Gospel Story Finder

For Talia Gollan, 15, of the Emu Plains Ward, Sydney Hebersham Stake, the bushfires were a stark reminder of how disasters can occur without warning. At the height of the crisis, her suburb of Winmalee, in Sydney’s beautiful Blue Mountains, was surrounded by fire. It became the focus of media attention as firemen fought to protect homes.

“I was watching television on Saturday morning when Dad came in and said to pack some essential things in a box and be prepared to leave,” she said. However, Talia displayed a quiet faith that they would be safe.

“Everybody was expecting all of the houses to burn,” Talia says. “The fire was just a street away. But you know, I still felt Heavenly Father would take care of us. Even if something bad did happen, I felt I’d be supported by him.”

While some Church youth were protecting their own homes, others were behind the scenes helping firefighters in their vital role. O’Connor Tau, 14, who lives in the Liverpool Ward, Sydney Parramatta Stake, spent many hours at the chapel preparing food for firemen.

“We helped the firefighters and also made food for people who were stranded on the freeways,” O’Connor says. “I also had the job of collecting bread and other supplies from shops around the area. It was great because many of the shopkeepers were willing to give us the food for free.”

Teresa’s sixth birthday was just about over, and as darkness settled slowly over the elm grove and the weedy fencerows, all the insect fiddlers began to tune up for their nightly concert. Teresa listened to their raspy music as she stood by the window of her bedroom, her long blond hair braided neatly to keep it from becoming tangled while she slept.
Being six was a wonderful thing, for tomorrow she would start school, and soon she would know all the town children. But for a moment Teresa wished that she could reach out and hold this day forever in her arms.
Sighing deeply, she turned toward her bed. Her bare feet made no sound as she walked across the worn carpet. But the corn-shuck mattress was very noisy when she slid between the snowy white sheets and made a nest for herself.
The thought of going to school was exciting. There she would learn to read the words to all the songs in the world. Then, when she grew up, she would sing in four languages, like Grandmother Hildah, whose picture rested on the mantel above the fireplace.
Teresa had never seen Grandmother Hildah because Papa and Mama had left Germany, where her grandmother had lived, before Teresa was born. But Mama had a phonograph record of Grandmother’s lilting voice, and some day, Mama said, Teresa would sing like that.
All summer long Teresa had practiced. On sunny days, after the eggs were gathered, she loved to squat like a small brown toad, half-hidden in the elderberry thicket, and listen to the trills of the meadowlarks or the mockingbirds. Then she sang the notes as best she could, adding words as they came to her mind.
In the evenings, while she drove the cow up the long, shady lane and past the row of trumpet vines, Teresa would listen as the crickets and the katydids sawed on their fiddles. Then she would join in their tune.
Once when she heard Teresa singing, Mama said to Papa, “Our daughter sings like Grandmother Hildah already.”
Papa had arched his dark eyebrows. “So!” he said. “In which of the four languages did our daughter sing today?”
Teresa had squealed with laughter and hugged Papa, for she knew that he was teasing.
Now, as she lay snuggled in her warm bed, sleep was slow in coming for Teresa. Outside, the insects were filling the night with their music, almost as if they were afraid dawn might catch them with their songs unfinished.
Morning came rosy pink. Teresa could hardly eat her breakfast or stand still long enough for Mama to comb her hair. Her fingers were all thumbs as she tried to button the new birthday dress that Aunt Gertrude had sent all the way from Pennsylvania.
Papa took Teresa to school on his way to his blacksmith shop, and he introduced her to the teacher, Miss Marcy. When the bell rang, Miss Marcy introduced Teresa to the class. “Most of you know each other already,” she said. “This is Teresa Gruenwahl, children. Her parents came from Germany; let’s make her feel welcome.”
The eyes that stared at Teresa did not make her feel welcome, and she wished that she had not come. And at recess the other children drew off into whispery knots or pushed her away when she tried to join their games. They called her a stupid foreigner and made ugly verses about her living on a farm. Then they pointed their fingers at her, shrieked with laughter, and ran away.
