Gospel Story Finder

Some months ago I was given the assignment to interview a young man, 21 years old, to determine if his repentance was sufficient for him to serve a mission. My heart ached as I read of the serious problems and transgressions in his past. I wondered if it would be possible that one with such a background could ever prepare himself to worthily serve a mission. At the appointed time for my interview I saw a handsome young man approaching me. He was immaculately groomed and had a wonderful countenance about him. He looked like a returned missionary, and I wondered who he was. As he approached he extended his hand and, to my surprise, introduced himself as the young man I was to interview.

During the interview I simply asked, “Why am I visiting with you tonight?” Then he laid out the sordid details of his past. After reviewing and confessing again his transgression, he began talking to me about the Atonement and the years of painful repentance that brought him to this very interview. He expressed his love for the Savior and then explained that Christ’s Atonement was sufficient to rescue even a boy like him. At the conclusion of the interview, I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “When I get back to Church headquarters, my recommendation will be that you be permitted to serve a mission.” And then I said, “I ask only one thing of you—just one. If you are privileged to serve, I want you to be the best missionary in the entire Church. That is all.”

About four months later I was speaking at a missionary devotional at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah. After the devotional I was standing in front of the podium greeting missionaries when I noticed a familiar face approaching me. My first thought was that I was about to be embarrassed because I was supposed to know this young man. I could not remember where I had met him, and I knew the first question that he was going to ask me. Sure enough, he extended his hand and asked, “Do you remember me?” Apologetically and somewhat embarrassingly, I answered: “I am sorry. I know I should know you, but I just do not remember.” He then said: “Well, let me tell you who I am. I am the best missionary in the MTC.” I could not withhold the tear that slowly trickled down my cheek as I thought: “Here is a man. He met his Gethsemane. He paid the painful price of repentance. He has humbled himself and submitted himself to the redemptive power of the Savior. He has met the challenges. He has measured up to true manhood.” And I say, “Behold a man,” a man humble enough to submit himself to the redemptive powers of the Savior.

Jenelle heard her best friend, Michelle, invite their friend Rebecca to her birthday party on Sunday. It was going to be a swimming party.
Michelle had already invited Jenelle, and Jenelle had not given her an answer yet. But she knew she wouldn’t be going to the party.
Michelle and Jenelle had been friends since they were six years old. But after Jenelle’s family had become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints nine months ago, things had changed between them. Becoming a Church member hadn’t changed what Jenelle felt for her friend, but Michelle was having a hard time understanding why Jenelle was different than before.
After school, Jenelle trudged home more discouraged than ever. Everyone else Michelle had invited to her party would be there. Mom will know what I can do, Jenelle thought. I always feel better after talking things over with her.
At home, she told her mother the whole story. “What am I going to do?” she asked.
Mom put her arm around Jenelle’s shoulders. “You have to decide what’s more important to you—going to your friend’s party or obeying the commandments,” she said.
Jenelle sighed. She knew what she should do. That didn’t make it any easier, though. She didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings, and she wanted to go to the party. But she couldn’t break one of the commandments, especially after hearing the prophet speak in general conference about the importance of keeping the Sabbath day holy.
She knew what she had to do. After school the next day, she hurried home and wrapped the present she had made for Michelle. Then she walked to her friend’s house.
“I made you something special for your birthday,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t come to your birthday party. It’s because it’s on Sunday.”
Michelle unwrapped the present and held it up. “A birdhouse!” she said. “This is great! You made this yourself?”
Jenelle nodded. “At Primary achievement day.” She told Michelle about Primary and the achievement days for girls her age.
“What’s the big deal about going swimming on Sunday?” Michelle asked after thanking Jenelle for the gift. “We’ll be going in the afternoon, after your church is over.”
“The prophet said we need to keep the Sabbath day holy,” Jenelle explained.
“What does that mean?” Michelle asked.
“It means we don’t shop on Sunday or go swimming or to ball games—stuff like that.”
“What do you do?” Michelle wondered.
“We go to church, spend time with our families, listen to music, read the scriptures.” Jenelle smiled, remembering last Sunday. “Sometimes we take a nap.”
Michelle frowned. “Who is this prophet? Why do you have to do what he says?”
“He’s the President of the Church,” Jenelle explained.
“So he’s like the boss?”
Jenelle smiled again. She’d never heard the prophet described as a boss, but she supposed it made sense to people who weren’t members of the Church.
“What makes the prophet so special?” Michelle asked.
“He teaches us things Heavenly Father wants us to know.”
“You mean he talks with God?”
“Yes,” Jenelle answered firmly. She knew a lot of people didn’t understand that.
“Who is he?” Michelle asked.
“Our prophet’s name is President Gordon B. Hinckley.”
“Do you have to do everything he says?”
“We don’t have to. We choose to,” Jenelle said, hoping Michelle understood.
“Can you come to my birthday party next year if it isn’t on Sunday?” Michelle asked.
Jenelle hugged her friend. “I’m already counting the days till then!”

