Gospel Story Finder

A second thing to remember in responding to others is not to lose your temper. Uncontrolled anger distorts reason and cancels wisdom. All of us are susceptible to rising anger, but before we act we can bring ourselves under control. I have often thought how easily a young missionary becomes angry when he sees something that doesn’t seem complimentary to him or his religion. But we sometimes fail to remember that we too can offend others. Our doctrine, for example, is offensive to some people. In one city in Brazil, our elders found that a Protestant minister had begun publishing and distributing derogatory pamphlets against the Church. It was information that would not have been accepted in the United States, because generally we have been too well known for people to believe those ridiculous stories. But the people in Brazil began to get some wrong ideas about the Church, and the elders wanted to do something about it.
I suggested they take a copy of the pamphlet and visit the minister, if they could find him. After some preparation, they found him, and they said, “Are you responsible for the publication of this material?” He responded rather evasively and with some embarrassment. They said, “We would just like you to know that we represent The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and that this material is not true. This is not what we believe. We don’t appreciate having this kind of falsehood distributed about us, but you should know that when we find people who have read it, it is easy for us to tell them the truth, and then, of course, they get a poor opinion about you. If you feel that you must publish this sort of thing, then continue to do so; it really doesn’t hurt us that much. In many ways it helps us. But we would prefer that you don’t do it.” That solved the problem.

Some years ago I was serving as a bishop. At the same time I was working on a doctor’s degree at a university and working a full-time job. I was under some strain, fearing that because of my desire to succeed in so many areas I was really failing as a father.
One Sunday evening I stayed late at church to complete some work. As I walked into the chapel to turn off the lights before going home, I suddenly felt lonely. I felt that my back would not bear for another day the heavy burdens I was carrying.
I fell to my knees near the pulpit and cried to the Lord. I poured out the feelings of my soul to him and described in detail my seemingly insurmountable tasks. When I finished I remained kneeling. And then I heard the Spirit speak to me in my heart. The answer it gave me was all I needed. It said just three things: Go forward. Do your best. Love your family.
I arose a new man.

There’s not much sadness in her voice. No trace of anger. All the upheaval took place when Vani Tanumi had just learned to walk and talk, so she doesn’t remember any of it.
Her story about her parents is more matter-of-fact than anything. Her mom died before Vani turned two, and her dad left the family. Vani, age 19, has no recollection of her mom or dad. Fortunately, she was reared by Grandma and Grandpa, her mom’s parents. It’s the only life Vani has ever known, and so she smiles. She smiles because she is happy. Truly.
Despite the chaos in her life, Vani’s grandparents were able to give her the one thing she needed most: stability. And with that came one other thing she learned she couldn’t do without: the gospel. “The Church has been a great help to me,” she says.

Elder Lawrence described a friend who decided to pray for the gift of charity. He related her experience: “She wrote: ‘I have been praying specifically for an increase of charity for several months. … Gradually my perception of others has changed. … I have begun to not just love the people around me but to enjoy them. Before, I may have kept my distance, but now I am genuinely interested in everyone.’”2

Yvette, age 10, gets up at 4:00 A.M. every day to study for school, which starts at 7:00 A.M. Once, getting good grades seemed impossible to her. “When I used to study, I was never able to remember and understand the things I was studying,” she says. “When I had tests, I’d get very nervous and not remember anything. My father told me that before I study and before taking tests, I should pray. When I follow his advice, I always do better. Before I started praying about my studies, I was never one of the better students in my class. Now I’m in third or fourth place in the whole school.”

