Gospel Story Finder

My Grandfather Rose was very ill due to heart problems. To help my grandmother with his care, our family decided that we would take turns sleeping over to help out. Mostly it was my mother and my aunts, but one weekend I asked if I could spend the night.
I was reclining in a chair next to my grandfather’s bed. He was sleeping really well that night, which was unusual. While I was falling asleep, my granddad rolled over and said, “Carl, shape up.” Then he rolled back over and went to sleep.
I didn’t know what he meant because I wasn’t a bad kid. But I wasn’t able to fall asleep the rest of the night. I stayed up thinking about what my granddad meant by “shape up.”
I thought about his words for the next few days, trying to figure out what I needed to shape up in my life. A few days later, I went again to my grandparents’ home to rub my grandfather’s back. I finished that and sat down to talk to my grandma. She said, “Carl, Granddad prays that you will gain the desire to serve a mission for the Lord.”
Later that night I was working out on my gymnastics. I heard my coach yelling at me to concentrate. I was so caught up thinking about the conversation that I had with my grandma and the decision I had to make that it was hard for me to work out. I was torn between a college scholarship for gymnastics and a mission.
As I was lying in bed later that night, I thought back to my granddad saying, “Carl, shape up.” I thought, Are your priorities where they should be? They weren’t. My number one priority was gymnastics and not the Lord and his work. I finally figured out what my granddad meant by “shape up.” He meant my soul and mind. The only way to do that was to start going to seminary and church. This time I really tried to get something out of it. For the first time in my life I read the Book of Mormon. As I did this I took the great prophet Moroni’s advice and prayed about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith. Through this I not only gained the desire to serve a mission but I also found the light and life of the world, Jesus Christ.

There were times when I thought Caleb would live a long time. He had so often successfully battled sicknesses and surgeries with resilience. He went to the hospital many times but always came back to us. We loved having him in our home. Being in his presence was healing and heavenly.
At age seven, Caleb slipped peacefully away in April’s arms, surrounded by his family. He had spent a courageous day fighting a vicious infection brought on by pneumonia. His body was simply worn out.
My wife whispered in his ear, “I love you, Caleb. I am so proud of you. If your body is too tired, it’s OK. You can go back. You can return to Heavenly Father.”
In the very moment when it was needed, April’s heart changed so she could let him go. April trusted Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ because she knew They personally understood her suffering and would provide comfort and strength (see Alma 7:11–12). And through the Atonement of His Son, God can do miracles. He saves souls. He heals heartache. He inspires hope.

I can remember only bits and pieces of that September day in 1986. I can remember going to work, but I can’t remember going home. I can’t remember, either, the meeting I had that evening as Young Women president of the Salt Lake Sugarhouse Stake with a new ward Young Women president. But she says that I did visit her and that I left her house at about 6:30 P.M. After the meeting, I must have decided to drive my new car up Emigration Canyon east of Salt Lake City, for it was there that another driver, drunk and driving at a high speed, rammed into my car.
The accident left my memory a shattered wreck and nearly took my life. And yet, in spite of the months of pain and fear I have endured, the experience has produced something of a miracle. Because of it, I am convinced to the very center of my soul that God loves each of us and that he cares for us in ways we rarely recognize.
I suppose I must have taken that drive up Emigration Canyon to enjoy the autumn colors and spend a little free time before my next meeting with the stake Young Men/Young Women committee. Whatever the reason for my being there, it cost me dearly. As I was coming around a curve, another car swerved into my lane. We met head-on. My car was totally demolished, and I was pinned inside. When the paramedics finally pried me out of the car, they were sure I would not survive. The report sent with me to the hospital read “dead or dying.”
My spleen had been ruptured in two places, my diaphragm had been torn open, and my left lung had collapsed. I could barely breathe. I had many other severe internal injuries, and something had dug into my left leg, injuring the nerves. My left arm was cut up, my right ankle was broken, my head had severe lacerations, and my pelvis had been fractured in four places.
In the emergency room, the doctors prepared to insert a tube into my lungs to inflate them, but felt prompted not to do so. Instead, they rushed me into surgery. There they found that the internal damage was so severe that putting a tube into my lung cavity would have killed me.
The only identification I had in my purse that enabled the hospital to locate my family was my temple recommend. From it, they obtained the name of my bishop, John Pruess, and he was finally able to contact my mother.