They told them they’d be bigger than the Beatles. They told them they’d make more money than Bill Gates. And in its brief but extraordinary run, the band Wet Cement did appear destined for fame.
Comprised of three LDS young men—lead singer, songwriter, and guitarist Tyler Putnam, drummer Ben Aplanalp, and bassist Coby Coonradt—Wet Cement started modestly in tiny Kamas, Utah.
“We made a really, really, really bad tape in Tyler’s garage,” said Ben, 17. The band managed to get the recording to Graham Russell, a founding member of the group Air Supply.
“We get a lot of tapes sent to us,” said Graham’s wife, Jodi. “But this tape was different. The group was very rough, but Graham and I liked them immediately. Their songs were fabulous.”
The Russells invited the boys to their home. “We were pretty scared,” said Ben. “But Graham said he liked what he heard on our tape, and he wanted to record our four songs. Over the next few months we kept writing songs, and he liked them so he said, ‘Why not record an entire album?’”
On the same day the band’s debut CD was released, Wet Cement appeared as the warm-up act for Air Supply in Salt Lake City’s Abravanel Hall. The group received a Beatles-esque reaction from a large crowd of shrieking fans.
“It was definitely fun,” said Coby, 18.
Added Tyler, “There were about 2,000 people, and they were really getting into our music. That’s pretty exciting for a garage band from Kamas.”
Shortly after the Abravanel Hall appearance, several music industry giants approached the Russells with offers to take on the hip, young group. Contract negotiations began with WorldWide Entertainment and Warner Brothers, planning began on a European tour, and the boys started wondering how they would spend their newfound fortune.
“I wanted a new car—a silver Beetle,” said Tyler.
“New drum equipment,” said Ben.
But then things started to feel wrong. Wet Cement was getting ready to shoot its first music video—based on the group’s catchy tune “The Abduction Song,” which details a fanciful encounter with extraterrestrials.
“I started getting uncomfortable,” said Ben. “I thought the aliens were going to be a little too sexy—not wearing enough alien clothing. The producers didn’t want to compromise; they said sex sells. So we said we didn’t want to do it.”
The Russells were understanding but asked the boys about their long-term commitment to music.
Said 19-year-old Tyler, “I love music, but I had been thinking about a mission for a long time, and it seemed they were asking me, ‘Are you going on a mission or not?’ I could see my life was at a crossroads, and my future would go one way or another based on what I did next.”
Tyler got down on his knees and asked the Lord for help. The answer came quickly.
“I felt there was someone out there that only I could touch,” he said. “Also, I didn’t want to be an example of a bad example—someone 19-year-olds could point to and say, ‘Look, he didn’t go on a mission and he turned out okay.’ People notice what you do big time.”
Tyler told the Russells he was trading in his guitar for a set of scriptures.
“I think they thought that once I saw the stars in my eyes I’d stay. I did see stars in my eyes. It was hard. Either way, I was going to give up something.
“They were so close. They could have gone all the way,” said Jodi, who managed the band during its short life. “They were very, very talented, and they had a great vibe. They were innocent and funny, and they liked each other. They really had everything.
“It’s taken some time, because we were so passionate about what they could have accomplished, but we do respect their decision.”
For Wet Cement, walking out of the spotlight was a difficult and financially challenging decision. Not only have they given up hopes of fame and fortune, but they have taken on a substantial debt. Said Coby, “The Russells spent a lot of money recording the CD, and they invested a lot of time in us. We decided we need to try to pay them back.” Now their company, Wet-Cement, is selling the group’s CD, and all proceeds are going to paying off the debt.
Still, Tyler doesn’t regret his decision. “Anything worthwhile takes effort. Being on stage, feeling that adrenaline is fun. But some things are more important.”
Tyler has since left for the mission field in the Philippines.
“I’m glad Tyler’s going on his mission,” said Coby. “It’ll be a positive thing.”
Ben agrees, “I plan on going. I’ve seen my brothers go, and their testimonies really grow.”
Again, Wet Cement is in perfect harmony.

Amanda had a dog named Peewee. She liked to throw things to Peewee. And Peewee liked to catch things. One day Amanda threw her blue ball to Peewee. He caught it and brought it back to her. Next, she threw a brown stick, and he caught it and brought it back to her. Then she threw his rubber bone that squeaked. Peewee caught it and squeaked it when he brought it back to her.
Amanda had two fancy cookies. She ate one and threw the other one to Peewee. He caught it, but he didn’t bring it back to her!

When I tell you that I played football in high school, it is not a boast. It is more of a confession.
You see, football came to our country town later than to most. The school board had no money for equipment or for a coach. Instead, we all played basketball. The only equipment we needed for basketball was a pair of shoes.
Finally, our principal saved enough to buy 12 inexpensive football outfits, not including shoes. The cleated shoes were too expensive, so we used our basketball shoes instead. Our coach was recruited from the faculty. He was selected because he had once watched a football game.
We learned a few simple plays. We learned how to tackle—or so we thought. Then we set off for our first game with Twin Falls, the previous year’s Idaho state champions.
We dressed and went out to the field to warm up. The other team’s school band started to play. They had more students in the band than we had in our entire high school! Then through the gates came their team. Our team of 12—a full team of 11 plus one all-around substitute—watched in amazement as they kept coming through the gates, all 39 of them in full uniform.
The game was most interesting. To say it was a learning experience is rather mild. After two plays we didn’t have any desire to have the ball, so we would kick it away, and soon they would score. Our main problem was how to get rid of the ball. It was less punishing for us when we weren’t being tackled!
In the final minutes of the game, the other team became a little reckless. A wild pass fell into the arms of Clifford Lee, who was playing halfback with me. He was startled. He didn’t know what to do until he saw the entire opposing team thundering toward him. Then he knew what to do! He was not interested in six points. He ran for his life!
He was fast. He made a touchdown, and we finally got six points on the board. We really didn’t deserve the six points, but with our torn shirts and socks and bloody shins, we took them anyway. The final score: 106 to 6!
That game was definitely a learning experience. It taught me that a team (or an individual) must be prepared. Success in all things depends on preparation.

Digger, you silly dog! You’re as bad as a bull in a china closet! Outside you go!
The next day …
Mama …
Yes, sweetheart? Why, you’re crying! What’s wrong?
You know the vase that Digger broke?
I sure do. I love that animal, but he doesn’t know his own strength.
Digger didn’t break it, Mama. I did. I was pretending to carry water from the well like the Bible women. I’m sorry. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to play with it.
I’m proud of you for telling the truth. That’s another thing that Bible women did, and it’s even more important than carrying water.
Later …
And that’s why you should always tell the truth.