“A fine chance I have to win,” Alan mumbled to Jerry as they each read the poster in the library that announced the pet contest.
“The sign says that the boy or girl who brings the most unusual pet will win swimming tickets for the summer,” Jerry reminded him. “It doesn’t say that the pet has to do any tricks or anything.”
“I know,” Alan grumbled. “But Karen has a talking parakeet, Jimmy has a talking parrot, you’re bringing your talking myna bird, and Susan is sure to bring her singing canary.”
“Why don’t you enter Pokey in the contest?” Jerry asked.
“Pokey?” Alan questioned, surprised that Jerry would even mention such a thing. “Who ever heard of a talking turtle?”
“How about that owl your father found in the woods?” Jerry suggested. “His broken leg is healed now.”
“Who-Who can’t talk or sing,” Alan complained. “That bird can’t do anything!”
“Well, you’d better think of something quick,” Jerry advised as he turned the corner and headed toward his house. “The contest is tomorrow.”
Alan didn’t answer. He just kicked at a rock and walked on home.
All evening Alan tried to think of a pet to enter in the contest. He didn’t have much money for swimming this year, and winning the contest would be a big help.
When Alan went to bed, he still had not thought of a pet for the contest.
Early the next morning Alan had an idea. He quickly jumped out of bed, and before long he was on his way to the pet show carrying a cage that was covered with a cloth. He didn’t want the other children to see his surprise pet until the right time.
Soon Alan arrived at the library where the contest was being held. He sat on the front row and placed the covered cage on the floor beside him.
“May I show my pet first?” he asked Mr. Simpson, the man in charge.
“Everyone wants to be first,” Mr. Simpson laughed. “There are twenty-three entries. We’ll draw numbers from this box. The person getting number one will be first. Number two will be second, and so on.”
Alan drew number twenty-three. He would have to be last!
Susan was first, and she carried her singing canary to the front of the room.
“Tweet-tweet,” sang the canary. “Tweet-tweet-tweet.” The boys and girls all clapped.
Karen took her talking parakeet to the platform.
“Pretty boy,” said the parakeet. “Pretty boy,” he repeated again and again. The children laughed. They liked the parakeet.
Next Jimmy carried his parrot to the front of the room.
“Help! Help!” squawked the parrot, hopping about his cage. “Help, I’m hungry!” The children cheered. “The parrot will be the winner,” someone said.
Jerry was fourth. His myna bird glanced about the room.
“Stop the traffic!” the myna bird shouted like a policeman. “Stop! Stop!” he repeated. Everybody cheered and laughed. They had never seen a police bird.
At last it was Alan’s turn. He carried the cloth-covered cage to the front of the room.
“I wonder what it is,” someone whispered.
Quickly Alan pulled back the cloth. Some boys in the back of the room stood so that they could see better.
“But Who-Who can’t talk,” Jerry whispered out loud. Everyone giggled.
“I know who you are,” Alan said to the owl.
“Who,” said the owl, and a roar of clapping filled the room. Jerry’s eyes grew large and round—almost as big and round as the owl’s eyes.
Alan turned to the owl, “Tell the boys and girls who you are.”
“Who-Who,” said the owl, and everyone cheered and laughed louder than before.
“Alan’s the winner!” shouted the boys.
“Alan and Who-Who!” shouted the girls.
The judges agreed, and a big smile spread across Alan’s face as he accepted the swimming tickets.

The schoolroom in the basement of the converted church looked large and bare, even though a long table and some chairs were set up in the center. The pale green walls were lit by fluorescent lights the length of the ceiling, and a noisy radiator hissed in the corner. The room was not cold, but as I shivered in worry and tension I felt as though I were still outside in the snow.
The situation was not in itself frightening: I was to teach a group of refugees who had been driven from their homes on the other side of the world, and who could not yet speak the language of their new country.
I was not frightened of them. They were the kindest and most willing of students. But they needed so much. They had suffered the terrors of war. They had been driven out of their familiar patterns of life into a world almost completely alien to them. My experiences in the world seemed so small compared to theirs. I was afraid I would not be able to help them.
I now realize that I cannot change many things about the situation of my students. I cannot change the war that drove them from their homes. I cannot change the fact that they will now have to spend many years rebuilding their lives and overcoming emotional scars. I cannot give them everything they need to be happy and comfortable in their new country.
These ideas seem simple, but they were difficult for me to accept. I wanted to believe that I could make these people happier. And I could, as I later realized—but not by solving their problems for them.
My first insight into how I could best serve came as I thought about how the Lord helps me. Sometimes he gives me direction when I ask. But much more often, he blesses me with a sense of his love. He assures me again and again that he loves me and accepts me as I am. Despite my imperfections, I know he has a vision of my potential that is far above my own, and that he will help me reach it.
This feeling of God’s love for me has been the greatest blessing of my life. But as I thought about my own service, I found that giving this kind of love was far down on my list of ways I could help others. I had focused on solving others’ problems, rather than on loving them unconditionally.
As I began to think of my refugee students as people to love, rather than as people to help, my anxiety over them left me. I found new energy and joy in their service. What is more, it quickly became evident that I was doing more good than I had done before. My students developed confidence in me and began asking my help in doing things they could not do for themselves. These opportunities would not have come if they had not first learned that I loved them.

