Gospel Story Finder

Let me cite an example of the overuse and misuse of prescription drugs and other remedies commonly found in the home. This shows how substances many of us do not consider drugs can seriously interfere with the management of an illness. A hospitalized patient with Parkinson’s disease was carefully medicated with a relatively new drug for this disorder called Levodopa. He responded beautifully; his muscle rigidity was decreased, muscle movement improved, and even the tremors characteristic of this disease were minimal. After his drug dosage was carefully adjusted, he returned home. As the fall season approached, he decided he needed building up, so he purchased a multiple vitamin product from the local drug store. Shortly thereafter the muscle rigidity worsened, muscle movement was more limited, and the tremors returned; he was taken back to the hospital. What happened? The multiple vitamin product he had purchased contained vitamin B6 (pyridoxine), which had increased the metabolism of the Levodopa and reduced its concentration in the blood below that required to control the symptoms of his disease. Consequently he had a relapse and the symptoms of the disease returned. This illustrates how somewhat innocently one can disrupt a carefully planned treatment regimen by the use of another drug.

As an 11-year-old, Victor Penafiel was playing at a train station in Colombia near his home. School was out, and he decided to jump on a train. The train operators told him to get off, but when they weren’t looking, he jumped on again. Two more times they caught him and told him to get off. It was God’s way of warning him to get off the train, he recalled.
When the train started with a jerk, he lost his balance and fell with his legs under the train. His automatic reaction to the intense pain was to reach down with his left arm. Victor lost both legs at the hip and his arm just below the elbow.
He was rushed to a small hospital nearby because he wouldn’t have arrived alive if they had tried to reach a larger but more distant hospital. He needed a blood transfusion, but blood supplies were scarce. A petition went out to a nearby naval base for someone to donate blood.
“They asked for 1, and 11 came,” Victor recalled, noting that all 11 blood donors had his blood type.
The doctors treated him, and despite losing three limbs, he miraculously survived.
“Ever since, my life has been a series of miracles,” Victor said. “I’m certain the Lord works miracles.”
Victor has lived his life maneuvering in a wheelchair without allowing his disability to limit his faith. More than 30 years after the accident, another series of small miracles that began several years ago brought him an opportunity to walk, but with a very different outcome than expected.
The first steps on the road to walking again actually took place in the water.
At 23 years old, Victor Penafiel watched others swim while he clung to a corner of the pool. His friend, Arturo Espinoza, saw his desire to swim and offered to teach him. But Victor had a great fear of water. Even before his accident, he didn’t know how to swim. Swimming wouldn’t be easy, especially with only one arm. After a year of struggling with Victor’s fear, Arturo guided Victor into the middle of the pool and removed the life vest he wore during lessons.
“Let’s see how you get out of this,” Arturo said, leaving him there.
Victor got out of it, and the challenge helped him see he could swim. After that, Victor never used a life vest. Now he loves swimming, he said, because when he is in the water, he feels free.
About 10 years later, Victor entered a competition where he swam about three miles (5 km) across the Guayas River in Ecuador. The current was strong, the water dirty and cold. He was the only disabled competitor among some 120 swimmers, he said. He made it across the river while many of his competitors weren’t able to complete the race. He finished 3rd in his age group and 15th overall.
Victor and his story are well known in his home city, Guayaquil, Ecuador, and he has served as an inspiration to many. He said it’s important to take advantage of every moment in life to help others. “Part of our happiness depends on our helping others to be happy,” he said.
His wife, Mercedes, said once they were invited to appear on television in Quito, Ecuador. During the trip home, a woman stopped them and thanked them. Her son had lost his leg, and Victor’s story had motivated him. The boy had said, “If he can, why can’t I?”
Once he accompanied the missionaries to teach an investigator. “Is he a member of your Church?” the investigator asked upon seeing Victor. The missionaries responded affirmatively, and the investigator said, “Well, if he’s a member, baptize me now.”
“It’s because of his example and the way he lives his religion,” said Sister Ann Long, who served with her husband, Clyne, as missionaries in Ecuador at a Church employment resources center.
Unemployed people came to the center, and after watching a recorded news story about Victor, they often were motivated to successfully search for and obtain employment.
“They said, ‘We don’t have any excuse,’” recalled Sister Long.
On the last day of their mission, the Longs, having not yet met Victor in person, wanted to find and thank him for his help. They found him working in the temple. They wanted to do something to help this man who has helped so many others. After returning home, they began making plans to help Victor receive prosthetic legs.
The Longs found a company in the United States willing to donate prosthetics, but when Brother and Sister Penafiel arrived in Utah in June 2006, they discovered that because of a miscommunication, prosthetic feet had been donated but not legs. Because their visas would soon expire, Victor and Mercedes had until July 24 to raise the necessary money for the legs.
Media organizations in Utah did news reports on Victor, and a donation fund was set up. Donations both small and large began coming in. “It was something that was beyond our comprehension. God helped us understand in that instant His love and His power,” Victor said.
With the donations, enough money was raised for the prosthetic legs. Victor looked forward to the long-anticipated ability to again “walk, walk, walk.” On July 13, 2006, Victor took his first steps in more than 30 years as he began the physical therapy process.
However, the prosthetic legs caused excruciating pain. After being unable to adjust to them, he visited another specialist. The pain resulted from a nerve problem that would likely worsen if he continued using the prosthetics and that doctors recommended against trying to repair surgically.
Victor was sad that he would have to give up his new legs, but in typical Victor fashion, he turned the experience into something positive, expressing thanks that the doctors discovered the nerve problem.
Then Victor donated his prosthetic legs—and with them his dream to “walk, walk, walk”—to the company that provided them, so that they can be donated to people in Haiti.
“At least they’ll help someone,” said Victor. “Not just one person, but two. They’ll be a great help. That’s how I see it.” Instead, Victor received a motorized wheelchair.
“I don’t know why all of this happened,” he said. “But I know it wasn’t a surprise to the Lord. We don’t always comprehend how He works. But he manifests His powers in many ways. I know He knew about this nerve problem before I came, even though I didn’t. Yet, He brought me here. Now we have to wait to see why He brought this all to pass. He knows. For that I feel fine. Because I know He knows what he’s doing.
“To lose a finger or hand, an arm, a leg is a difficult situation, but while there’s life, there are reasons to be happy,” Victor said. “And if God is in our life, it’ll be much better.”