Worse still, the words in the primer just looked like bits of noodles chopped up and scattered out to dry. But she loved singing time, especially when the class sang about the creatures great and small. Teresa could sing louder and higher than any of the other children, and that made her feel better.
The days passed. Fall flowers turned to seed, the odor of ripening apples perfumed the air, and the insect chorus grew more shrill.
One morning on her way to school Teresa caught sight of a cicada clinging to the bark of an elm tree. She had seen cicadas before but never so close. This one’s brown skin was splitting down the back, and its new green one was showing.
As Teresa stopped and watched, the split grew wider and wider. Soon, to her amazement, out popped a “new” cicada, all green and moist and shimmery in the sun. Slowly raising each leg, the cicada stepped daintily away from its old skin and sat down to dry. Teresa was enchanted. Here it was, as green as life. And there was its old, hollow, brown skin still clinging to the tree.
She loved the new cicada, but she didn’t have time to wait for its first song. So she shook out her handkerchief, plucked the insect from the tree, and wrapped it up carefully. Just as carefully she tucked the handkerchief into her pocket and hurried on.
She was late. The cicada’s metamorphosis had taken too much time. Softly she opened the schoolroom door and tiptoed to her seat.
“Teresa, you may stay in during recess,” said Miss Marcy, frowning.
It was nearly recess time when Teresa first heard the sound. It was like the buzzing of a fly trying to free itself from a spider’s web. Then the sound began to spiral upward from her pocket to fill the silence in the room. Zzzeee uh zzzeee uh. The Cicada! Teresa had forgotten about it. It was beginning its first song, and IT WAS LOUD!
All the eyes in the room turned toward her as the song rose higher and higher. Miss Marcy looked up from the story she was reading aloud, laid her book facedown on her desk, and rose slowly to her feet.
There was only one thing to do, so Teresa did it. Thrusting her hand into her pocket, she clutched frantically at her handkerchief in an effort to muffle the vibrant voice. The sound stopped abruptly. Teresa had squeezed too hard. She could feel the handkerchief become damp in her fist, and she felt sick.
Teresa didn’t know how Miss Marcy knew where the song had come from, but as she looked up, the teacher’s eyes were kind.
Slowly, Teresa drew forth the crumpled, green-stained handkerchief and placed it on her desk.
“It was the cicada,” she said softly, her eyes filling with tears. “It was singing too loudly, and I had to make it be quiet. I didn’t mean to …”
At that moment the recess bell rang, but nobody stirred.
“Oh, you poor child,” Miss Marcy murmured, gathering Teresa into her arms. “We must give the cicada a proper burial.” She led the way out into the hall and down the steps into the schoolyard. The children quietly followed as she crossed the yard to where a large elm tree stood.
“Can anyone find a strong stick?” she asked. “We need to dig a grave for the cicada.”
One of the boys found a sturdy twig. He solemnly bent down and scooped out a hole. Teresa placed the shroud-wrapped insect into the hole and covered it up.
“I think we should all sing a song,” Miss Marcy said. She took a pitch pipe from her pocket and blew a single note.
Glancing at Teresa with shy, sympathetic eyes, the children began to sing. “All things bright and beautiful / All creatures great and small, / All things wise and wonderful, / The Lord God made them all.”
And to Teresa the song was sweeter than ever before.

I am so grateful that I was born to a family that knows about the true gospel of Jesus Christ. My eighth birthday fell on Easter Sunday, and I felt great joy to be baptized on the day we celebrate the Resurrection of the Savior. I was a little nervous, but my father was there, and I knew that I could trust him. During the baptism I had a warm, happy feeling in my heart, and then I knew that I could trust Heavenly Father the same way I trust my father.
I am 11 now, and I am looking forward to going to the temple to be baptized for the dead. I know that only through baptism can we return to our Heavenly Father.
Mirjam S., age 11, Switzerland