Some years ago in the early spring, I took my little niece Shelly’s hand in mine, and for hours we carefully picked our way from one rock to the next along a creek bed shaded by some tall trees. The gurgling water was like a musical accompaniment to the dance we were creating, as we would take a step, hesitate, reach, step forward, and then wait a moment to secure our balance.
Before long, we were drawn to an open meadow where some large cottonwood trees had been recently cut. Making my way through the tall grass, I held Shelly’s hand as she cautiously placed one foot ahead of the other, walking the full length of the tree and back again. We noticed in that springtime tender green shoots forcing their way through the earthy floor, and we saw the winter snow receding toward the mountain peaks. It seemed as though all of nature bore evidence of God’s creations and his great love for us.
Our afternoon activities continued until the evening breeze reminded us that our special day was coming to a close.
Approaching the narrow, steep garden path leading to my home, I let go of Shelly’s hand, allowing her to go first. Our hands stuck together for a moment. A bond had formed from the warmth of the day through our shared adventures.
Just before reaching the clearing near the house, we stopped. Bending down, I lifted Shelly up to see into a little nest built by a robin in the branch of a tree.
At the close of this memorable day, before tucking my little niece (whom my sister shares with me) into bed, we knelt together while she expressed her own thanks which included gratitude for the creek, the slippery rocks, the big tree, and the robin’s nest. Feeling a renewed appreciation for the same wonderful blessings, I tucked the covers around her and bent down for a goodnight kiss. Reaching up, placing both arms around my neck, and pulling me close to her, Shelly whispered, “I wish we were in the same family.”
“Shelly, my dear,” I quickly explained, “we are in the same family.”
“No, I mean the very same family. My last name is Larsen, and your last name is Kapp, and that isn’t the same. I mean, if you were my sister and we had the very same last name.”
Even though she was very young, I felt that she might sense security in our eternal relationship if I could somehow awaken within her a great eternal truth.
“Shelly, we really are in the very same family. You see, we are all our Heavenly Father’s children, every one of us, and that makes us members of one great family. We are brothers and sisters, and Jesus is our brother, too, our elder brother.”
“Then what is Jesus’ last name?” she asked.
“Shelly, we know our Savior as Jesus the Christ.” With the pure innocence of youth, she began to make us all one family by linking my first name with the surname “The Christ.”
“Oh, no, my dear! We don’t put our names together like that.”
“But why not?” she asked.
Wanting her to be aware of the sacredness of our relationship with the Savior, I tried to explain: “I guess maybe it’s because sometimes we are not good enough. I don’t feel worthy yet.”
With that, she raised up on her elbow. “What do you do that’s wrong? Why don’t you stop doing it, and then we can all be in the same family? We can all use His name.”
I pondered the answer to her simple questions. I heard in my mind words as though I was hearing them for the first time. And yet, it had been only two days since I had attended sacrament meeting where I had listened to the same words. I had heard them with my ears so often before, but now it seemed different. It was as though I was hearing them with my whole heart and soul: “… that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given them …” (D&C 20:77).
As I held Shelly’s little hand in mine for one last squeeze before tiptoeing from her room that evening some years ago, a feeling of gratitude and reverence came flooding forth as I realized that while her hand had been in mine for most of the afternoon as I helped her through the creek, across the rocks, and over the tree and lifted her up to see the miracle of life unfolding in a robin’s nest, this child led me to begin a search that would lead me to a better understanding of a great eternal truth. King Benjamin explained it for us:
“And now, because of the covenant which ye have made ye shall be called the children of Christ, his sons, and his daughters; for behold, this day he hath spiritually begotten you; for ye say that your hearts are changed through faith on his name; therefore, ye are born of him and have become his sons and his daughters” (Mosiah 5:7).
We can all be members of the same family. If you’re doing something you shouldn’t, consider Shelly’s question to me: Why don’t you stop? It may not always be easy, but with his help we can overcome.

With no family or friends, Todd, 23, is one of the loneliest people at the Desert Development Center for mentally and physically handicapped people. A product of drug-using parents, he has never had a single friend, a single visitor. On this day Sean White, a teenager in the Las Vegas Stake, took his hand and did not let go of it all day. He was patient and kind to Todd, and stayed by his side, talking to him and offering his friendship. A simple thing. But after Sean left, Todd quietly told a staff member, “This is the best day I have ever had.”
Sean was one of 300 teenagers from the Las Vegas Stake who participated in a service-oriented youth conference. They conducted a field day patterned after the Special Olympics for some 80 handicapped people at the center where Todd lives. And because they did, at least one young man had the best day of his life.

Following is a true account of a middle-aged businessman who very keenly felt the Comforter enticing him to do good.

Brother Johnson (the name is fictitious) had been plagued with an enslaving smoking habit for two decades. He very much wanted to be active in the Church, but somehow this habit was a seemingly insurmountable barrier between him, the Lord, and Church activity.

One windy, wintry day at work, disgusted with his inability to refrain from smoking one cigarette after another, he felt a subtle spiritual prompting which made him leave his work and tell his employees he’d be gone for the rest of the day. Despite the chilling weather and the deep, new-fallen snow, he hiked into a secluded mountain canyon. Intent on seeking the Lord in private circumstances so he might pray fervently aloud, he hiked until the snow was hip-deep and he could walk no farther.

Then and there he approached the Lord with great humility. He pleaded with the Lord to strengthen him so that he might be free from the insidious power that nicotine held over him. After mighty prayer, he arose a new man.

The chains were broken. And as he followed the Lord’s admonition in John 8:32, six months later he was called to be the bishop of his ward. He served faithfully and well.