A knock on the door startled the Thomas family. Who could be out on a night like this, with the snow falling in great sheets and lying deep on the ground? Mary Ann’s father hurried to the door but stopped long enough to lift his rifle from its pegs.

A man clothed in a shabby, thin, black coat stood in the doorway, holding two books under his arm. “Hello,” he said. “Would it be possible for a stranger to find a place to stay here this night?”

Her father regarded the man carefully. Many wicked men traveled the frontier of Canada, hoping to rob innocent families. “Who might you be?” he asked at last.

The man smiled, and Mary Ann and her older brother, Nathan, crept closer for a better look. Mary Ann stared at his feet.

“My name’s Brother James Reed—I’m just a harmless stranger traveling in your parts,” the man said cheerfully.

Her father kept a ready hand on the rifle. “Why?”

“I’ve come to tell all who will listen about a new religion that teaches the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.”

Mary Ann could see her father tighten his grip on the rifle. “I’ve no need for a new religion, thank you,” he said.

He was putting his hand on the door to close it, when Mary Ann hurried to her mother’s side and whispered, “Mother, look at his feet! They’re bleeding!”

“Wait,” Mother called, moving closer to the door. She looked out at the tracks of blood in the snow. Then stepping forward, she pushed the rifle away. “Brother Reed, I’m a good Christian woman, and I’ll turn no man away from my door on a night like this with feet in that condition.”

Upon noticing the man’s worn boots, Father invited the man inside. “Come in. Evil men rarely tramp around with bleeding feet. You can spend the night.” He stabbed a finger at the man. “Then you must be on your way. I have little time for preachers.”

Carefully Mary Ann helped the man remove the boots from his feet. He wasn’t wearing any socks! Mother came forward with a basin of warm water. Gratefully he lowered them into it.

“I do appreciate this,” he said. “I’ve been turned away from five homes this day. May the good Lord bless you for your care of one of His poor servants.”

Father sat by the fire, rubbing his rifle with an oily rag. “It seems to me that if the good Lord wanted you to spread His message, He wouldn’t send you out on a night like this, dressed as you are.”

Nathan spoke up. “Father, remember what Parson Grimes read in church Sunday?” He went to the chest under the window and took out the family’s Bible. Opening it, he leafed through it. “Here it is, in Luke 9:3. The Savior is talking to His Apostles: ‘And he said unto them, Take nothing for your journey, neither staves, nor scrip, neither bread, neither money; neither have two coats apiece.’ “

Mary Ann whispered to her brother. “What does scrip mean?”

“It’s a bag to carry food in,” Brother Reed whispered back. Chuckling, he lifted his toes from the water and wiggled them. “The scripture doesn’t mention socks, but I don’t have that, either!”

Mary Ann thought she caught a smile on her father’s face before it disappeared. But he said brusquely, “Do you claim to be an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ?”

