into secularism that LDS youth are facing today. They are away from home with carnal options on every hand—gambling, profanity, pornography, immorality, and bug-out-ism. Such crass enticements successfully ensnare the uncommitted, but thousands of others choose to swim against the current. One young priest, during his first week away from home, confronted some returned missionaries in his barracks who appeared more sophisticated. Why weren’t they saying their prayers, he queried. His challenge encouraged them all to overcome their smoothly disguised fears of censure. They joined after lights out for a family prayer each night. Soon they discovered that their Mormon compatriots throughout the post were doing the same in small scattered groups; they even included their fellow nonmember squad members. The result was a brotherhood—blessing when sick, counseling when troubled, and bolstering each other during competition—instead of the harassing, cutting, and undermining that are so common in basic training. This higher life occurs without leaders or instructions; it emerges from being “anxiously engaged in a good cause,” from conviction, from feeling the power of God within. All over the globe, many Mormon youth seek out each other. Their spiritual adventures are legion. They often reach out to friends who have followed the carnal path into deprivation. Their example, caring, and persistence have supported many through a transformation that has led them into the Melchizedek Priesthood, the temple, sometimes mission calls—in other words, into their eternal potential.

Ídolos was a television show I really enjoyed watching. I have always liked performing and hoped to someday enter a music competition. This year I didn’t hesitate; I simply signed myself up for the show and went to the audition with my dad. I guess you could say I’ve been preparing for Ídolos my entire life. Every experience I had with Ídolos was amazing, without exception. I tried to take advantage of every opportunity that came my way.

Once during a dinner with the other contestants, we talked a little bit about religion, and I spoke about my faith and the standards of the Church. Later I gave each of the finalists a copy of the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet so they could better understand what I believe. Some said the Church’s standards seemed really conservative, but others praised me for having such high standards in these days.

I continued to say my prayers, read my scriptures, participate in seminary, and take the sacrament every Sunday. I am currently preparing to serve a mission, which is something I’ve wanted to do since I was little. I serve in my ward as ward pianist, ward missionary, and assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. I had to dedicate almost all my time to the competition, but I made sure to first dedicate time to the Lord.

There is yet another trial which, when endured well, can bring blessings in this life and blessings forever. Age and illness can test the best of us. My friend served as our bishop when my daughters were still at home. They speak of what they felt when he bore his simple testimony around campfires in the mountains. He loved them, and they knew it. He was released as our bishop. He had served as a bishop before in another state. Those I have met who were from his earlier ward remember him as my daughters do.

I visited him in his home from time to time to thank him and to give him priesthood blessings. His health began a slow decline. I can’t remember all the ailments he suffered. He needed surgery. He was in constant pain. Yet every time I visited him to give him comfort, he turned the tables; I always was the one comforted. His back and legs forced him to use a cane to walk. Yet there he was in church, always sitting near the door, where he could greet those arriving early, with a smile.

I will never forget the feeling of wonder and admiration which came over me when I opened the back door at home and saw him coming up our driveway. It was the day we put out our garbage cans to be picked up by city workers. I had put the can out in the morning. But there he was dragging my garbage can up the hill with one hand while he balanced himself with a cane in his other hand. He was giving me the help he thought I needed when he needed it far more than I did. And he was helping with a smile and without being asked.

I visited him when he finally had to be cared for by nurses and doctors. He was lying in a hospital bed, still in pain and still smiling. His wife had called me to say that he was getting weaker. My son and I gave him a priesthood blessing as he lay in the bed with tubes and bottles connected to him. I sealed the blessing with a promise that he would have time and the strength to do all that God had for him to do in this life, to pass every test. He stretched out his hand to grasp mine as I stepped away from his bed to leave. I was surprised at the strength of his grip and the firmness in his voice when he said, “I’m going to make it.”

I left thinking that I would see him again soon. But the phone call came within a day. He was gone to the glorious place where he will see the Savior, who is his perfect judge and will be ours. As I spoke at his funeral, I thought of the words of Paul when he knew that he would go to that place where my neighbor and friend has gone:
“But watch thou in all things, endure afflictions, do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry.
“For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.
“I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith:
“Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.”
I have confidence that my neighbor made it through his trial and will face his judge with a joyous smile.