Like many young men my age, I looked forward to the spring in anticipation of the yearly high school prom. It wasn’t long before I accepted an invitation to attend with a group of friends, including my two best friends, who were fellow priesthood quorum members.

The days leading up to the prom were full of anxiousness and planning. Where would we have dinner? What color tuxedo should I wear? So many decisions to be made! In anticipation of the events, our Young Men president reminded us who we represent as priesthood holders and how we should conduct ourselves. He reminded us that the scripture “stand ye in holy places” (D&C 87:8) should be firmly in our minds as we went to the dance.

The night of the prom came. As I was preparing to leave and join my friends for pictures, a knock came at my door. Somewhat to my surprise, my Young Men president was standing on the porch. He told me he was there to see me off and wish me an enjoyable time. Before he left, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden dollar coin. As he handed it to me he said, “Chase, I want you to take this. Keep it in your pocket as a reminder of who you are and whom you represent as a faithful priesthood holder. Much like this gold coin, your priesthood is precious and valuable. Hold it dear to you and honor it regardless of where you are.”

I left shortly after to join my friends for dinner and pictures. And then, the prom! We all had a great time. Later that night, I became separated from my group and was surrounded by a group of people I didn’t know very well. Within a few minutes, I found myself in a difficult situation that would have compromised my standards. Feeling anxious and nervous, I shoved my hands into my pockets. My fingers felt the golden coin; I’d almost forgotten about it! I was instantly reminded that I bear His holy priesthood. I thought, “I am a faithful priesthood holder. I can honor my priesthood regardless of where I am.” I immediately walked away from the compromising situation and reunited with my friends.

Afterward, I was so thankful for faithful leaders who stayed in tune with our needs. I felt like I better understood the importance of honoring the priesthood that I bear. A night at the dance and a single golden coin reminded me that I can have the strength to stand in holy places, even when it’s hard.