“No sir. I’m just one of His humble servants. But there is one traveling with me in this part of Canada. His name is Brigham Young. I can tell you without a doubt in my heart that he’s an Apostle, called by a prophet to testify of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Suddenly a warm feeling entered everyone in the small log home. Mary Ann felt a deep wonder inside. Could this really be true? Could there be an Apostle here in the wilderness of Canada?

Mother replaced the Bible in the chest. Then she pulled a pair of hand-knit stockings from it. Mary Ann cringed when she saw the knotty socks—the very first pair she had knitted. When Mother handed them to Brother Reed, he put them gratefully on his now-dry feet. “God bless whoever knitted these.” His eyes twinkling, he turned to Mary Ann. “Was it you?”

She nodded and ducked her red face.

He sighed with contentment. “Never have my feet felt better. Thank you, dear sister.”

Mary Ann lifted her face and saw the truly grateful look in his eyes.

Mother asked, “Is this Apostle of Jesus Christ, this …”

“Brigham Young.”

“Is he in as much need as you are?”

“We travel just as the Lord advised in the New Testament. Brother Brigham has as little as I. Wherever we go, people who listen to the message of our Savior and help us are blessed. In Matthew 25:40, [Matt. 25:40] it says, ‘Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”

Mother sighed, “Then let’s hope that he found shelter tonight.” She went to the fireplace. “Now I’m going to feed you a good meal while you tell us about your new religion. How is it different?”

“The gospel has been restored. God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ appeared to a boy They have chosen to be a prophet on earth today.”

Picking up her baby sister, Anna, Mary Ann moved closer to listen to the stranger. “You mean a prophet like Moses and Abraham?” She asked in awe.

Brother Reed smiled at her. “Yes. His name is Joseph Smith. They told him to start a new church. It was to be just like the one the Savior organized when He lived on earth.”

Father continued to rub the rifle with the oily cloth. “So you claim to have prophets and Apostles?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All as poor as you?”

“Yes, sir. But remember the Savior Himself chose fishermen instead of rich men for His Apostles. Brigham Young worked at building houses before his call.”

Nathan moved closer. “What are those books you carry?”

“One’s the Bible—just like yours. The other is the Book of Mormon, a sacred book Joseph Smith translated from ancient writings given to him by an angel. It tells of Christ’s visit to the people here in the Americas.”

“May I look at that book?” Father asked.

Brother Reed handed the book to Mary Ann. “Would you take this to your father?”

As she carried the book, she felt a special reverence for it.

“Just read where it’s marked,” Brother Reed said.

Father read aloud Moroni’s promise. Then he closed the book. “It looks like your feet are going to need some time to heal,” he said gruffly. “And I want to study this book. If after I read it, I find that you’re a liar, then you’ll be out on your ear. If it’s true, we’ll listen to all that you have to tell us. And you’ll be welcome to stay as long as you will.”

“Fair enough,” Brother Reed said with a smile. Gratefully he wrapped himself in the blankets Mary Ann provided, and lay down by the fire to sleep while Father read into the night.

Around the turn of the previous century, two missionaries were laboring in the mountains of the southern United States. One day, from a hilltop, they saw people gathering in a clearing far below. The missionaries did not often have many people to whom they might preach, so they made their way down to the clearing.
A little boy had drowned, and there was to be a funeral. His parents had sent for the minister to “say words” over their son. The missionaries stood back as the itinerant minister faced the grieving father and mother and began his sermon. If the parents expected to receive comfort from this man of the cloth, they would be disappointed.
He scolded them severely for not having had the little boy baptized. They had put it off because of one thing or another, and now it was too late. He told them very bluntly that their little boy had gone to hell. It was their fault. They were to blame for his endless torment.
After the sermon was over and the grave was covered, the elders approached the grieving parents. “We are servants of the Lord,” they told the mother, “and we have come with a message for you.” As the sobbing parents listened, the two elders read from the revelations and bore their testimony of the restoration of the keys for the redemption of both the living and the dead.
I have some sympathy for that preacher. He was doing the best he could with such light and knowledge as he had. But there is more that he should have been able to offer. There is the fulness of the gospel.
The elders came as comforters, as teachers, as servants of the Lord, as authorized ministers of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