Here I am, the Freckled Wonder, starting another year at Madsen High. I say “another year” to distinguish myself from the younger set, who look incredibly lost and frightened. Was I that bad last year? As usual, anyone new who met me today said, “Hey, I’ll bet everybody calls you Freckles!” If anyone ever says, “Hey, I’ll bet everyone calls you Gorgeous,” I’ll be his slave forever.
The particular anyone I referred to earlier—the one who made the strikingly original remark about the freckles—is Dave Johnson, class president. If he hadn’t made that remark about the freckles, I think I would be interested in him. He’s handsome even with glasses, which he wears part-time. Reminds me of Richard O’Neal, my childhood (last year’s) hero.
Ever hear of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment, guaranteed to “lighten or totally remove unsightly freckles and facial blemishes forever”? Neither had I, until this afternoon in the library. Shelly handed me a moldy-looking book from a top shelf somewhere—Miss Gordon’s Modern Book of Beauty, Charm, and Etiquette. Needless to say, the book was actually written shortly after the Stone Age. I browsed through it awhile, not really studying anything in great detail, when suddenly, surrounded by recipes for homemade cold cream (where on earth would a person buy rose water?) and hand lotion (worse yet, wool fat?), there was the recipe for Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment.
“What a riot!” Shelly said to me as she wrinkled her smooth, unfreckled nose. “A girl would really have to be desperate to try a weird concoction like that!”
“How would Shelly know?” I thought as I carefully memorized the ingredients and amounts, trying meanwhile to look mildly amused. Shelly would laugh for a week if she knew that I went straight home and mixed one tablespoon of lemon juice, two tablespoons of vinegar, and one-half cup of flour “or enough to make a smooth, moist paste.”
Well, I was just stirring up my smooth, moist paste—and incidentally, the kitchen was beginning to smell like a pickle factory—when I heard voices and realized it was too late to hide. Voice Number One, of course, was Kevin, winner of the year’s Most-Obnoxious-Big-Brother Award.
“Gee,” he said, sniffing the aroma, “I’m glad you fixed me something good to snack on, Keri. I’m just dying (here he rolled his eyes desperately) of hunger.”
Voice Number Two then made his appearance in the kitchen. If I could have died on the spot, I would have.
“Oh, hi Dave,” I croaked feebly.
He grinned his handsome Richard O’Neal grin and asked, “Been taking cooking lessons? Smells like a real treat.”
What could I say? Why on earth did dear old Kevin pick this day, of all days of the year, to suddenly become great friends with Dave Johnson? They don’t have a thing in common other than their student government positions, debate team, and, of course, basketball. Dave is the school’s star center and Kevin is the star benchwarmer. I now noticed a basketball under Dave’s right arm. So that was what brought them together.
“Planning to really knock the team over dead this year, Kevin?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. Kevin blushed slightly and couldn’t think of a good comeback.
“I hate to ask, but what is it?” said Dave, pointing to my dish of smooth, moist paste.
“I have a rare disease and it calls for a special diet.” I was trying to be funny.
Kevin’s next act deserves the award for Putdown of the Year.
“Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment,” he read solemnly and eloquently from the notebook on the counter. I had completely forgotten about that notebook. I wanted to sink into nonexistence. He went on to read the ingredients with great flourish, adding a few choice remarks like, “A touch of bat liver improves the quality of the ointment considerably!” and “Incidentally, if this doesn’t land the man of your dreams, Madame Butterball’s Diet Salve certainly will!”
I probably would have laughed if I hadn’t been so close to crying. I’ll bet Dave thinks I’m really out to lunch. What could I do? I whisked my smooth, moist paste to the opposite end of the kitchen, returned with the cookie jar, and disappeared to my room. It wasn’t too long before they were totally engrossed in devouring Mom’s home-baked chocolate chip cookies. From my room I could hear them chuckling. See if I loyally cheer for good old Kevin when he makes his one basket for the year.
I am not only desperate about those freckles, I’m determined. I have launched forth on Miss Frodjam’s program for freckle removal. I think it may work better than my past attempts with cover cosmetics, sun lamps, and zinc oxide.
Last night, in spite of the extreme humiliation of being discovered, I stubbornly smeared the paste all over my freckled face and then held very still while it dried to a stiff crust. The book said to leave it on four to six hours, so I went to bed looking and feeling like an Egyptian mummy. All night I had awful dreams about being encased in cement from head to toe.
But this morning when I woke up and rushed right in to wash the stuff off, my freckles—believe it or not—actually did look one-tenth of a shade lighter. I think.
I saw Dave Johnson in the hall today, but he didn’t say anything. Well, he said hi or something. But then what could he say after being a participant in the most embarrassing moment of my life? I suppose it is beneath his dignity anyway to speak to the star benchwarmer’s freckle-faced kid sister. I don’t care.
I guess tonight I’ll try Miss Frodjam’s miracle wonder paste again. It’s not that much fun, but if the treatment works, it will be worth it.
One solid week and seven applications of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. The results are far from striking, to say the least. I am about ready to give up. People are beginning to sniff and look baffled when I walk by. However, my freckles are now two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think.
But the crowning blow to my ego came tonight. I was in the kitchen mixing up my smooth, moist paste when Kevin and Dave strolled in, complete with Dave’s basketball again. They were grinning I might add. This week Dave has hardly noticed me, although I’ve seen him at least a hundred times at school. This fact made the moment of our meeting especially poignant.
“Here she is—Miss Freckles,” announced Kevin. “Having great success, I suppose, with your bat liver ointment?”
I ignored him—or rather glared at him—and turned to Dave to offer him the cookie jar.
“Hi, Keri.” That was all Dave said. That was it. His entire speech—two words. He could have at least laughed, or made some remark. But he just popped a cookie into his mouth, turned to Kevin, and started talking about basketball.
I feel like a real failure. Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment is not even good for a laugh.
That Dave Johnson. After school I saw him in the hall. He was going one way and I was going the other. I didn’t know whether to speak or not, so I didn’t. I kind of smiled feebly.
“Hi, Keri.” Dave Johnson, winner of the Warmest-Greeting-of-the-Year Award.
“Hi.” I thought that was a safe reply, in keeping with his warmth and enthusiasm. I was about to walk on, but he asked the weirdest question.
“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?”
“I hate to ask, but what for?”
“Last night. I could have given you a bad time, but I didn’t.”
That was a new way of looking at it. “Uh, thanks!” I answered. “Chivalry is not dead.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “I have some insight into the problems of being a kid sister.”
“Is that right? How did you come by this marvelous insight?” I asked.
“I’m a kid brother.”
“Which isn’t quite the same thing, you know.”
“I see your point. Which brings me to another subject,” he said, putting on his glasses. After clearing his throat very solemnly and intellectually, he proceeded. “Miss Carter, I am doing a detailed study on a little-known topic—freckles. The thesis of my study is that sunlight, far from fading freckles, actually brings out their color even more brilliantly. Now—would you be willing to be guinea pig in an experiment with direct sunlight at the football game Saturday afternoon?”
“Wait a minute!” I was really riled. “I thought you had marvelous insight?” What does he think I am, the Freckled Wonder of the World? I thought furiously. I was about to come out with a real putdown when I looked up at his face.
He didn’t look sarcastic or even funny. He looked a little awkward.
“Well, I was kidding about the insight. I was kidding about the freckle study, too. But the football game—I was serious about that. Would you like to come with me?”
Well, dear diary, I won’t go on to describe how I suddenly rose about six inches off the floor. I won’t mention what a fool I must have sounded like, trying to stammer out some sort of proper acceptance speech. I will mention that he smiled and looked almost relieved, and I just couldn’t believe that the great Dave Johnson might actually have moments of self-doubt too.
I definitely plan to discontinue use of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. It may have worked on Miss Frodjam. And my freckles are two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think. But after all, if I am going to be part of a detailed study on a little-known topic, far be it from me to try to influence the findings of the direct sunlight thesis.