“This is far enough, Mom. You can drop me off here,” Jill said to her mother as they pulled up to the gates of Cannondale Heights. “I’ll just walk the rest of the way. I need the exercise.”
“Sorry I couldn’t have Jeeves bring you ’round in the limo,” Jill’s mother said in her best Harvard accent. “But he had to take your father to the airport to catch the Concorde for the summit meeting.”
Jill hadn’t fooled her mother for a second. She never could. It was all too obvious that she didn’t want to be seen pulling up to Courtney Pennington’s palatial mansion in the family’s clunky old blue-or-grey-or-whatever-color-it-used-to-be Impala. Jill was five-foot-eight and not just thin; she was skinny. She ate all the time to gain weight, and now she was telling her mother she needed to walk for exercise on a cold, dark night? She felt guilty about the pretense, so she leaned over and gave her mom an extra big hug, momentarily catching her thick brown hair on the button of her mother’s jacket.
“Have a good time,” her mother said with a smile as Jill jumped out of “Sherman.” That was the affectionate nickname the family had given the car because of its resemblance to a tank.
The night was chilly and as Jill began walking up the hill to the Pennington’s driveway, she wished she would have stayed a little longer in her mother’s soft, warm, cinnamon-smelling embrace.
The huge wrought-iron gate that guarded what looked like a very long lane automatically swung open as soon as Jill neared it. She looked around before entering and noticed she’d crossed through an electric beam that must have alerted whoever was looking at her through a small T.V. camera mounted on the gatepost. “I can’t believe this,” she said to herself. “The Pennington place is unreal!”
Jill thought about the situation as she continued through the gate and up the long, tree-lined drive. Courtney Pennington was the new girl in the ward. She was in Jill’s Mia Maid class but hadn’t immediately drawn a lot of attention because she was quiet—the nice kind of quiet, where you know she’s shy rather than stuck-up. She had long blond hair that was probably curly or wavy, but she kept it pulled back in a braid or a ponytail all the time so it was hard to tell. She dressed well but not flashy, and no one even realized she was rich until one day they saw her hop into a very large, very shiny Mercedes that had come for her after church. The windows were tinted, so no one could see the driver.
Courtney became a sort of enigma after that. No one wanted to be rude and ask too many questions, but everyone in the class was curious about her. They hadn’t ever seen the rest of her family, although one day she showed them a picture she carried in her wallet. The miniportrait revealed one of the best looking brothers they’d ever seen, and two incredibly handsome parents.
The girls just about fell over when she gave their adviser a home address that had to be located in prestigious Cannondale Heights.
They were ecstatic when Courtney offered to host the Mia Maid class party they were planning. Most of them had never even driven through Cannondale Heights, let alone visited one of the elaborate estates there. They couldn’t wait to see what life was like in the lap of luxury.
Courtney, whom Jill had befriended the very first day by offering her half of the candy bar she usually carried in her purse, had asked Jill to come by, see her home, and help plan the party from there. Jill had jumped at the chance.
And now she was standing in front of the Pennington’s massive brass door. What if a butler answers? she wondered. What would you say to a butler? “Good evening. I have come to visit with Miss Courtney. She is expecting me.” Could she say that with a straight face? How about, “Yo! Butle me in!” Or “Beam me up, butler!” The possibilities were endless. She couldn’t help but giggle.
She was relieved when Courtney opened the door just as Jill was reaching for the carved ivory knocker. “I’m so glad you’re here! You’re just in time,” Courtney bubbled, surprising Jill with her enthusiasm. “My parents are on their way out, and I want them to meet you before they go.”
“She wants them to meet me?” Jill thought as Courtney led her through a marble-floored entry and down a wood-paneled hall. She’d heard that Courtney’s father was a very powerful movie executive, and she was sure he met famous movie stars every day. Why would he want to meet some insignificant, skinny kid from the ward?
Courtney opened the door to a room that seemed to be all glass and garden. There were huge bouquets of fresh flowers blooming everywhere. On the other side of the room stood Courtney’s parents, silhouetted against a giant window through which city lights sparkled below.
“You must be Jill,” said a dazzling blond lady, all dressed in gold and black velvet. Could that be Courtney’s mom? Nobody’s mom dressed like that! Most moms Jill knew dressed in sweats or jeans, except on Sundays when they pulled out their flowered dresses.
“Of course that’s Jill,” Courtney’s father answered before Jill could say anything. “It’s so good to get to know Courtney’s friends. C’mon babe, we’ve got to get going—they won’t hold the premiere—not even for me!” he said as he began striding toward the door. He was the only man Jill had ever met who you could actually say “strode.” The tall man in the tuxedo gave the impression that he would never merely walk.
Courtney reached out to give her mother a hug, but only caught her hand as she hurried out behind her husband. “Watch the nails, hon,” Mrs. Pennington said as she quickly drew away. “Monique just did them today. Have a good time.” And they were gone. All that remained was the spicy scent of Mrs. Pennington’s expensive perfume.
“Well, those are my parents,” Courtney said, almost apologetically. “They’re always off somewhere. I wish it was off to church sometimes, but you’ve probably noticed they’re not big on attendance. They haven’t been for a long time.”
“I wasn’t sure if they were members or not,” Jill responded honestly. Then she quickly added, “It’s good they are.”
“Well, I guess you can say they’re members,” Courtney continued. “Dad joined the Church so Mom would marry him, but he never really got into it. Mom’s not into it much anymore either, but at least they’re nice about letting me go.”
“That’s not bad,” Jill said philosophically. She was beginning to wonder about the girl with the beautiful house and glamorous parents. “My parents have to wrestle with us half the time to get us to church. I think it’s good you try so hard to come on your own. I don’t see how you do it.”
“I don’t see how I can’t,” Courtney responded, a small smile crossing her face. “A long time ago I realized that I felt things at church I couldn’t feel anywhere else. The things they taught me there I couldn’t learn anywhere else, and I’ve been a lot of places. Now that I’m older and understand a little more about how the Spirit works, I don’t want to do anything that would separate me from it—like not going to church. I need all the spiritual help I can get. I don’t have a family like yours to teach me and help me learn. I envy you that.”
“Courtney envies me?” Jill thought. “That’s really funny.” And the humor in it grew as Courtney took her from room to room, showing her possible places for the party. The house was amazing. The Persian rugs and rich polished floors were such a contrast to the matted shag and scuffed linoleum in Jill’s house. There were about ten bedrooms—more than half of them guest rooms. They were so different from the bedrooms at Jill’s, where three bedrooms accommodated a family of nine. Two of the rooms were shared by three kids each. And Jill’s older brother Matt slept on the sofa bed in the living room, tormenting the littler kids by tickling them when they crossed through the room to the kitchen at night to get a drink. Oh, and then there were the Pennington’s “recreation rooms.”
“How about if we go swimming in the indoor pool?” Jill suggested when they’d returned to the glass-and-flower room to do the actual planning.
“I thought about that, but Dad said the insurance risk was too high to have a bunch of kids whose parents we don’t know swimming there,” Courtney answered.
“No problem then. Maybe we can get a film and watch it in that neat theater?”
“I don’t think dad would want us fooling with his equipment,” Courtney said.
“That’s all right.” Jill tried again. “I noticed you have a huge kitchen. Maybe we could make some goodies in there. Everybody likes food—especially me. And we could make enough to take to the homeless in the park the next day.
“I think Mom would have a heart attack if we tarnished her copper kitchen stuff,” Courtney said. At this point, she was getting embarrassed.
“Well, we can always just come over and talk girl talk right here,” Jill said, not wanting to disappoint Courtney anymore.
“We can always just come over and talk girl talk!” screeched a Munchkin-like voice that pierced them from every direction. It startled Jill so badly she thought she jumped ten feet in the air. Suddenly, from a slit in the ceiling above a huge white and gold fireplace, a movie screen started descending. When it stopped, a video of their little planning session, played at double speed backwards, started flashing across the screen, their voices screeching in those weird Munchkin tones.
“Selwyn, you dog!” Courtney yelled as she jumped up and ran across the room to a control panel that was neatly concealed behind a tapestry on the wall. She hurriedly flicked a switch that killed the sound.
“It’s my stupid big brother,” Courtney stuttered on the verge of tears. “He takes his video camera everywhere, and he films everything. Then he edits them in weird ways and shows them to everybody. He makes me so mad!”
The girls stood there motionless for a few minutes, watching their images flicker bizarrely across the silent screen.
“Hey—I’ve got a great idea!” Jill said, regaining her composure. “This is a beautiful place, but you’d probably like to get out once in a while. You’ve never been to any of our houses. Why don’t we have the Mia Maid party at mine? Mom will help us make cinnamon rolls. Oh, and Matt has a priests quorum activity that night, so we won’t have competition for the living room. As a matter of fact, I bet Matt would take Selwyn with him, if he wants to go.”
“He’d probably like that,” Courtney said slowly. “He doesn’t have many friends. But do you think your mom would mind?”
“My mom mind? Are you kidding? She loves having people in the house—all over the house,” Jill said, walking over to the golden phone she’d noticed on a desk against the wall. “I’ll call her right now, and we can make plans over there. What’s the exact address of this place so I can have her come right up to the front door and get us?”