I had just turned 14 and my bishop had invited me to enroll in seminary. By a stroke of severe timing, my bishop’s invitation came right when I was embarking on a system of scholarly torture known as the General Certificate of Secondary Education. In England (I live in Manchester), we refer to it as the GCSEs. So here was the bishop inviting me to seminary while the never-ending storm of exams, homework, mock exams, projects, tests, and experiments that are the GCSEs were just beginning.
Consequently, apathetic would be the best word to describe my approach to seminary. There was the initial excitement of studying in the same class as my big brother, but that quickly wore off. It wasn’t until I decided to find out about the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon that I began to appreciate what seminary could do for me.
When I began the course, we had been taught that Moroni 10:4 [Moro. 10:4] was our key scripture for the year. I had marked that scripture in red and green, and I had felt prompted to pray to Heavenly Father and ask for a special witness concerning the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon.
As I knelt by my bed to talk with my Father in Heaven, I realized I had not prepared myself very well. I remembered the passage in the Doctrine and Covenants when the Lord told Oliver Cowdery that he “took no thought save it was to ask me” (D&C 9:7). I knew I was doing the same thing, and when I prayed to Heavenly Father I felt nothing different except a feeling that I was right to ask. But I didn’t feel like I’d received an answer to my prayer. I knew I had to do all that the Lord asked of me before I was to find out whether the Book of Mormon was a book of scripture or just a very clever novel.
Then one night I was alone in the house when my answer came. My homework was already completed, and usually such times are a welcome opportunity to veg out in front of the TV or get stuck in another science-fiction book. But that night I felt like doing neither.
On impulse, I went upstairs to my room and brought down my new brown triple combination. I sat in the living room and searched for the final chapters of Nephi’s life in 2 Nephi.
Somehow I felt that these were important chapters, so I said a short and simple prayer before I began to study, asking that the Spirit be with me. I had often asked for the same thing when I would pray before seminary lessons, yet this time my request seemed to mean more. I felt I needed to feel these words as I read them, so I began to read the scriptures out loud to myself.
As I read one chapter, then another, I began to feel as if I could actually hear Nephi himself saying those things to his people. As I read of his love for his people, I could feel the words of a prophet crying out, each sentence filled with the anguished cries of a loving man who had served God all his life. I read through chapter 32 [2 Ne. 32], spellbound by the words of a man who was suddenly becoming so real to me. The things he said were so beautiful and right. When I turned the page and began to read chapter 33 [2 Ne. 33], my empathy for this man overflowed. I could not contain my tears as I read how this prophet cried day and night for his people, and so I cried with him—desperately aware that those words were the last written in the Book of Mormon by such a great man.
I finished the final testimony of Nephi with a clogged throat and bleary eyes. Yet inside I felt on fire, alive with a knowledge that had settled in my heart. Nephi was a prophet of God, a real man, with a real life.
Many weeks after I had first prayed to know if those words were God’s words, I had fulfilled my end of Moroni’s promise and received a testimony that I hope will stay with me forever.

“So what about our rowing team—is it history?” the upperclassman was passionate as he put the question, obviously a rhetorical one, to the first-year students. “No way! It’s a tradition!”
I was one of those new students beginning medical school at the University of São Paulo, which had long been famous for its victories in rowing competitions. Team members had asked our professor for a few minutes to recruit for the team. We would be replacing those who had graduated.
As a result of the enthusiastic pitch, about 30 of us decided to try out. None of us had any rowing experience. We were all out of shape, as our coach constantly reminded us. He had been in the military and made no effort to hide his disgust at our sorry physical condition. He had lots of jokes, too, about the irony of poor muscle tone in students of medicine.
Training was grueling—held at 5:00 A.M., six days a week. We had to set our alarms for 4:15 to catch the bus to the training area. The less disciplined did not show up for long. Those of us who stayed noted that the coach gave all his attention to the team veterans. Meanwhile, we recruits were ordered to run around the campus perimeter.
The University of São Paulo campus covers a large area, so the run was about 6 miles (10 kilometers) and required enormous effort from men in our condition. We were exhausted when we finished, and the coach ordered us to the showers without comment.
This routine continued for several weeks. In time, a few ingenious souls discovered that they could cut their running time by taking a shortcut. Instead of making a full circle around campus, they detoured through the woods. Of course, they thought themselves very clever when they beat us to the showers. They even gave their shortcut a name: the easy return.
In time, the coach announced that he was ready to name those who would join the official team. To their surprise, not one of the men who took the easy return was selected. I still don’t know how the coach knew.
Each of us has a race to run in life. The course may become difficult at times, but we have a Coach who knows us well. He has promised us, “He that is faithful and endureth shall overcome the world” (D&C 63:47). Some people may seem to profit by breaking the rules, but in reality, no effort to keep the commandments will go unrewarded.
I always feel grateful when I think back to the rowing team. I still have the gold medal I was awarded for our victories. But more importantly, I have the determination I developed then never to take the easy return.