Knock, knock, knock. Bleary-eyed, I looked at the alarm clock next to the bed. 5:55 a.m. Pound, pound, pound. It sounded like a mallet was being used to beat down the front door of our condo in downtown Nashville. My husband stirred next to me but was too tired from our late night assembling toys and stuffing stockings to get up. It was early Christmas morning, and the warm lights on the tree in the corner greeted me as I stumbled, still half asleep, to the door.
I opened it to see two young police officers with alarm on their faces. They quickly informed me that there was a public safety threat in the area, and we needed to evacuate immediately. Shocked and a bit exasperated, I said, “It’s 20 degrees outside, it’s Christmas, and we have kids—is this really necessary?”
At the mention of my children, one of the officers froze. “You have kids? Please, get them and leave as quickly as you can.” I could see the fear in her eyes.
Right then the Holy Ghost delivered a very clear, stern warning to my heart, and I knew we needed to get out immediately. I hurried to inform my sleeping husband that we had to leave. I was met with the same questions and groggy reluctance I had just expressed myself, when the Holy Ghost’s warning returned to my heart more urgently than before. I began to panic. I had no idea what threat my family was facing, but I knew we were in real danger.
I pulled my four-year-old from his bed while my husband went to get the baby from the crib. Carrying my confused, sleepy son down the hall in my arms, I covered his eyes to preserve the surprise of what Santa had left for him—the scene I thought we would be running toward as soon as we opened our eyes, not running from. As we hurried to the front door, I glanced back with longing at that scene adorning our condominium: Christmas presents glittering under the tree, backed by hanging stockings; gingerbread houses proudly decorated and on display; the kitchen full of our favorite holiday foods, ready for a Christmas feast. All the makings of a joyful celebration for our family.
Still in our pajamas, we bundled our children in whatever coats and shoes were in the entryway; then I grabbed the scantily prepared diaper bag and walked out. I closed the door, expecting to be gone only a short time and eager to return to the magical morning we had planned with our boys.
Moments later, we were in the car pulling away from our building. As we drove down the street, we noticed the flashing lights on emergency vehicles illuminating downtown and looking almost festive against the unusual Christmas snow that had fallen overnight.
Suddenly … boom! In stunned terror, we turned to watch as a blazing fireball engulfed our street and filled the sky. A bomb had detonated in front of our building.
I took this photo of our street moments after the explosion. The bomb detonated 30 feet from the front door of our building.
There were flames, smoke, and hundreds of broken windows, alarms blaring, cars exploding, water pouring out of unknown places, and our beautiful row of historic brick buildings crumbling to the ground.
In an instant, we were left homeless.
Our only physical possessions were now reduced to the clothes on our backs, the diaper bag, and the car we were driving.
The hours that followed were a blur—their phones constantly ringing with calls or pinging with texts from concerned friends and family, most of which we were unable to answer.
In the midst of it all, I felt an urgent need to call my aunt, whom I’ve probably called five times in my entire life. But every time I see her, she always seems to say something that my soul needs.
When she answered, I was surprised by her upbeat and confident response. “Noelle,” she said, “this is a miracle! You got out!” She continued, “This is only the first of many miracles. Watch and see what the Lord has in store for you. He will lead you to where you need to be.”
Photograph by Alex Kent / Stringer via Getty Images
I wanted to believe my aunt—to believe in Him. But the grief was real, and the tears were many. The problems seemed too complex to solve, and our hearts seemed too broken to mend. There were times when I would crumble beneath the weight of trying to rebuild an entire life from scratch. I wondered quietly, and desperately, “Will He really lead us now? What will we do if He doesn’t come?” But during the weeks and months following the explosion, we watched in amazement as my aunt’s faithful prediction proved true, and our broken hearts were bound up again and again. I did not know that extreme grief and profound gratitude could co-exist.
Although our hands were empty of the gifts we left under the tree that devastating morning, we were comforted by the words of Moroni that the gifts Christ gives us “never will be done away, even as long as the world shall stand” (Moroni 10:19). Our home was no longer standing, but the Spirit of the Lord stood firmly by our side. In exchange for gifts in wrappings and ribbons, we were blessed with the gift of “the beholding of angels and ministering spirits” (Moroni 10:14).
It is my belief that most of the miracles we see in our lives come through the helping hands of others. We are the workers of many of God’s miracles on the earth. We can often recognize these miracles—these tender mercies—by their timing.
The officers who knocked on our door woke us with just enough time to get our family out.
We drove away to safety—just in time.
In the immediate aftermath, we needed to replace the basic necessities to live, but I was in shock, overwhelmed, and unable to respond to the many wonderful inquiries that came to us of “What do you need? How can we help?” Then came the rescuing phone call from a friend. She said, “I’m standing in the middle of Walmart. I am just going to start saying items that you might need; all you have to do is say yes or no. Shampoo, deodorant, diapers, baby food … ” Her call was inspired, and her list was extensive—and we needed every item.
We had to find a temporary place to live while we looked for a new home. Just as we began our search, a complete stranger reached out to us on Facebook and offered their beautiful guesthouse for us to live in for two months, rent free.
In a blistering real estate market, a couple getting ready to list their home offered it to us, off market, entertaining no other bids. It fit the needs of our family perfectly. Our closing date was set for the day that our temporary housing was ending.
Our friends tirelessly showed up when we needed them, over and over again, to carry us through the endless and complex challenges we faced. They came no matter what time of day or how long we needed them.
I began writing down each of these occurrences, and caught myself questioning some of them: “Are these really miracles? Are these just your garden-variety blessings? Are they even just mere coincidences?”
And then I remembered, it’s all about timing—my timing, your timing, and most important, the Lord’s timing.
Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said of tender mercies: “I testify that the tender mercies of the Lord are real and that they do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence. Often, the Lord’s timing of His tender mercies helps us to both discern and acknowledge them.”1
Timing was the common thread that connected many of these events. We had been carried through that difficult day and the many that followed by scores of earthly angels—who received specific promptings and promptly acted, performing miracles and tender mercies of every kind.
My aunt promised, “Watch and see what the Lord has in store for you. He will lead you to where you need to be.”
Through a series of miraculous events, He did lead us to where we needed to be, when we needed to be there, and to who we needed to become.
My precious family is alive today because miracles happen.
I hope that as we have witnessed and continue to witness miracles, we will become instruments in the Lord’s hands to deliver His miracles to our brothers and sisters—to be His angels of warning, His arms of comfort, His hands of shelter, His eyes of hope, His voice of love.
The author lives in Tennessee.