When I was a young man, a mere boy of 11, I received a patriarchal blessing from a man I had never seen before and never saw thereafter. It is a remarkable document, a prophetic document. It is personal, and I will not read extensively from it. However, it contains this statement: “The nations of the earth shall hear thy voice and be brought to a knowledge of the truth by the wonderful testimony which thou shalt bear.”

When I was released from my mission in England, I took a short trip on the Continent. I had borne my testimony in London; I did so in Berlin and again in Paris and later in Washington, D.C. I said to myself that I had borne my testimony in these great capitals of the world and had fulfilled that part of my blessing.

That proved to be a mere scratching of the surface. Since then I have lifted my voice on every continent, in cities large and small, all up and down from north to south and east to west across this broad world—from Cape Town to Stockholm, from Moscow to Tokyo to Montreal, in every great capital of the world. It is all a miracle.

He informed his mother about his desire to get baptized and join the LDS Church, but she threatened to disown him if he ever did. All his relatives were against the idea of him joining the Church. Isaac had been admitted to study for his bachelor’s degree at Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology. Isaac told the Cape Coast missionaries of his plan to attend church at Kumasi without the knowledge of his family. Isaac had studied with them for a little over a year without getting the opportunity to attend church. While in Kumasi, he looked for the LDS Church but could not find it. A student colleague directed him to the LDS Church about a month later. Isaac again met with the Kumasi missionaries. They were impressed with his knowledge of the restored gospel, but this was no surprise, as he had been taught much by missionaries while in Cape Coast.
The missionaries fixed a baptismal interview date with Isaac. He agreed and got baptized on October 16, 2010. However, he kept all this from his family. Isaac had the privilege of performing a proxy baptism in the temple when he came to Accra for Christmas vacation. He shared his experience in the temple: “When I got to the temple, I felt so much about being different and I remember reading a talk in the waiting room by President Monson. ‘Dare to be a Mormon; Dare to stand alone. Dare to have a purpose firm; Dare to make it known’ (“Dare to Stand Alone,” Liahona, Nov. 2011, 61).” This impression compelled him to inform his mother about his newfound Church membership and the blessings he had acquired. Breaking the news, his mother was furious initially, but subsequently, she began to understand and accept his decision to be a Latter-day Saint. However, his extended family was unforgiving of his decision.