Then there is the remembered Christmas tale by O. Henry about a young husband and wife who lived in abject poverty yet who wanted to give one another a special gift. But they had nothing to give. Then the husband had a ray of inspiration: he would provide his dear wife a beautiful ornamental comb to adorn her magnificent long hair. The wife also received an idea: she would obtain a lovely chain for her husband’s prized watch, which he valued so highly.

Christmas day came; the treasured gifts were exchanged. Then the surprise ending, so typical of O. Henry’s short stories: the wife had shorn her long hair and sold it to obtain funds to purchase the watch chain, only to discover that her husband had sold his watch so that he might purchase the comb to adorn her beautiful long hair, which now she did not have.

Illustration by Joshua Dennis
After seven years of hoping and waiting for children, my husband and I were finally blessed with a daughter. Alicie was the light of our lives, but she lived for only five months before dying of pneumonia.
That was the hardest experience of my life. Every day I would come home from work and sit and cry. My in-laws often sat with me to give me strength. I kept praying for another child, but none came. I was lost in sadness.
My in-laws started encouraging my husband and me to travel to the Suva Fiji Temple to be sealed. We had never been to the temple, and we decided that this was the best way for us to find hope and healing.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I felt that day! I knew that my husband and I would be sealed together for eternity. This knowledge filled me with gratitude and love. But I hadn’t understood that this sacred ordinance was much bigger than the two of us.
At the temple, I learned that Alicie could be sealed to us. I cried tears of joy as I came to know this sacred doctrine. Our daughter would be ours for all eternity! I testify that God has provided everything we need for happiness in His holy house.
In the years since, my husband and I have been blessed with a son and three adopted children. Yet we can never forget Alicie. Because of the ordinances of the temple, our daughter is a part of our family forever.
When I meet someone who has lost a child, I feel their pain with them. But I also know that this pain is not the end. Through losing Alicie, as well as experiencing other trials, I know that God is there for me. When I get discouraged or complain about things, I know that God is always there.
I know I will see Alicie again, and that truth continues to fill my husband and me with deep joy.

“One of many little romances—the night before we left, my true lover, Henry Ridgley, came to bid me farewell, and under our trysting tree (a big tree close by) we each vowed eternal constancy—for four years at least. At the end of that time he would be of age, and then he would come to claim me for his own, even if I was at the end of the earth. Well, he did come to see me, but it was forty years after instead of four years. He had a wife and three children. I had a husband and was the mother of thirteen children. …”

In 1972 my husband, Giuseppe, and I—both originally from Italy—decided to immigrate with our young family to Australia. At that time we knew nothing of the difficult but wonderful spiritual journey still ahead.
As our three children began to grow up, I became concerned about their religious education. I had been reared in Italy’s dominant religion, and I was familiar with a number of others. But I didn’t feel any of them were right for my children.
One sunny day in 1980, I took the children to the park. As I sat under a tree watching them play, I began to think once again about which religion to teach them. I looked up into the sky and uttered a brief, sincere prayer. “Father in Heaven,” I said, “I am so confused about all these religions. I want to teach my children the truth. If the true Church is on this earth, I ask Thee to help me find it.”
Two days later I was talking to a neighbor when I saw two young missionaries walking down the street. My heart beat hard, and I heard a voice inside me say, Call those missionaries. My neighbor tried to dissuade me, but the voice was insistent: Talk to them. So I did.
I discovered that they belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Something about them impressed me, and although I didn’t speak English well and they didn’t speak Italian, I invited them to my home.
The missionaries told us that the true Church had been restored and that it had a prophet and apostles, just as in Christ’s Church anciently. They told us about the Prophet Joseph Smith, about how he saw Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and organized the Church under divine authority. It all made perfect sense to me, and a wonderful spirit enveloped us. I felt that Heavenly Father was answering my prayer.
The missionaries began visiting us. When they had finished the discussions, they asked if we wanted to be baptized. I was excited about being baptized, but Giuseppe was not as sure. Nevertheless, he and I and the two oldest children became members of the Church.
One week later some of my husband’s friends had a long talk with him. They got him to drink alcohol, and they said a lot of negative things against the Church. He came home angry and told me he didn’t want to have anything to do with the Church. He said the children could not go to services, and if I went by myself, he would not let me in when I came home.
I felt very confused. I went into the bedroom and curled up on the bed. I thought about everything my husband had said. Then I prayed and asked Heavenly Father to help me.
I soon fell asleep and had a beautiful dream. In my dream, I was with a large group of people. Half were on the left, and half were on the right. In the middle was a figure in white with two missionaries. The missionaries were wearing name tags that read, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They began walking toward me, and I knew that I was not to worry, that I had made the right decision.
I woke up crying, but I felt great peace and joy. I tried to tell my husband about the dream, but he didn’t want to hear anything about it. I was more convinced than ever that I had found the true Church.
I also knew the Lord would not forsake me. So when Sunday came, I gathered my courage and went to church with the children. When we returned home, we found the house locked and all our belongings outside. I was worried for the children’s sake, but I also felt we were being protected. I checked all the windows and found one that wasn’t locked. My son Luciano crawled in and opened the front door, and we took our belongings back in. From that day on, my husband and I had many arguments about the Church. In spite of this difficulty, my children and I continued to be fully active.
Two decades have now passed since we joined the Church, and we have been blessed in many ways. Two more children were born into our family. The year 1996 was especially wonderful. Luciano went on a mission to Italy, and our eldest grandson was baptized. And if that was not enough, Heavenly Father touched my husband’s heart concerning the Church. In December 1999 our family was sealed in the Sydney Australia Temple.
I have learned that Heavenly Father does hear our prayers. I also know that if we have faith in Christ and are determined to grow spiritually, we will, in time, receive all the righteous desires of our hearts, whether in this life or the next.