You may not know the impact your life and example may have on a little child. I recently received a note from a friend who manages a day-care center in a local high school. Attending that high school are several young men and young women who are members of the Church. She shared with me this experience: “As I walk through the halls with the little children, it is nice to see how many lockers have pictures of Jesus or of temples taped to the inside of the doors. One of the children saw a picture of Jesus on the inside of a [young woman’s] opened locker door and said, ‘Look, Jesus is at our school!’ The student was moved to tears as she bent down and gave the child a hug. I thanked the young woman for the good example she was to those around her. It is uplifting to know that there are so many youth that are trying to stand for truth and righteousness and do their part in inviting the Spirit into their lives, even though it is difficult at times with all the noise and harshness in the world around them. We have some wonderful youth in the Church.”

Perhaps you will indulge me another personal story. I had the dream of becoming a law professor even before I went to law school. In an abundance of caution, I applied to 10 schools and found myself in a fortunate situation, like you have, with a number of good choices.

I knew where I wanted to attend, but I decided to ask Heavenly Father. I prayed and pondered without receiving an answer. As the days turned to weeks, I’m sorry to say I grew impatient, annoyed, and perhaps even angry. “If I’m willing to do your will,” I complained, “you could at least have the common courtesy to tell me what your will is.”

After weeks had passed, I decided to make a more serious attempt. I climbed on my bicycle and rode to a quiet place beside a small river a few miles out of town. I spent the day on my knees with my scriptures and a notebook. Finally, as the shadows grew long, I gave up in frustration. I was pounding the pedals on my bicycle as I rode home. Gradually I calmed, and my cadence slowed. A thought entered my mind, at first faint, and then increasingly distinct: “Honor your priesthood and remember your covenants.” I repeated this in my mind with the revolution of the bicycle pedals: “Honor your priesthood, remember your covenants. Honor your priesthood, remember your covenants.”

I stopped my bike, looked up to heaven, and exclaimed, perhaps audibly, “You don’t care where I go to law school! You want me to honor my priesthood and keep my covenants.” As I spoke these words, I was flooded with the classic confirmation of the Holy Spirit, a combination of a shiver down my spine and a burning in my chest that was so strong I could hardly stand it.

So I went to the law school of my choice. During my years there, when I was tempted to think too much of myself or to be too caught up in the cares and preoccupations with which I was surrounded, I thought often, “Brett, honor your priesthood and remember your covenants.” It was precisely the message I needed to keep me on track during those three years of law school. My prayers had been answered in a deeply meaningful—but entirely unexpected—way.

This story took place in England.
Davi was excited for playtime. He tried hard to listen to his teacher, Miss Taylor. But it was hard for him to understand what she was saying in English. It made Davi’s head hurt.
Davi’s family had just moved from Brazil to England. He had a new house and a new school. But the biggest change of all was that now Davi had a new language to learn! He missed his old home. He missed his friends who all spoke Portuguese like he did.
Miss Taylor clapped her hands. “It’s playtime!” she said.
Davi jumped out of his chair. He knew that word! He could eat a treat and play on the swings. And he could take a break from learning English.
When Davi went outside, other kids ran ahead of him to play. They were already friends. And they all spoke the same language. When Davi tried to listen to them, his brain hurt again. He felt so alone.
I wish I had a friend, Davi thought. What should I do?
Davi remembered what his mum and dad had told him. “You can pray anytime, anywhere, and Heavenly Father will hear you,” they said.
This was the perfect time to pray!
Davi looked around the playground. He saw a wooden playhouse. Davi went inside. It was quiet there. He got on his knees, folded his arms, and closed his eyes.
“Dear Heavenly Father, I want to play with the other kids. I want to learn English. Please help me.”
When he finished praying, Davi felt a warm, peaceful feeling in his heart. He knew even if he didn’t have a lot of friends yet, Heavenly Father was always his friend.
After playtime, Davi went back to the classroom. It was still hard to understand English. But he decided to keep trying!
For weeks Davi practiced. He read lots of stories in English. He listened to Miss Taylor. He practiced talking to the other kids too.
Every time Davi felt sad, he said a prayer. Each time his head hurt from trying to learn English, he said a prayer. And each time he prayed, Heavenly Father helped him feel peace. He felt like he could keep trying.
Even more weeks passed. It got easier to understand Miss Taylor. Davi started making friends and talking with them. He even won a prize in school for working hard and reading well!
One day a new student came to Davi’s class at school. His name was Leo. He was from another country and didn’t know English very well.
At playtime, Davi saw Leo sitting on the swing by himself. He looked sad. Davi remembered how lonely he felt when he was new. He wanted to be Leo’s friend.
Davi ran to Leo. “Hi. I’m Davi.” He held up a football. “Want to play?”
Leo nodded and hopped off the swing.
Davi felt warm inside. He was glad he could be a friend to Leo, just like Heavenly Father was a friend to him.
Illustrations by Maja Andersen