One day at the end of November 2000, I went to school and found out that my friend Jonathan B.’s house had burned down during the night. He and his family had gotten out safely, but their house and all the things in it had burned to the ground. I felt very sad for him, and I knew I had to do something to help. I thought about it all that day.
When my mom picked me up from school, I told her what had happened and that I wanted to buy a new backpack and some toys for Jonathan. She said that she would be happy to take me shopping for these things.
When we got home from school, she called my teacher and asked for the phone number and address of Jonathan’s grandma’s house, which is where his family was staying. She then called there and asked if we could come over later and see him. She found some nice clothes that I had outgrown but that were just the right size for him. Then Mom, my sister Michelle, and I went shopping.
I chose a backpack that I knew he would really like. Then I picked out some toys to fill the backpack. I felt really happy when we took everything to Jonathan. He did really like the backpack, and he was happy to have some toys to play with.
His mom hugged me and thanked me for being so kind to him. My mom and dad told me that they were very pleased that I had chosen to do something so nice for somebody else. I knew that the good feelings I had inside were from the Holy Ghost, letting me know that I had done the right thing.

We had a tough time getting a good photo of Peter Johnson on his bicycle for the cover. It was winter in Utah, and Peter lives in Park City, a ski town that is very snowy in the winter months. The photographer had to wait until there were a couple of warm days so that the snow melted off the pavement. Then he took the photo at an angle so that the snow would not be too obvious in the background. The designer had to fade out the background so it wouldn’t be so noticeable.

Right after the accident, my sister Nicole showed up with her friend on another four-wheeler, and two boys who saw us crash quickly drove up on their four-wheelers.
“My dad’s a nurse!” one boy said. While he called his dad for help, Nicole and her friend hurried back to our camp to get my dad.
That morning, nurse Mike Staheli had planned to head home from a weekend campout with some friends. But they felt prompted to stay one more day. I’m thankful they did.
While Mike gave me first aid and checked my vital signs, someone called for an ambulance. Mike feared that I had broken my arm and femur, cracked several ribs, and that I was bleeding internally.
Mike said the ambulance from a nearby town would likely arrive first, but my condition was serious enough that I should be airlifted to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah. A medevac helicopter was also called for.
When my dad and his friend Hector saw me, they knew I needed a priesthood blessing. My dad asked me, “Do you have faith in the power of the priesthood? Do you have faith that the Lord can help you and heal you?”
“I do have faith, Papá,” I told him. But at the same time, I wondered, “What if I don’t have enough faith?”
My dad anointed me, and Hector blessed me. As soon as the blessing began, my breathing slowed, I calmed down, and I felt warmth even though it was cold outside. I knew then that I did have enough faith and that I was going to be fine either way.
When the ambulance arrived, paramedics cut off my favorite soccer shirt and checked my vital signs. They had stabilized. The helicopter arrived a few minutes later.
When the helicopter landed at the hospital, I was rushed inside. Nurses and doctors began examining me and doing lots of tests, including an MRI. My dad and I expected the worst, and so did they.
But they found nothing! No broken bones, no internal bleeding, no sign of concussion. My leg still hurt a lot, though.
“This is a miracle!” a nurse told me. Later, one doctor said, “OK, Alan, looks like you can go home tonight.”
I was like, “Really?”
Because I still had a hard time walking, I stayed in the hospital overnight. I left the next morning with only a brace on my left wrist. A few weeks later, I was training again for soccer.
I wonder what would have happened if my dad and Hector hadn’t held the priesthood. I could have been a lot worse off. That day I realized how important the priesthood is. I learned that faith in Jesus Christ and the power of the priesthood can do miraculous things.
I also learned that priesthood holders have to be good examples. If we have the priesthood but choose to do things that are wrong, we show that we do not respect or honor God’s power. But when we set good examples, we show others that we honor the priesthood and know that the Lord can work miracles through us.
I’m grateful for my family and for the Church. I always think about the sacrifices my parents have made for me and my brother and sisters. They think about us first. My dad recently hurt his knee playing soccer and can’t work. A lot of people, especially from the Church, have blessed us with food and other things we need. To keep my faith strong, I pray every morning, go to seminary, and read scriptures every night with my family. That really helps me.
Alan on a walk with his family a few months following his accident.
Since my accident, I often think about how much God has blessed me. Every time I have a problem now, the first thing I do is go straight to Him. I feel that if He loved me enough to bless and help me through my accident, He can help me through anything.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