Some years ago I was appointed chairman of the board of a music school in the city of Hanau, Germany. As part of my duties, I attended an exhibit of musical instruments. Although I am not a musician, I strolled through the thousands of instruments and tried to ask an intelligent question or two.
As I wandered around the main floor, I noted that each exhibit had a soundproof enclosure, supposedly so that those trying out trumpets, cornets, French horns, organs, drums, or tubas would not disturb those trying out violins, clarinets, pianos, flutes, oboes, or saxophones. Actually, “not quite soundproof” would be a more accurate description of those enclosures. A terrible noise filled the air, as if musicians from several orchestras were all tuning their instruments at once.
Then I saw a sign reading “Orchestral Instruments” with an arrow pointing upstairs. I’m saved, I thought, even though the sign was a bit unclear—the instruments on the main floor were orchestral instruments. But I headed up the stairs anyway, hoping to find a little peace and quiet.
Instead I found myself in another large room filled with even more musical instruments—most of them used for performing rock music. The air was filled with much louder and shriller noises than those I was trying to escape. I quickly scanned the room for the closest exit.
But suddenly I stopped. For just a fraction of a second, I thought I heard a beautiful melody among all those discordant sounds. Was it possible? Or was it an illusion?
Then I heard the melody again. What an unmistakably beautiful sound! It was definitely a strain of violin music—almost lost in the ocean of noise. I looked around to see where it was coming from. I noticed that two others had heard it as well and were also seeking it out.
Eventually, we found what we were looking for. In the smallest booth in the hall, a man was softly playing a beautiful violin while his wife stood nearby. He told us that he was a Swedish violin maker and that he was trying to market his product the best he could amid the electric guitars and synthesizers.
“I was deceived,” he told us sadly. “I rented this spot because it was supposed to be the site of the orchestral exhibits.” Then he turned again to his violin, and we listened entranced as he played a familiar masterpiece. We no longer heard the discord around us—just the beautiful notes of that violin.
Some time later, while standing in an overcrowded room with too many intermingling voices, I was once again forced to choose what I would listen to among many discordant sounds. This time I didn’t hear beautiful music, but I was struck with the thought that often in life we are surrounded by many voices, some of which advocate false ideas, such as “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die” (2 Ne. 28:7). Still other voices are loud and raucous, brazenly tempting us to try something new—such as a new morality that simply turns out to be the old immorality.
But even among these loud, conflicting messages, if we choose to listen carefully, we can hear the soft sound of a heavenly voice. And we can know that the still, small voice of the Spirit is just as real as the beautiful melody of a well-played violin.

Mission preparation should definitely include learning about the gospel, but you don’t have to know everything before you go. For example, as a young man, Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles was worried he wasn’t prepared to serve a mission. He said, “I remember praying, ‘Heavenly Father, how can I serve a mission when I know so little?’ I believed in the Church, but I felt my spiritual knowledge was very limited. As I prayed, the feeling came: ‘You don’t know everything, but you know enough!’”1

When I was called to be a Primary teacher, I felt unhappy and a hard, swollen lump formed in my throat. A convert of only a few short months, I had looked forward to holding a Church position. But teaching in the Primary? There were countless other Church positions far more attractive to a first year college student. What could have inspired that calling? I accepted with pretended enthusiasm.
As I was awaiting my turn to be set apart, I silently asked my Father in Heaven to somehow help me understand. The words of the blessing gave me the answer—and the Spirit bore witness to them: “You have been called to teach in the Primary so that you may learn the plain and simple truths that you were unable to learn as a child, because you were not a member of the Lord’s Church …”
As the pride and doubt in my heart dissolved, a feeling of love encircled me—love for my Heavenly Father and for the children he had entrusted to my care. I would never again doubt his infinite wisdom and love for me.