A month or two later, I was up in my bedroom, alone, not particularly troubled or unhappy, but thoughtful. In the top drawer of my desk lay a paperback copy of A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, a parting gift from my former Mormon girlfriend.
Thinking of her, and recalling Jimmy’s presentation and other conversations I’d had with LDS kids, I pulled the book out and began reading. Maybe it would help me understand why they could talk about knowing their church was true.
The opening pages contained Joseph Smith’s story of his first vision, and as I read it, it struck me that this man, or boy, or whoever he was, was telling the truth. While I experienced no blaring trumpets or burning bosoms or bright lights or heavenly messengers, his story was quite simple and plain and logical to me. I set the book down on my desk and felt a surge of quiet confidence, a feeling I now recognize as the Holy Ghost, confirm what I had just read.
Such sudden and sure knowledge startled me because I realized that if Joseph Smith’s story was true, the church he founded must also be true. As I pondered my newly discovered testimony, I knew that I’d have to do something about it, though I wasn’t sure what. I decided that tomorrow I’d give my former girlfriend a call and tell her I knew what she and her friends knew and ask her if she had any ideas what I should do next.
Well, she had plenty of ideas, and the busy weeks of missionary discussions, fasting, and prayer that followed only served to confirm what I had first realized after reading Joseph Smith’s story one spring afternoon in my bedroom: It’s true. I know it!