Illustrations by Matt Sweeney
How come you’re my friend?
Huh?
Well, I can’t run or ride bikes and stuff. And some people have trouble understanding me when I talk.
Yeah, I had trouble at first. But—I dunno—when I listened, it got easier. I guess I like your funny jokes. And we like a lot of the same stuff.
Game time’s over. How about a sandwich?
So how come you’re my friend?
I guess it started when those guys were picking on me and you stood up for me.
Then we talked. And I got to know you. And, well, I figure anybody who has a rubber chicken for a pet …
… needs at least one real friend.
I’m his pet?! I thought he was mine.

Sometime around my 17th birthday, I had achieved my full growth with the usual bulges and ripples in the right places. Dad and I were alone together on the farm since my older brothers were married or at college. One day we were stacking bales of alfalfa hay. I was placing them from the truck on a long conveyer that carried them to where Dad was placing them in the right position on the haystack. The sound of the small motor drowned out any possibility of talk, so, lost in my own thoughts, I worked rapidly to finish the job. I was startled when Dad yelled. I looked up to see that I was sending bales of hay up to him faster than he could place them. After waving for me to stop, he sat down to rest. Dad pulled out a red bandana handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. At that moment I realized I was no longer a small child following my father’s footsteps in the snow. My father was more tired than I was.
I had never before realized that this was natural since I was 17 and he was 55. I was instead a bit shocked by the recognition that he was no longer going to be the person I compared myself to in order to see if I was doing all right. Truthfully, I felt a bit anxious as if I were suddenly without a leader and were on my own. As I sat looking at him, a wave of emotion passed through me. I could not understand all of it, but I knew something significant was taking place. He suddenly looked a bit older to me and more tired than I had been willing to notice.
As we began to work again, and I more slowly, my father seemed a bit less than he used to be. I felt a little disappointed and even resentful. Some fate had robbed me of a security I had as a child, but I gained an understanding that has been a wonderful part of my life. I understood that more than an unattainable example of manhood, my father was just a man. He was a mortal like me, and what he did I could someday do too. Knowing this was far better than trying to be like someone and never succeeding. My father became to me a real person who had feelings and ideas, strengths and weaknesses, hopes and dreams.
My disappointment was brief, and I began to view him differently, even feeling protective of him. As the days followed, I became more responsible in doing my chores and tried in many ways to be more helpful to him. I began to tell him more things about myself, and we became closer. Though he was by nature a reserved and quiet man, we became more openly affectionate with each other. We are not equals. I am better in some areas because of an advanced education he gave me. He is wiser because of his experience.

This time last year, I was sure that I had my summer figured out: after taking a few weeks of needed rest after the first year of my master’s degree, I would spend the summer months hiking with friends, being at home with my family, working as an intern for a landscape architect, and competing in a national flower show. Most certainly, it would involve me making the regular trip to the University of Nottingham to serve as a counsellor at For the Strength of Youth—an event that has become a summer staple for me, of a sort.
However, fast forward a few months, and my plans had changed entirely; with travel now prohibited and events cancelled or postponed, it was looking likely to be a very different summer. I’ll admit that it was initially hard not to feel disappointed, and I found myself wondering how this new normal would compare to what I had planned.
Enter the Rise and Reach programme, a summer initiative that brought together youth, young adults, and full-time missionaries across the UK as they participated in various online activities and performed acts of service. As part of this initiative, I was brought in as co-organiser and leader of a virtual choir, formally known as The Rising Generation Choir. I soon found that much of my summer was spent with other choir team members (a small group of five YSAs). We worked on arranging music, organising rehearsals, and creating promotional material to be distributed to wards and stakes across the country to encourage people to get involved.
Over just two months, the choir—now over 100 members strong—could rehearse, record, and perform multiple songs and group ensembles, which were broadcast during an evening of music through the Church’s primary social media channels in November. This feat—though incredible—was made more significant through the efforts and enthusiasm of those who participated.
Reflecting on those weeks, I can say that while it wasn’t the summer experience that I had initially wanted, the Lord had a perfect plan to give me the summer I never knew I needed: a summer of forming friendships, serving others, and strengthening testimony. Having the opportunity to participate in the Rise and Reach programme has strengthened my belief in the positive impact that service has in our lives; the Lord will bless and strengthen our efforts when we strive to do good.