I was destined to be a Gershwin fan. While I was yet in the womb, my mom decided to try out some advice about playing music to unborn infants. Since one of her favorite composers was George Gershwin, I was quite familiar with his “Concerto in F,” “An American in Paris,” and a few others by the time the doctor spanked me. However, it wasn’t until my junior year in high school that George Gershwin really had an impact on me.
Though we lived in Pocatello, Idaho, one of the best piano teachers around taught at Utah State University in Logan, Utah. A series of unusual happenings landed me a tryout with him, and he agreed to take me on as a student. So every other Friday for the next two years, one of my parents would pick me up after school, we would drive 90 miles to my lesson, spend one hour in my lesson, grab a bite to eat, and drive the 90 miles back (usually in time to get me to the high school dance).
Throughout the trip we would talk and listen to either rock or classical music. My parents were understanding enough of my teenage interests to tolerate a good share of my tunes. It was usually my mom who suggested equal time for classical music. When classical time arrived, I automatically reached for the light classic “Rhapsody in Blue.” It became a tradition to listen to it at least once during the trip.
I can’t really say what made the difference that February day, but Gershwin’s “Rhapsody” captivated me as it never had before. Driving down that familiar two-lane highway with Mom, listening to Gershwin for the umpteenth time, I became totally absorbed in the music. My faculties became heightened, and my senses became more acute. I breathed deeply, immersed in the exhilarating thrill of the music. That day I realized that good music would always be a source of peace and enjoyment, even ecstasy, to me.
I glanced over at my mom, and things began to get blurry. I realized one day I would be a parent, trying to instill in my children similar feelings about music, hoping they would respond as I was responding. But more than that I hoped my children would love me like I loved my mom.
The tape ended as we pulled into the parking lot. I gave my mom a quick kiss, jumped out of the car, and walked toward the building. I looked back at her one more time before I went through the double doors.
I’ve looked back many times since.

When I was in the mission field, I used to encourage the missionaries to come to BYU if they had that opportunity. I remember one missionary who said once, “Look, I don’t want to go to BYU.” He had a scholarship to one of the Ivy League colleges in the East, a basketball scholarship; and every time I offered my encouragement to him, he told me again about the discipline and all that would be required here.
About three months after he returned home, and I was in Brussels, I got a telephone call from him in the East. He said, “President, do you think you could help me to go to BYU? I am tired of smoke-filled rooms, and I am tired of constantly having the principles of everlasting life challenged and threatened. Do you think you could help me to get in?” Well, he came and fulfilled his two purposes here; he got his degree and he got married. He later went on to get a Ph.D. and is now a very productive member of his community and his Church in California.