Since my early school days, I have had a strong interest in various religions. I attended many church services and listened to many sermons. When I was in junior high school, I began searching for a true church, just as Joseph Smith did, and prayed earnestly that I might be led to one.
One afternoon, a friend I had not seen for some time came into my classroom. In my friend’s hand, I saw my first copy of the Book of Mormon. I was curious about the front cover design showing someone blowing a horn, and asked him, “What is that?” That was how I began to learn about the Church.
The Book of Mormon became priceless to me, just as it is to many others throughout the world. It is not just an ordinary book. I found it gave me great strength. I always carried it with me so I could read it whenever I wanted to. After a while, I discovered that I could do more than just read it. I realized that there are many people around me who may be in need of the Lord’s words, just as I was.
Sometimes the Spirit prompts me to talk to a particular person. When that happens, I pray to know what to say, and then I say it. This happens quite frequently.
Because I have a personal attachment to my copy of the Book of Mormon, and I would rather not give it away, I decided to carry an extra copy with me. However, I realized that sometimes one copy is not enough, so I started to carry two copies instead.
Frustrating my mother’s wish to see me grow up a charming little lady carrying a petite purse on my arm, I began to carry copies of the Book of Mormon in a heavy shoulder bag instead. The weight of the bag reminds me that I am a Latter-day Saint with something important to share. When I am tired, I try to do my missionary work more quickly, sharing my load.
Whenever I tell someone how important the Book of Mormon is to me and how great a joy it is for me to share it, they usually accept it. They may not read it right away, but you never know when that person may stop to ponder who he is, what the purpose of this life is, and where he is going. He may then remember what I testified to him, and open the book.
Whenever I give someone a copy of the Book of Mormon, I always try to imagine their expression when they discover that the book is a second witness of Jesus Christ, which contains his teachings, including the plan of salvation and our Heavenly Father’s love for us. That discovery may change the rest of their life.
Once in a while I go to the local Church Distribution Center to buy ten copies of the Book of Mormon. As I travel home, there is always someone on the train who says to me, “Your package seems heavy. I’ll hold it on my lap for you.” Whenever that happens, I always present a copy of the Book of Mormon to that person as a token of my appreciation. At the same time, I bear my testimony that the book comes from God and I tell them how important it is to me. On one occasion, another passenger sitting next to the person holding my package watched what went on. He also offered to help me.
For me, even holding a copy of the Book of Mormon brings blessings. I always like to hold my copy when I go to sleep, and if I ever feel insecure, I can go to sleep peacefully. You can imagine how blessed I feel when I read it.
When I feel inner turmoil because of personal pride, King Benjamin (Mosiah 2:20–22, 24–26) speaks to me. When I suffer from my weaknesses, I am taught by Moroni and Nephi (Ether 12:27, and 2 Ne. 4:17–35). When I am feeling hesitant, I read about Nephi (1 Ne. 3:7). When I am afraid to bear my testimony, Abinadi, who bore his testimony at the risk of his own life, speaks to me.
I think of Amulek (Alma 15:16), rejected by those who were once his friends; the courage demonstrated by the two thousand valiant warriors (Alma 57:19–21); the Anti-Nephi-Lehis, who showed their deep repentance and strong love for their fellowmen (Alma 24); marvelous missionaries, like Alma, Ammon, Aaron, and Muleki; the humility and strong faith demonstrated by the Brother of Jared; King Lamoni, whose heart was as pure as that of a child; Moroni, and Samuel, the Lamanite prophet, who had firm convictions of their faith and courage. I wonder what Moroni thought when he was left all alone after the great battle at the Hill Cumorah, and then as he buried the golden plates.
I appreciate Joseph Smith desperately protecting those same sacred plates, and being worthy to translate them so that we may have the Book of Mormon in our day. I feel the joy and privilege of having the Book of Mormon as my companion, and I pray that I may be worthy to meet its authors someday.

As bishop of our ward, I encouraged parents to give their children opportunities to teach in family home evening. My wife and I decided to do as I had said.
Our son taught first, and we enjoyed his lesson on prayer. The next Monday was our daughter’s turn. She had been baptized only a few months before. Her topic was God’s creation. She asked a series of questions, which we answered in turn. She then bore her testimony and concluded.
My son exclaimed, “You’ve not taught us yet; you were only asking questions.” But I told my family that I had been moved when my wife, answering one of the questions, said that she is grateful to God for creating family units and giving her a wonderful family with a loving husband. I told them that my heart was full of gratitude when my youngest daughter answered the question “Who created the world?” by exclaiming, “Jesus.” I found many other answers overwhelming in their insightfulness.
So even though my daughter did not “teach” as my son expected, her lesson—and others my children have taught—are my favorite family home evenings.
Richard Ikpegbu, Nigeria

As I drove to the hospital last night to visit my sister, who was very ill, I had in the back of my mind the assignment given me by the New Era editors to prepare this article, and I realized that the deadline had arrived.
At the hospital I had a humbling spiritual adventure that gave dimension to what I would like to say to you. In a room there I found a wonderful family gathered around the bed of their very ill wife and mother, having their family home evening. A choice son, just returned from missionary experience abroad, was telling about his mission and showing some slides on the wall of the hospital room. I was privileged to join with the family.
When I arrived home, my own family gathered for the home evening we had postponed while I visited the hospital. We talked and sang together and read the scriptures, and then, having fasted for the occasion, we knelt in our home to join our faith in seeking the Lord’s blessings for our dear one who so desperately needed his help.