I was called to be a General Authority twenty-five years ago and had no idea at first what I would be asked to do. I was assigned to hold a stake conference the very next weekend and went for advice to my former stake president, Elder Harold B. Lee, who was then a member of the Council of the Twelve Apostles. I asked him to tell me what to do. His answer both shocked and frightened me. He said, “Theodore, you are a General Authority now. No one tells a General Authority how to act in his special calling. If you have questions, ask the Lord and He will instruct you.” I had prayed before, never expecting a direct answer, but now I prayed soberly and with real intent.
The Lord did answer my prayers—not in ways I expected, but by speaking things into my mind. But that only happened after I had studied the problem and prepared myself to receive an answer. I have been startled by some of the things that have come to me. Scriptures I had not understood before suddenly were made meaningful. Answers I had previously passed over in reading the scriptures took on new significance. I have truly learned over these years line upon line and precept on precept. I have learned to follow living prophets as well as those prophets who have passed on. Of necessity I have learned to live by faith.

Once upon a time, after a long and grueling day traveling to and from Kingston, the capital city of Jamaica, I decided to take a moment to rest both my body and mind. I sat down by two young men. They were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They began to share the gospel of Jesus Christ with me with kindness and enthusiasm.
Their message was one of hope and love. They assured me that every person who has ever lived would have the chance to hear and receive the gospel. This idea deeply touched my heart, and I decided to learn more. The Spirit testified to me that their words were true, and I felt drawn to their teachings of Jesus Christ.
Three weeks later, I was baptized. Two weeks after my baptism, I was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. That moment began a new chapter in my life—one filled with purpose, faith, and growth.
Over the last 16 years, my journey has been one of miracles, challenges, soul-stretching experiences, and spiritual growth. Through it all, I have come to know, without a doubt, that I am never alone. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are always there, guiding, protecting, and providing for me. This knowledge gives me strength and peace, no matter what life brings.

A young boy and his parents are on the Brooklyn with other Latter-day Saints going to California in 1846. A storm so terrible that the captain of the ship told them to prepare to die was followed by being stuck under a blazing sun in the Doldrums. Finally a wind came up and blew the Brooklyn around Cape Horn—but it wouldn’t let them land in Chile! So they sailed 360 miles away from South America to an island where they got—for free—all the supplies needed to finish their voyage. Papa said that it was one of the times that God worked in a mysterious way to bless them.

I had a friend in my branch of the Church in Russia with whom I socialized at all Church activities. We had a lot in common, I had a lot of fun with him, and I was glad to have such a good friend.
But then something strange happened. For no reason that I could determine, he offended me badly. He did not ask for forgiveness, and I stopped associating with him. I did not even greet him on Sundays. That went on for two months. I was hurt and unhappy, but he said nothing.
Then I found out he was leaving our city. I didn’t think our relationship should stay the way it was; I thought we should reconcile. About then I remembered a scripture from the Book of Mormon: “Go thy way unto thy brother, and first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come unto me with full purpose of heart, and I will receive you” (3 Nephi 12:24).
It was difficult for me to humble myself and take the first step, but I prayed and then called him. I didn’t know what his reaction would be, and I was ready for the worst. What I heard shocked me.
He sincerely asked me for forgiveness, and I could tell by his voice that he had suffered a lot because of his action—just as I had. Most of all, I remember one sentence that he repeated three times: “Natal’ya, thanks for calling!”
I was so happy! He moved a short time later, but we separated the best of friends.
Learning to love and forgive each other is one of our most difficult tasks. Forgiveness—especially when we are not at fault—requires that we be humble and overcome our pride. I learned that taking the first step to forgive and reconcile is worth it.