She and my youngest brother, Cal, arrived at the hospital at about 2:00 A.M. I was out of surgery by then, and Dr. Nelson apologized for not waiting to get permission. Hospital personnel hadn’t been able to contact any of my family right away, and my damaged body had required immediate attention. When Mom discovered how badly I had been hurt, she almost went into shock.
Cal called my sister Marguerite and asked her to let the rest of the family know what had happened. She said that she started praying for me immediately. It was then that she received a strong, calm feeling and the thought, “Trust me. She is in my hands. I’m in charge, I know what’s best, and I’m all-powerful.” She wondered if that meant I would be in God’s hands in the same way our Dad was: he had died two years earlier. She began to pray again and felt rather than heard the message that I would be all right and would be getting married soon. She wondered why the Lord would tell her this, but decided it must have been the best way to comfort her.
At the time, I was not dating anyone or even thinking of getting married. I was forty-nine years old and had long since resigned myself to being single. I had struggled for many years with the fact that my patriarchal blessing had promised me marriage and yet I remained alone. I sometimes wondered if the Lord really knew I was here. There were even times when I thought that I really didn’t matter to him, since I was just an average sort of person—no one very important.
The accident changed all that. When she heard about the accident, my sister Esther wondered why the Lord hadn’t protected me, since I was an active member of the Church. Into her mind came the words, “What makes you think I didn’t?” I know that the Lord truly did protect me. He preserved my life and protected me from the kind of injuries that would have left me crippled. He protected me in the emergency room by prompting the doctors. But perhaps greatest of all, he let me glimpse the almost overwhelming power of his love.
The morning after I was admitted to the hospital, Cal and a member of my bishopric gave me a blessing. Cal had no hesitation in promising me that I would recover. He said later that he had the same feeling Marguerite had—that I would be getting married soon.
I was in intensive care for a week, hooked up to all kinds of machines that helped me breathe and that monitored my condition. Other than my stake president, my family were the only ones allowed to see me during those first few days. I was conscious but not talking. I was under such heavy medication that I have very little memory of those first two weeks. Mostly, I remember isolated times when people came to see me.
After I left intensive care, I was awake and talking. I had become very dependent and wanted one of my family with me all the time, so they set up a schedule and took turns sitting with me. I was in a lot of pain.
The first thing I became consistently conscious of was an intense awareness of love. I can’t ever remember feeling so secure. I felt very much wrapped in God’s love. The feeling was so profound that even to this day I can’t adequately describe it. I was also very much aware of the love my family had for me, and I could feel it surrounding me.
This feeling expanded as I became aware of other people. My Young Women counselors came to see me almost every day, and I felt their concern. Bishop Pruess came to visit me often and told me that the ward was praying for me, and I felt love coming from the ward. Members of the stake came to see me and told me of the great outpouring of prayer for me in the stake. My friends at work visited me, and I also sensed their concern.
I felt all this love at the deepest, most fundamental level of my soul. That love, I believe, is what helped me survive the very difficult time that followed the accident.
The Lord blessed me in so many ways during the following months. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew from the first that all of my injuries would heal and that I would return to normal. I also knew that if I were to recover, I couldn’t waste any strength hating the man who had hurt me. I concentrated on getting better rather than dwelling on what was wrong. I knew that the Lord was helping me focus on love and on people rather than dwell on the horror.
After I had been in the hospital two and a half weeks, the doctors said I could leave. They suggested, however, that my family take me to a convalescent center. I was quite frightened at the thought of moving. I remember pleading with Cal to ask the Lord what we should do. I had been leaning very heavily on the Lord, and I didn’t want any decision made without consulting him. My family was there, and I had been leaning on them, but I knew that, above all, the Lord was caring for me.
On September 20, I was transferred to a care center. The medication was cut in half, so I became more aware of what was going on around me. For a week, I worked hard at building up my strength and learning how to get around with broken bones. Then I was moved to Cal’s house. I appreciated him and his wife for letting me stay with them. It felt good to be in their home. His children would come to my room after school and tell me what they had done that day. Their visits did much to ease me back into normal life.