In 1840 Wilford Woodruff and other apostles traveled to England to share the message of the restored gospel. In the beautiful, green, rolling countryside of Herefordshire, Worcestershire, and Gloucestershire, Elder Woodruff experienced phenomenal success, and hundreds of people joined the Church. Fourteen-year-old Thomas Steed of Malvern converted to the Church during this time period. Shortly after his baptism, while at a gathering of Saints, Thomas experienced a wonderful spiritual manifestation, which he recorded later in life:
The house was filled with the Spirit and the power of God, and every one present was thrilled with the convincing power of the Holy Spirit and which I could feel through my whole system like fire shut up in my bones. It was then plainly made known unto me that God lives, that Jesus is the Redeemer and that Joseph Smith was a prophet of the Most High God. Of the truth of this a doubt has never crossed my mind from that day to this. [The Life of Thomas Steed from His Own Diary: 1826–1910, Salt Lake Family History Library, film 1036342, item 2, 43 pages, 6; http://contentdm.lib.byu.edu/u?/FH25,79893]
A few years after that exhilarating experience, Thomas immigrated to America, arriving in Nauvoo on April 13, 1844. He recorded:
The Prophet Joseph Smith was at the pier. At first glance I could tell it was him, by his noble expression. He came on board to shake hands and welcome us by many encouraging words, and express his thankfulness that we had arrived in safety. As he could not stay with us, he sent Apostle Geo. A. Smith to preach on board. “What did you come here for?” asked he. “To be instructed in the ways of the Lord,” answered someone. [Apostle Smith said,] “I tell you, you have come to the thrashing floor, and after you have been thrashed and pounded you will have to go through the fanning mill, where the chaff will be blown away and the wheat remain.” (The troubles of Nauvoo were just coming upon them). [Life of Thomas Steed, 8–10]
Thrashed and pounded! Now, can you imagine a stunned Thomas and his fellow British converts possibly thinking, “Actually, no, this isn’t what we had in mind.” I’m sure they weren’t contemplating a life full of trials upon arriving in Zion.

Colin had to deal with health problems that kept him from serving a mission. After Colin had been home for a while, he was struggling with not being able to serve. He told me the following story, and with his permission, I will relate it in his words:

"When I found out that due to my health a mission wasn't plausible, one thing kept bothering me. It was something my stake president said to me when I was being set apart to be a full-time missionary. He told me that he got a strong impression that there was someone out there waiting to receive the gospel from me. It was this line that kept going through my head when I got released, and slowly it started to hurt my faith. I struggled to understand how I would bring the gospel into someone's life if serving a mission was now seemingly impossible. Then, one Sunday morning while I attended my home ward, the missionaries approached me and asked for my help. They told me that they had a young man around my age investigating the Church and wanted my help teaching him the gospel. I agreed, and soon we became great friends and before too long, he asked to be baptized. It was at this young man's baptism that it clicked. I had found the one my stake president told me about."

Colin’s faith was strengthened by serving others, even though it wasn’t the way he thought it would be. This experience helped him feel the love of his Father in Heaven and strengthened his faith.

Colin said he also used prayer to get through his trial. Over time, he realized that this was the plan for his life and felt comfort from his prayers.

In 1987, Marcella, the older of my two daughters, saw two young men with name tags on a bus in Tiradentes, Brazil. A conversation ensued, and the missionaries asked if she would like to know more about the Church.
Marcella was interested, but she knew that my opinion of Latter-day Saints was very unfavorable. She made arrangements to be taught at the home of a member, and in time she was baptized. She was 19 years old. I did not go to her baptism because I was still radically opposed to the Church.
Meanwhile, I was going through a very difficult period in my life. One day I decided to look through some magazines in our magazine rack. Among them were several issues of A Liahona (Portuguese). I found what I read interesting.
The February/March 1986 issue contained an article about Si Peterson, a young man from Canada who is a quadriplegic (see Jeannie Takahashi, “Typical, but Unique Latter-day Saint,” 22). I was particularly impressed by the faith and perseverance of Si’s mother.
About that same time, January 1988, my younger daughter, Monica, suffered an appendicitis attack and was in terrible pain. The doctor said she needed emergency surgery. Marcella and I took her to the hospital and comforted her the best we could. At the hospital I remembered the examples of faith I had read about in A Liahona. I thought especially of Si’s mother, Anita Begieneman.
Marcella and I held Monica in our arms. We prayed with all the faith we had. Soon we noticed the color returning to her cheeks, and she stopped crying. Amazingly, the doctor told us a mistake had been made. Monica didn’t need an operation. The three of us went home happy and grateful.
Monica and I decided to receive the discussions, and we were baptized on 19 March 1988. Marcella later served a full-time mission to Switzerland and is now married.
The examples of faith in A Liahona showed me that my former ideas about the Church were in error and gave me strength during a difficult time. In the years since these events occurred, reading the magazine has continued to strengthen my testimony.