It was a typical Ohio winter night, cold enough to be snowing, yet warm enough to be raining. I was making an almost futile attempt at driving and checking street signs at the same time. Jim Bowen and Mark Auckerman, eighteen-year-old non-LDS friends, were reading off the street signs as we slowly drove down the ice-covered street.
“All I know,” explained Jim, “is that Chris lives on Dibert Avenue, and it’s somewhere off this street.”
“But are you sure it’s down this far?” asked Mark.
We were in the south end of Springfield, a district that none of us was very familiar with. I was stuck with the treacherous task of driving and decided we should just keep going until we found Dibert Avenue or came to the end of the street we were on.
Slowly we drove on, block by block, attempting to read each sign as we passed it. Just as we were about to give up hope and turn around, we saw it. “Dibert,” we chorused happily.
Because of the ice and the poor condition of my tires, I turned the car into a parking lot about 20 yards past Dibert. By making a U-turn in the lot, I stopped the car perpendicular with the street we had been searching for. Now the problem was which way to turn on Dibert. As Mark and I argued about whether to turn right or left, Jim drew our attention to the house directly in front of us.
It was a two-story frame house, like most of the dwellings in this part of the city. The front of this house was a small store; the back appeared to be a couple of apartments. The store faced the street we had just turned off, and we faced the side of the house.
Through a side window we could see some kind of flame throwing shadows on the walls inside. The window shades were drawn, and we couldn’t see if the flames were in a fireplace or a stove. But soon we realized that the flames looked too big for a stove and too high off the ground for a fireplace.
Leaving the engine running, I put the car into park and jumped out, followed closely by Mark. As we reached the window, we could see the flames were much taller than we had realized. We hopped the fence and ran to the back door. We pounded as hard as we could, but no one answered. The door was locked. I ran around to the front of the building while yelling to Jim to go call somebody.
I kicked open the front door and leaped over the counter just inside. There was a small room between the front of the store and the apartment in back.
In the living room of the attached apartment was a young woman who was screaming hysterically and trying to beat out the fire with a small rug. What appeared to be a large overstuffed sofa was completely engulfed in flames. The paper on the wall had caught fire, and the flames were shooting up the wall and across the ceiling directly above her.
My first reaction was to bend down low, turn, and leave the room. The heat was intense, and the smoke was quickly filling the room.
I screamed at the woman to leave but finally had to grab her by the arm and drag her out of the room. I asked her if there was anybody else in the house. Before she could answer, there came cries from upstairs.
“My children,” she sobbed.
“How many?” I asked.
She said there were two children upstairs. She pointed to a doorway right next to the flaming couch. Though only a few seconds had elapsed, the flames had now engulfed the entire wall and were shooting across the entire ceiling.
Glancing at the doorway, I realized that even if I could make it through, there would be little chance of returning the same way.
My thoughts turned to Heavenly Father. It seemed there was only one thing to do. Putting my complete trust in God, I darted for the flame-engulfed doorway, my face burning as I ran up the narrow stairway as fast as I could.
Standing at the top were the two children, a five-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. They were crying for their mother. I tucked a child under each arm and turned to run back down the stairs. Their mother had broken away from Mark and was about three-quarters of the way up the stairs when I turned around.
I heard a loud boom. The flames were now coming about halfway up the inside of the stairwell.
In that split second on those stairs, I prayed harder and with more intensity than I had prayed in my entire life. I now realized that not only my life but the lives of a woman and two children depended on my actions. I remember praying, if not saying aloud, the words, “Not my will, but thine.”
I suddenly remembered Mark was still downstairs and started yelling at the top of my lungs for him. Mark later told me that the loud boom I heard was the living room ceiling collapsing and that a huge piece of blazing plywood had fallen to the floor just as the woman disappeared into the doorway. He had stayed downstairs and tried to confine the fire by shutting doors throughout the house. He never heard me yell that we were going out a window.
Knowing that the smoke wasn’t going to leave us much time, I ran up the stairs to look for a window.
When I reached the second floor, I ran straight into a totally dark room that apparently had no windows. I could feel the soles of my feet getting warm and realized that the smoke was getting more unbearable by the second. The woman led me down the hall to a small window that led out onto the roof.
She climbed out first and I followed, still squeezing a child under each arm. When we reached the edge of the roof, I could see that smoke was pouring out of every window in the house. I saw Mark on the ground right below us and yelled that I was going to drop the children down to him.
Pivoting, I tossed the little boy about three feet away from the house to Mark, who made a perfect catch.
The smoke was so thick now that I couldn’t see the ground, but I heard a voice I didn’t recognize and dropped the little girl off the roof. I was told later that a man had seen the blaze, stopped his car, and ran over to Mark in time to help catch the little girl.
The woman was still sobbing and crying hysterically. Mark had put down the little boy and broke the fall of the woman as she fell from the roof. I jumped feet first and landed unhurt.
Safely on the ground, I ran to the apartment on the other side of the house. There, Jim and I pounded on the door, but no answer came. After a few seconds, we broke the glass and unlocked the door. We checked the entire house and found that no one was living on that side.
My thoughts, as we ran back around the building, were the products of years of Boy Scout training—treatment of smoke inhalation, shock, and exposure. The woman and the children were brought to my car, which was warm and still running. The little boy asked where his puppy was, and even though I had seen no dog, I tried to assure him his puppy was all right. By now the fire trucks and ambulance were parked at the front of the house, so I told Mark and Jim to meet me at the hospital.
Everyone was treated and released.
When we returned to the scene of the fire, we counted nine fire engines. The blaze had been doused, and all that remained of the building was the charred frame. It sent chills up my spine to look at the house, smoke still billowing from the windows. As we stood there solemnly looking at the destruction that had taken place, a fireman emerged with what looked like a small stuffed animal. It was the little boy’s puppy. It had hidden in a downstairs closet in some kind of air pocket and had survived the two-hour blaze without so much as a scratch.
A feeling of relief and thankfulness swept over me. I realized that chance had not led us to this house, but that a heavenly force had inspired us to make that wrong turn. I knew that without the Lord’s help, several people would likely have lost their lives. Before this experience I had thought my faith was weak, but I knew then that if it had not been for faith, I would have panicked at the thought of death. Because of the teachings of the gospel and the understanding it gives us of death, I was able to think clearly and do what had to be done. I realized that my life was in Heavenly Father’s hands. I’m thankful now that we were spared and that my faith was strengthened immensely by an inspired wrong turn.