Illustration by Mark Robison
Abby loved her house. But not the coat closet. She was afraid a monster would jump out of it. Abby always ran by it as fast as she could.
“Why do we even have a closet, Mommy?” Abby asked one day. “I don’t like being afraid.”
“Sometimes we’re afraid of what we can’t see,” Mommy said. “You can’t see what’s behind the door. Maybe that’s what scares you.”
“I always think there might be monsters,” Abby said.
“I promise there are no monsters. But you could say a prayer to Heavenly Father and ask Him to help you not feel scared,” Mommy said.
“OK,” Abby said.
The next day Abby was playing in her room. Mommy called her to come eat. Abby jumped up. Dinner smelled really good.
She started down the hall. Then she saw the coat closet waiting at the end.
Abby’s tummy felt tight. She thought about what might be hiding behind the closet door. She wanted to run. Then she thought about what Mommy had said. Abby stopped walking. She folded her arms.
“Please help me to not be so afraid,” Annie prayed.
Abby took two slow steps. She didn’t feel afraid any more! She felt warm and safe. She felt like she did when Mommy gave her a hug.
This time Abby didn’t run past the closet. She stopped right in front of it. She reached out. She touched the handle. Her tummy got tight for a few seconds, but then she remembered her happy feeling. She turned the knob and pulled the door open.
Abby laughed. “Hey! There aren’t any monsters in here. Just a bunch of coats.”
She folded her arms again. She bowed her head. “Heavenly Father, thank you for helping me not be afraid.”
Abby smiled and closed the closet door. She was hungry!

I was walking with my missionary companion down a shaded residential street near the University of Antioquia in Medellín, Colombia. Having had my fair share of challenges in that city, I braced for the worst when a young man stepped away from a group of college students and called out to us. We stood motionless as he ran up to us.
“Let me see that book!” he demanded, pointing to the Book of Mormon in my hand.
I held it up, showing him the cover, which featured a golden statue of the angel Moroni against a blue background. “It’s yours if you want it,” I said nervously.
He took it.
His next question unnerved us entirely: “I know you guys. Where did you get this book?”
My companion had been in the mission field only three days, so I gathered courage and answered the young man’s question as forthrightly as I could. When I finished he was in tears.
“I’ve seen this book before,” he said. “I’ve seen you guys before. But it was seven years ago in a dream.”
He began to tell us about his dream. “I saw a simple blue book, paperback, with a golden figure on the cover. The man was wearing a robe and blowing what appeared to be some sort of trumpet.”
But it was the feeling that he remembered best. He’d had an overpowering impression that the book was important, essential, and true. He had never seen the book again until he saw it in my hands there on the street.
We soon began to teach Juan Guillermo Mejía the discussions. To each principle, he responded that he “already knew that” and that we were just confirming what he had learned long ago. He finished reading the Book of Mormon that week and was baptized on Saturday.
When I completed my mission months later, he was the elders quorum president in his branch. After seven years, the book of his dreams had changed his life.

A few years ago, at a family gathering, my then-eight-year-old nephew William asked our oldest son, Briton, if he would like to play ball with him. Briton enthusiastically responded, “Yes! I would love to!” After they had been playing for quite some time, a ball got away from Briton, and he accidentally broke one of his grandparents’ antique pots.
Briton felt awful. As he began picking up the broken pieces, William walked over to his cousin and lovingly patted him on the back. He then comforted, “Don’t worry, Briton. I broke something at Grandma and Grandpa’s house once, and Grandma put her arm around me and said, ‘It’s OK, William. You are only five.’”
To which Briton responded, “But, William, I’m 23!”