In October 2008 I listened to the conference talk by Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin (1917–2008) about being able to laugh when things go wrong. I don’t really want to do that because I feel embarrassed when I make a mistake. However, one day while at school, our class was asked to dance during the P.E. lesson. I started dancing cheerfully, but then guess what happened? I tripped! I remembered Elder Wirthlin’s advice, and I laughed.

In this historic Tabernacle, now more than 100 years old, Christmas colors and traditional decorations take us ever so gently back in memory’s treasure to a pioneer scene recorded in the diary of Mrs. Rebecca Riter, December 25, 1847, Great Salt Lake Valley: “The winter was cold. Christmas came and the children were hungry. I had brought a peck of wheat across the plains and hid it under a pile of wood. I thought I would cook a handful of wheat for the baby. Then I thought how we would need wheat for seed in the spring, so I left it alone.”

Shortly after I joined the Church, a Relief Society leader was joking about funny situations. Suddenly she started joking about me in front of everybody. I felt uncomfortable and let myself be offended.
My first thought was not to return to the ward. I opened my scriptures, trying to find comfort. As I read, I came across a verse where Jesus asked those offended by His teachings, “Will ye also go away?” (John 6:67).
Immediately, I answered in mind, “No, I will not go away!”
I called the Relief Society president, who recommended that I call the sister who had joked about me. I called her and expressed my feelings. We concluded that a sense of humor is great but that we shouldn’t joke about someone we don’t know in front of a group of people. We also talked about being sensitive to new ward members.
I continued attending that ward while I lived in that city. I had many wonderful experiences following my conversion to the gospel.

On Sunday I noticed that the building his church met in was clean and beautiful. I felt something different there. I was met by a person who shook my hand and even put his arm around me, telling me he was happy to see me. I felt good, even though I was a bit shy and nervous. This brother took me to a class for investigators.
After the lesson two young women introduced themselves as full-time missionaries. They asked if they could visit me at my home. I quickly told them I was busy and started giving them excuses. But they still asked me to tell them when I was available, and I responded that I was available early Monday morning. I said they could come but only if they wanted to come at 4:00 A.M.
To my surprise, they looked at each other and said, “Brother Solomon, we will be there.” Then I insisted that it was hard to reach my family’s house, that it was located in the middle of a fishpond, that we had a lot of dogs. I told them they would have a hard time getting there. But they said again, “Brother Solomon, we will be there.” After I left, I forgot all about our appointment because I didn’t believe they would be coming.
Early Monday morning I was surprised to hear the dogs barking and a voice calling, “Brother Solomon! Brother Solomon!” I looked out the window, and I started to feel differently about the missionaries. I felt a confirmation that they were true servants of God. I invited them in and listened to their message. After a while I told them to come every day with a lesson, which they did. They taught me until I was prepared for baptism.

Each of us must at times courageously and firmly stand up for what we are and what we believe. When President Joseph F. Smith was a young man, he was faced with this predicament:
“One morning when he and several other missionaries were returning to Salt Lake City, a group of rough Mormon-haters rode up on horses, firing their guns and cursing.
“The leader jumped off his horse and shouted, ‘We will kill anyone who is a Mormon!’ The other missionaries had fled into the woods, but Joseph F. bravely stood his ground. The man shoved a gun in Joseph F.’s face and asked, ‘Are you a Mormon?’
“Joseph F. stood tall and said, ‘Yes siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through!’
“The man was surprised at his reply. He put the gun away, shook Joseph’s hand, and said, ‘Well, you are the pleasantest man I ever met! I’m glad to see a fellow stand up for his convictions.’ He jumped back on his horse and rode off with his companions.”

As I settled into my seat on the airplane, I noticed that the young man beside me had a Brigham Young University emblem on his jacket. I recognized the name as belonging to “one of those religious schools.”

Although I had been active in churches all of my life, it had only been recently that I had the time or felt the inclination to learn for myself whether Jesus Christ was actually the son of God, or just a great teacher whose life had been exaggerated by his followers. In my search, I had begun to pray earnestly and to read the Bible with real intent. The Holy Spirit had touched my heart only two months before, and had testified to me that Jesus was truly the Christ.

Immediately, I became disillusioned with the church I was attending. A minister there had once told me that whether or not Christ had actually existed was unimportant. What mattered was his example, and learning to love each other. Now that I knew Christ had lived and died for me, this belief seemed empty, and I searched for ways to learn more about Christ and his will for me.