To understand President McKay and a little bit of what you have emanated here on your campus, he grew up in a day when the eighth grade was the expected education for any young person. Most people in our town didn't even get to the eighth grade but those who did, they had fulfilled what you would think of as a high school education today.

At one time President Mckay's mother, we called her Aunt Jeanette, received an inheritance of $2500. All those around her were advising her, in particular, her brother in law, Isaac McKay, who was a very successful businessman, advised Aunt Jeanette, "Now take that $2500 and invest it and only use the interest for what you want. That would serve you for a long time in your life." Aunt Jeannette declined all the advice. She took the $2500, she provided wagon, team of horses, loaded in the wagon some flour, some potatoes, and other things to eat and keep, put four of her children in the wagon, tied dairy cow on behind the back of the wagon and sent them off 75 miles to Salt Lake City and the University of Utah to go to school. Those four children got a college education when it was almost unheard of, especially in our farming community, population 496, up in the mountains.

That emphasis on education has made all the difference in the world to President McKay and others in his family.

This important truth was evidenced some years ago as a member of the Seventy was on assignment in Hong Kong. He visited a very humble ward that was struggling in many ways, unable to provide for its own needs. As the bishop described their situation, the General Authority felt the impression to have the members pay their tithing. The bishop, knowing their dire circumstances, was concerned about how he could carry out that counsel. He thought about it and decided he would approach some of the most faith-filled members of his ward and ask them to pay their tithing. The next Sunday he went to the Primary. He taught the children about the Lord’s law of tithing and asked if they would be willing to pay tithing on the money they earned. The children said they would. And they did.
The bishop later went to the adults in the ward and shared with them that for the past six months their faithful children had been paying tithing. He asked them if they would be willing to follow the example of these children and do the same. The people were so touched by the sacrifices the children were willing to make that they did what was necessary to pay their tithing. And the windows of heaven were opened. With the example of these faithful children, a ward grew in obedience and in testimony.

In 1896, about two years before I was born, Mr. R. M. Bryce Thomas from London, England, paid a visit to Salt Lake City, Utah, where he first learned about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Following this visit, and after a thorough and searching investigation into the practices and doctrines of the Church, and a comparison of the teachings of the primitive Church of Jesus Christ which was established by Him, with his own church in England, he subsequently became a baptized member.
On May 24, 1897, in London, England, he penned an article which he entitled, “My Reasons for … Joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” In the preface to the first edition he stated:
“The object that I have had in view in writing this article, explanatory of my reasons for leaving [my] church [in] England and joining the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is to comply as far as possible with the wishes of those of my relatives and friends who have expressed a desire to know something of the teachings of the Latter-day Saints, and also of the reasons which have led me to reject the faith of my fathers.”
He concluded with this paragraph:
“In sending out the following pages then I would ask our Heavenly Father in the name of His Son, our Lord Jesus, to let His blessing rest upon what I have written so far as it may be in strict accordance with His truth, and with His holy word and will” (Liverpool, England: Millennial Star Office, 1897).
In a preface to the second American edition, December 9, 1904, we read:
“Since I penned the pages of this little work, however, I have paid two visits to Utah, and have become personally acquainted with the Latter-day Saints, in Salt Lake City, and in several other towns of that State. On the first of these visits I resided with two well known families of Saints, and obtained thereby the best possible opportunity of mixing freely in the society of this people, and of forming a just and correct estimate of them. … That they, in common with the rest of mankind, have their weaknesses and failings is only to be expected, and there will even be found some among them who can claim to be Latter-day Saints in a little else than name; but, taking the people as a whole, I have found them essentially God-fearing, honest, upright, with a firm faith in their Heavenly Father, strong in their testimonies regarding the divinity of the great latter-day work in which they are engaged, and in their belief of the great destiny which awaits them.
“Among the Saints, as among other Christian people, will be found educated and intelligent men and women. Education is a special feature with them, and it is by no means uncommon to find in this community, those who have studied, and those who are at the present time studying vocal and instrumental music and painting in the principal centers of art in Europe, and in the eastern parts of the United States. Musical talent seems to be decidedly conspicuous among them. Various important positions in the State, calling for such qualifications as education, intelligence, ability, and honesty, have been, and are now being filled by Latter-day Saints; while there are those who, having fully qualified themselves in the legal, medical, journalistic, and commercial professions, are following their various vocations with credit and profit to themselves, and advantage to the people of Utah.
“I am now paying my third visit to the capital city of that State, and see no reason to modify the opinion I formed of the Saints during my stay with them in 1901.” (First preface, Salt Lake City: Bureau of Information and Church Literature, 1904.)
I quote again from the pamphlet:
“I found that this people possessed a beautiful Temple and a very fine Tabernacle, with prettily laid out and well cared for grounds; their houses too were neat and picturesque, with nice gardens attached to them, while they could boast of a Tabernacle Choir … , the best that I have ever heard. Everything to do with this people appeared to be most excellently managed and looked after, while their missionaries were preaching the Gospel in most parts of the world, having gone out altogether at their own cost, and at a very great sacrifice of self in all cases. The Church organization of the Saints too appeared to be complete and effective. … I therefore decided to secure some of their books, especially the Book of Mormon, in order to learn more of their character and of their doctrines.” (Thomas, first edition, p. 3.)
This he did, and his extensive study convinced him that there truly had been an apostasy from the Church as established by Jesus Christ. He states that he could not find a church which had the same organization and teachings of Jesus Christ as set forth in the Old and New Testament.
He was persuaded through his study that there was need for and was a prophet on the earth through whom the Lord could continue to send his revelations for the guidance of his people—that revelation from God to man had not ceased. He came to understand the importance and necessity of having the Holy Ghost through whom the gifts of the Spirit could be manifest.
He was impressed as he came to understand the prayer of Jesus as he prayed that all his children might be one, even as he and his Father in Heaven were one (see John 17:11). This is his comment:
“Now does it seem possible to suppose that this spirit of Unity, this Comforter, whom Jesus Christ was to send in order to show His followers how to grow like Him, and to guide them into all truth, can be guiding the numerous contending, discordant churches of Christendom, who exhibit such bitterness against each other, bitterness and hatred, which not so many years ago culminated even in the shedding of human blood!” (Thomas, first edition, p. 11.)
His search led him to discover that most of the churches had changed the ordinance of baptism by immersion, the form by which Jesus Christ and his disciples were baptized, which is practiced in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Regarding infant baptism, he found there was no trace of such until the Third Century, and therefore it was not part of Christ’s original church. He found it hard to accept a doctrine which taught that the sin of Adam was within little children, for he felt that an infant is perfect in Jesus Christ and has no sin of which to repent.
From the Bible Mr. Thomas learned that baptism for the dead was practiced in the primitive Church, but had been done away with in latter days. He found much evidence to support this doctrine which caused Paul to write in an epistle to the Corinthians:
“Else what shall they do which are baptized for the dead, if the dead rise not at all? why are they then baptized for the dead?” (1 Cor. 15:29.)
Peter answered that question in these words:
“For for this cause was the gospel preached also to them that are dead, that they might be judged according to men in the flesh, but live according to God in the spirit” (1 Pet. 4:6).