A friend and I were riding our bikes when I had a feeling that I should turn a certain way. Instead, I went a different way. I hit a bump, fell off my bike, hit my knee on the pavement, and had to get stitches. It really hurt.
I am not a member of the Church, and I didn’t know that the Holy Ghost was trying to warn me. Now I know about the Holy Ghost and I want to listen to His voice from now on. It is a voice I can trust to help me choose the right all my life.Carleen B. P., age 10, Alberta, Canada

But Church growth highlighted a challenge: a lack of experience by the members. This challenge, however, had a positive outcome: it required increased faith and spiritual guidance among the members. For instance, in November 1992 a stake was organized in Uruguaiana, on the western side of Brazil, far from established stakes of the Church. When a faithful and longtime member of the Church, José Candido Ferreira dos Santos, was called as the patriarch of the newly created stake, he was concerned. He explained to the General Authority: “I can’t be a patriarch. I have no idea what one is. I don’t recall ever meeting a patriarch and do not have my patriarchal blessing.” The General Authority suggested a solution. In the neighboring city of Alegrete, a new patriarch, Ruí Antônio Dávila, had also recently been called and was in a similar situation. The two patriarchs needed to give each other patriarchal blessings.
As Brother Santos was receiving his blessing from Brother Dávila, he was surprised as he heard blessings pronounced relating to his past and his personal desires that the patriarch had no way of knowing. When Brother Santos in turn pronounced a blessing on the head of Brother Dávila, again tears flowed as the same experience occurred. The two men embraced afterwards with a deep understanding of what had just happened.4 Just as the Spirit inspired them to give their first patriarchal blessings, the Spirit inspired them as they gave hundreds more. The Lord provided many such spiritual blessings in a country where Church experience was limited.

After my wife, Jean, and I were baptized on 27 October 1957, we did not start paying tithing right away as we should have. I thought we had too many debts and too little money. I should have known that we could not afford not to pay it.
When a year passed, we were expecting our third child. We had just purchased a new house and also had several more debts. About this time, my wife said, “We need to pay our tithing.” I did not know how we could because we had no money left after our expenses, but I said, “We will do it.” And we did.
We had already moved into our new house, but the loan had not yet closed because the street and the driveway were not finished. It soon began to rain and rain and rain some more. As a result, the work on the street and driveway was delayed. The loan did not close, so we had no house payments.
By the time the work was finally completed, the mortgage company had lost the loan papers and seemed in no hurry to find them. When the papers were finally found, we had lived in our house for six or seven months without making a single payment. We were able to get ahead on some of our other payments during this time.
Things have not always been financially easy for us, but we have never stopped paying our tithing. We call this experience a blessing from heaven.
Henry Hardnock, Midland Second Ward, Odessa Texas Stake

Ten years had passed since I had been baptized into the Church, but I had been less active for about nine of them. During that time I had married and now had a seven-year-old daughter. My mother and siblings were living with us when a friend reintroduced them to the Church, and the missionaries started coming to our home. I had a testimony of Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, but the knowledge I had acquired of the Church had melted away.
My husband became friends with the elders and, almost without knowing it, started taking the discussions. Each discussion took about a week; it was hard for him to accept the divinity of Jesus Christ. Nine months after being taught the first discussion, my husband felt he was not receiving answers to his prayers.
One morning when the missionaries came to pray with me for my husband, I felt impressed that I needed to help him recognize the influence of the Holy Ghost. The missionaries had given us a family home evening manual, and the next Monday I sat down with my husband and daughter and began my first family home evening by giving a lesson on the Holy Ghost. My husband listened in silence as he pondered the subject. The influence of the Spirit was very strong that night, and I could feel the Holy Ghost confirming the truthfulness of the Church, something I had not felt for a long time. The next day my husband bore his testimony to me and told me that the Spirit had borne witness to him and he had recognized it. That night we lit in our hearts a fire that was eternal and inextinguishable.
One week later my husband was baptized, and one year later we were sealed in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. We feel that sacrament meeting is the most important meeting we go to, and next in line is family home evening.
Elizabeth Duce de Mernies, Lezica Ward, Montevideo Uruguay North Stake