As we remember our experiences and blessings from prayer, we will also come to more fully understand the power of prayer as a means to keep us growing up toward the Lord. I have invited my husband, Dean, to share with you today his experience with prayer as means to keep us growing toward the Lord.

Dean: When I returned from my mission back in the 1960's, I was going to Weber State, majoring in English and minoring in Philosophy. Two of my favorite professors were men who had grown up as Latter-day Saints but had now "outgrown" their beliefs. They loved to poke fun at the logic or what they considered the logic of the foolish "local culture", as they liked to refer to Latter-day Saints. I struggled with that, but they were brilliant, charming men, and I thought I was strong enough to handle anything they threw at me.

Skepticism seems to come naturally to me, my middle name is Thomas, and under their influence, doubt about my testimony began to grow. I started to wonder whether any of my reasons for believing were valid. I attended Institute classes, but those teachers seemed all "sweetness and light," not nearly so tough-minded and erudite as the two professors on campus.

I came to a time when I wondered whether I believed anything, even whether I believed in God, and I began to admit to myself and ask myself whether I shouldn't really disassociate myself from the Church if I had no more testimony than that. It was the most frightening experience of my life. But a number of experiences helped me at that very point: I met a brilliant professor who was a believer; I met Kathy, and I loved her goodness. And I reviewed my mission and asked myself whether some of those experiences I called "spiritual" were real, and I found that I did believe in them- without trying. I reestablished my trust in what I'd felt, first-hand. But the great realization for me was that if I disclaimed God, and turned toward disbelief, I wouldn't be able to pray. And that's when I knew that I did have a testimony. Prayer was absolutely real to me. I had established a relationship with God that lasted since my childhood. I believed in prayer, and I didn't have to talk myself into that belief. I knew I couldn't live without praying, and that meant I couldn't live without God.

All my life someone had been responsible for me, checking my spiritual readiness. But at that point, I had to grow up. There comes a time in our lives when it's no longer good enough to believe because our parents do, our bishop does, our mission president. We grow up when we accept responsibility not only for our careers, and our goals, our worldly choices, but for our faith. For me--for everyone, really--the first source of faith is the Holy Ghost, whose influence we find in humility and prayer.

Last year’s Mutual theme, “Arise and Shine Forth,” reminded me of a girl I went to high school with named Lisa. She was a cheerleader. It was a large school, and I didn’t know her well.

One Saturday night I went to a farewell party for Lisa and her younger sister, who were moving to Idaho. Some kids were drinking alcohol, and they repeatedly offered beer to Lisa and her sister. I even heard one person shout, “Come on, just one drink! It’s your party, just one drink for us!”

But Lisa and her sister both refused the drinks. They just smiled and said no. I thought being a popular cheerleader meant that you did the “popular” thing—drink. I wasn’t a member of the Church then, but their strength and courage surprised me.

Chita’s Christmas Tree
When Chita and Papa go to look for a Christmas tree, Mama packs them peanut butter sandwiches. But they get hot, sugary waffles from the waffle man and give the sandwiches to Henry, their horse (he loves them!). Chita finds the perfect tree, and Papa carves her name on the trunk. Will Santa Claus find it and bring it Christmas Eve? Chita worries about it as she helps Mama bake.