The day of the county fair had arrived, and my lamb was smaller than I wanted it to be. Weigh-in was at noon, and I scrubbed, carded, and clipped my lamb. At least it looked good.
I breathed a sigh of relief as my lamb barely made weight!
This was my fourth show lamb. I felt confident because my lambs usually placed near the top. Yet a thought nagged me. I hadn’t been as serious about my project this time.
Other years I’d walked my lamb at least once a day, and rarely did anyone else feed it. This summer it had been easy to let my dad or sister pour it some grain and throw it some hay. There had been many days that I hadn’t even taken it out of the pen.
As the show began, the judge started lining the lambs up according to quality and conditioning. I realized that mine was at the wrong end of the line. When I received a red ribbon for the first time in my life, I realized how serious this was.
A special junior livestock auction for blue-ribbon animals is held each year. Community members come and buy the animals for as much as $3.50 per pound. But my red ribbon meant I couldn’t sell my lamb there this year. At a regular auction, I couldn’t hope for more than 45 cents per pound. That would be about 45 dollars total, when I’d paid 80 for it in the spring!
All my excitement tumbled into disappointment. I asked myself, “Would it have been different if I’d walked my lamb more faithfully? Would half a can of grain at noon each day have made a difference?” If I’d only known, I’d have tried harder and been more serious.
I pictured another day of judgment, when I would give the Savior an account of my life. I wondered how I’d feel on that day if I hadn’t lived worthy of a “blue ribbon.” What if I hadn’t paid the price to be all that I could be?
Suddenly, I wanted to more consistently read the scriptures, say my prayers, and stand for truth and righteousness. I wanted to be more compassionate, and more refined.
I didn’t want to stand before Jesus knowing that I wasn’t as finished and conditioned as he expected me to be.
I resolved I would never forget my day at the fair, nor would I ever forget that I was working towards another day of judgment—one with eternally greater significance and importance. I determined that day to pay the price.

My family and I had been in Texas, USA, for about three months when my mother phoned me one day from her home in England.
“I don’t know, Mum,” I told her, “but I feel like something’s going to happen today, and I don’t know if I’m going to like it.”
When my husband, Matthias, came home that evening, he said, “I have something to tell you.” I knew instantly that he had to go away, but I hadn’t expected his military deployment to last for a whole year. We had two weeks to prepare for his departure. I shed a lot of tears during that time.
It was a tough year. Not having my husband with me or my family in England nearby frightened and worried me, but it was also a great experience for me as a new mother with a baby and for us to learn how we could continue to grow spiritually as a family.
We had already established daily habits of family prayer and scripture study. So when Matthias and I had opportunities to talk to each other, normally through Skype, we would pray and read scriptures together.
As I read the scriptures on my own and with my husband, a verse kept coming to my mind: “Wherefore, be of good cheer, and do not fear, for I the Lord am with you, and will stand by you” (Doctrine and Covenants 68:6). I then realized that I had always been able to rely on Heavenly Father.
My calling as ward choir director kept my mind focused on the words of the hymns and the scriptures and the promises they offer. Singing and listening to the hymns gave me peace.
When our baby, Noah, got pneumonia, priesthood holders gave him a blessing of health and me a blessing of strength and comfort. I had great ministering sisters who helped me too. I also got together with other wives whose husbands were deployed. They helped me more than I helped them. Our neighbor even helped by mowing our lawn.
I’m thankful for the small and simple things that blessed our family. Heavenly Father always seemed to bless us through someone reaching out to us when we needed help the most.

I should like to challenge you to measure your acceptance of counsel from the following experience related by President Marion G. Romney in a general conference:
“I was greatly impressed by the President’s [President Joseph Fielding Smith’s] remarks. I am glad he said what he did. Listening to him, I was taken back in my thoughts a quarter of a century ago to an experience I had with President Heber J. Grant. We were discussing some criticism that had been directed against an action taken by him in his official capacity. Putting his arm across my back and resting his hand on my left shoulder he said, ‘My boy, you always keep your eye on the President of the Church, and if he tells you to do something wrong, and you do it, the Lord will bless you for it.’
“And then he added, ‘You don’t need to worry, however; the Lord will never let his mouthpiece lead his people astray.’
“I haven’t forgotten his counsel. I think I have been faithful to that charge ever since.” (Conference Report, Apr. 1972, p. 111.)