My seatmate and I started talking, and I learned he was going to an amateur golf tournament. We talked of golf and his ambition to become a professional golfer.

Finally, I couldn’t resist the urge to question him about his beliefs.
“Do you go to Brigham Young University because they have a good golf team or because you believe the doctrines they teach?” I asked. He smiled and said that they did have a good golf team, but he was also proud to be a Mormon.

“Tell me,” I asked, “do Mormons believe in Jesus Christ?” He patiently explained that the true name of the church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He also bore witness that the Lord leads his church through a modern day prophet.

I was eager to learn more and asked many questions. I wanted to find out if the average Mormon was a member because of family traditions, or be cause he had a true testimony of Christ. It soon became obvious that this young man had done some soul-searching of his own and had a testimony of Jesus Christ.

In my studies of the scriptures, I had come across some concepts that seemed to have been lost—at least from the churches I had attended. I decided to quiz him about them. “Do you believe in the gift of the Holy Spirit by the laying on of hands?” I asked.

He stared at me in disbelief. “Where in the world did you learn about that?” he asked.

“In the Bible,” I answered.

“Yes, we do believe in that gift,” he replied. Then he explained about the restoration of the priesthood.

Unfortunately, the plane was just about to land, and I still had a hundred more questions.

“If you’d like,” he said, “I’d be happy to have some of our missionaries from the Church stop by and tell you more.”

Of course, some wonderful missionaries did come and I was soon baptized. Now, six years later, I am thankful for the young man on the plane and the emblem on his jacket, without which I would not have learned of the Savior’s true church.

While I was serving as a mission president in Bolivia, a wonderful elder came to see me. It was near the end of his mission. He was very depressed.
He spoke to me about the difficult time he had experienced in the Missionary Training Center. While he was there his father had died, and for a brief period the elder had considered returning home. But, encouraged by a loving mother, and spurred on by individual commitment, he continued his training.
He recounted the initial efforts he had made in the mission field to work hard, pray often, follow all the rules—hoping, of course, to be rewarded with hundreds of baptisms. But, unfortunately, the baptisms had not come. Gradually he began to slacken his pace. He felt his prayers were not being heard. The mission rules seemed to be burdensome and restrictive. They were silly things, written by the mission president only to goad and irritate him.
In despair he told me, “I’m nobody! What I do won’t make any difference.” Then, as if searching, he quickly asked, “Will it, President Hammond?” For an instant similar questions passed through my mind. Can he make a difference? Can I? Can anyone? Does it matter what one person does?
Then, in my mind’s eye I saw a myriad of people and events who had made a difference. I reminded him of the work of Copernicus, who revolutionized the science of astronomy; and Mohandas K. Gandhi, who in preaching peace and love, brought freedom to his native India.
There are many men and women who have truly made a difference, I said. I thought for a moment and then continued with the stories of two others.
I placed my hand on the young missionary’s and asked him if he was ready to go back out into the field of labor? I asked if he could make a difference in the lives of the special Bolivian children of our Heavenly Father?
His attitude had changed. With a renewed spirit of dedication, tears slipping down his face, he committed himself once again to the work of the Lord. We knelt in prayer together and I blessed him that he would be able to find the way.
Although he had been weak, I felt an inner confidence in him. I surprised even myself by assigning him to one of the most difficult and remote areas of Bolivia—a small community named Bermejo near the Argentine border. The work had gone badly there for some time, with only a few baptisms to reenforce the handful of Saints who were discouraged and found it hard to keep the faith.
In his weekly reports the missionary told of his diligent efforts to contact the people and preach the gospel to them. He indicated that they were slow to listen, but that he was continuing his faithful stewardship in that part of the Lord’s vineyard.
And then it happened. Overnight a small river that runs near the village, fed by heavy rains in the mountains, rose to a height never before known. Homes were swept away and people were drowned. The only bridge connecting the city to the main road was torn from its footings and washed downstream. There was chaos everywhere.
Two young missionaries were caught in the turmoil. And one, perhaps remembering that “a man can make a difference,” threw himself into the turbulent waters to rescue many who were drowning; he sought those buried beneath fallen buildings; he gave relief to the injured and succor to the hungry.
And a miracle occurred. He became a hero. He was lauded by the newspapers. People mentioned his name with reverence. Those who had previously rejected him and the message that he carried now searched him out. Their doors were opened to receive him. They loved him. They accepted his burning testimony of Jesus Christ and the gospel restored through the prophet Joseph Smith.
In the few months that remained of his mission he brought scores of wonderful people into the Church. Today, a beautiful chapel stands in Bermejo. On the Sabbath day it is full of members who still remember one faithful elder who made a difference.