I live in Douala (Cameroon) and I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I joined the Church when I was 12 years old and back then I lived with my mother, Kameni Lauris, and my little sister, Awasiri Grâce. We used to attend a Pentecostal church which was very far from our home. The cost of getting there made it very difficult for us to attend.
My mother was someone who loved the Lord dearly. Whenever it was not possible for all of us to attend together, she would ask me to go with my little sister to another church near our home. As we went out on Sundays, I could navigate towards the nearby church while calculating the time it would take my mother to leave the house! Then I would go back home without attending the nearby church. At that time, I did not like religion at all because I could not understand much about it.
A friend to my mother, who looked after my little sister when my mother went to work, introduced us to Elder Holland and Elder Rambeleson. These two missionaries came to visit us at home. I still remember the first time I attended a sacrament meeting and saw young men like me participating in passing the sacrament. Afterwards, I attended the Primary and saw how much fun the kids were having. I felt a sense of belonging and knew I would never miss out on a Sunday.
When I got baptized, I immediately wanted to leave the Primary to go to Young Men and be able to begin my priesthood service. I started to really know my Heavenly Father and my identity. I helped clean the building on Saturdays, and came very early on Sundays, sometimes even before the building was open. As I grew older, my desire to serve a full-time mission grew likewise. Through seminary and institute, I was able to prepare for my mission and had the privilege to serve in the DRC Kinshasa West Mission from 2021 to 2023. I’m grateful for the restored gospel and for the joy it has brought to me and to my family.
I know that Christ lives, and that He is sitting down on the right hand of our Heavenly Father, that He knows and loves us all. I know that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ. I know that we are led by a living prophet who receives revelations from God.

A few weeks later I called my friend’s mom again. This time it was to invite her and her family to my baptism. Along with the other books I’d read, I had now read the Book of Mormon and gained a testimony of its truthfulness. I invited my own family to attend my baptism as well. My twin brother came into town the night before. He didn’t understand why I wanted to get baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He asked a lot of questions, especially about the Book of Mormon. The only things he’d ever read about the book were false and negative. I stayed up most the night attempting to answer his questions.
The baptism was beautiful. This time I didn’t show up in a T-shirt and cargo pants. This time I was in a white shirt and tie, and I felt totally comfortable and at home.

“When I tracked my phone usage, I realized that I was on my phone the most on Sunday. I thought that was sad because that’s when I should be trying to get closer to my Savior—but instead, I had been staring at my screen.
“As I started reading my scriptures, I would read the 10 minutes every night before I went to bed, which for me was just about a chapter a night. As I did this, I noticed that I was able to fall asleep much easier. I also found myself making better decisions throughout the week, and I overall just felt better about myself.
“I am grateful that I was able to receive this invitation, and I plan to continue to read for 10 minutes a day and say my nightly prayers.”
Ryan E., age 16, Alabama, USA

Mother had been at the hospital late that night with Daddy. She told us that the doctors didn’t know for sure what was wrong with him. There was nothing to do but wait and see what tomorrow would bring.
Before we went to bed, Mother telephoned the hospital to check on Daddy one last time. A nurse told her that they would call her back in a few minutes since they had an emergency to take care of. We didn’t know it at the time, but the emergency was Daddy.
When the nurse called back, she asked Mother to come immediately. My brother, Lewis, and one of my sisters, Rebecca, said they would go with her. Tired and worried, I dressed for bed, but when I lay down, the Spirit said to me, “Get up—you’ve got to go.”
I ignored the voice, but it came again, stronger this time, and I didn’t argue. When we arrived at the hospital, Mother said, “I’ll go right into the intensive care unit and check on Daddy. I’ll be back in a minute.”
After a long time, she finally came out and said, “I can’t let you see your father in his condition. It would break his heart if he knew you saw him like that.”
We loudly protested, but she stood firm, saying, “No. Remember him the way he was.”
Surely Mother couldn’t mean that Daddy was dying! I was frantic with fear. Then my eyes fell on the Bible lying on the table. I took it and started reading. As I read, my attention was drawn to one verse in particular:
“For I am in a strait betwixt two, having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ; which is far better” (Philip. 1:23).
When I finished reading, I knew Daddy must go. Lewis was now sobbing in the waiting room. My younger sister, Rebecca, was telling me how it hurt her to see Lewis cry, and how hard it would be to not see Daddy here in the hospital. My older sister, MaryAnn, and my two brothers, Karl and Michael, were still at home, anxiously awaiting news from Mother. Oh, what awful news to hear!
After shedding many tears, we all sat on a couch and drifted in and out of fitful, uneasy sleep. I remember thinking: It can’t end this way. Something has to happen to let us know he’ll miss us and to give us comfort in the years ahead.
When I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed that Daddy was standing in the doorway, dressed all in white. He was crying, but I knew he was happy. He raised his hand and whispered, “Bye-bye, kiddies.”
I didn’t want him to go, but I awoke suddenly and he was gone. He died later that night.
I woke up the next morning in my own bed, barely remembering that friends had taken us home from the hospital the night before. I sat up in my bed and looked around the room. I knew something was wrong, and then I remembered: Daddy died last night. I sank back down on my pillow, already damp with tears, and cried some more.
The days after the funeral were the hardest: setting the table with only seven plates, hearing my mother softly crying in the night, and seeing his chair—empty. Where was the father I loved so much? Then I remembered my dream of his tearful good bye, and the scripture, “Having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ; which is far better.”
Yes, he would be with us in spirit whenever we needed him, memories of him bringing us great comfort. Knowing that he was with Christ made it easier for me to bear my sorrow.