I had been so heavily drugged in the hospital that even though I knew why I was there, I hadn’t been able to focus on any one thought. But now I was off all medication. For the first few nights at Cal’s, I was afraid to go to sleep. I felt I had such a slight hold on life that I might not wake up in the morning. While lying awake at night, I would start to think about the horror of what had happened and about my injuries. I realized that I could have been killed or permanently damaged physically.
On those nights when I became frightened, I would turn to the Lord for help. Almost immediately, my mind would be filled with peace and with an awareness of the many blessings He had given me. A great calm would envelop me, and I would fall asleep. At such times I felt overwhelmed by Heavenly Father’s goodness and love.
About seven weeks after the accident, I was able to return home. My family stayed most of the day, helping me get settled in, but I spent my first Sunday morning home alone. That was very difficult. After being with people and being surrounded by their love, I felt a terrible loneliness that day—something deeper than I had ever felt before. I had gone through the typical frustrations of being single and of wanting to be a mother. Now, after having been wrapped in the wonderfully sustaining love of my family, I wondered if I could handle living alone any more.
That afternoon, Jerry Tucker came to visit me. We had come to know each other through his calling as high council adviser to the Young Women program, so I wasn’t too surprised when he continued to visit me. Months later, though, when he proposed marriage, I wondered if I was reading my feelings correctly. I suppose, quite naturally, that I felt the need for outside assurance to confirm that my judgment and thoughts were sound. Because the Lord had been so close to me through the crisis of the accident and the slow healing, and because my family had given me such tremendous support, I felt the need for their approval and for wisdom outside my own.
So I began praying about Jerry’s proposal. My prayers were answered one day when a great feeling of peace washed over me. I knew then that this was my time to be married. I also knew that the Lord had not left me alone and that I would never be cheated of anything he had promised me. Jerry and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple on 12 February 1987.
I have wished that I could share with all my single friends the assurance that this experience has given me. I am convinced, at a deeply personal level, that though we sometimes can’t see or understand what is happening in our lives, Heavenly Father is always there, caring for us.
In time, all of my injuries healed. But I will never be the same. I learned so many things that I thought I knew but really didn’t. I have a much deeper faith and trust in the Lord now. I know he lives. I have felt his influence in my life.
I learned that miracles do happen to ordinary people. I had felt that I was no one special, and yet I know now that I am special—I am a daughter of God. We are all special, because we are all children of a loving Heavenly Father. That fact is very real to me now.
Before my accident, I didn’t know how incredibly loving and kind God is. I am sure that even now I don’t begin to comprehend the depth of his love, but I sense that it is far deeper than any of us know. I know that even if I had died or had been crippled, the Lord would have been there looking after me, blessing me in ways he saw best.
I learned how important prayer is. I could actually feel the strength of the prayers being said for me. Now as I pray for the Lord to watch over my loved ones, it has special meaning. If something distressing were to happen, I would want him to be with them as he was with me. When my miracle happened, it was several hours before anyone knew and could begin praying—but how many times had my family remembered me in their daily prayers before that time?
I learned about joy. The Lord told me in a blessing that he had extended my life and that he wanted me to make it a joyful, happy one. I understand now that it is important to him that we are happy. I find references to joy throughout the scriptures. I see far more clearly now that the gospel is a gospel of joy.
I learned the value of health. Our bodies are a special blessing, and good health is to be treasured. I feel an urgent need to take care of my health. Our Heavenly Father has given us life and everything we have. Our part is to take care of what he has given us.
Something terrible happened to me, but I have received so many blessings that I still feel in debt to the Lord. I owe him more than I can ever repay. But I don’t think he wants “repayment.” He wants my love. He wants me to be happy—and that will happen as I love and serve him with my whole soul, sharing my joy with those around me.

Every man and woman in this Church knows something of the price paid by our forebears for their faith. I have been reminded of this whenever I read the narrative of Mary Goble Pay, my wife’s grandmother. I think I would like to share a few words from that story of a 13-year-old girl. She tells of her childhood in Brighton, that delightful city on the south coast of England, where the soft, green hills of Sussex roll down to the sea.
It was there that her family was baptized. Their conversion came naturally because the Spirit whispered in their hearts that it was true. But there were critical relatives and neighbors and even mobs to deride and inflame others against them. It took courage, that rare quality described as moral courage, to stand up and be counted, to be baptized and recognized as a Mormon.
The family traveled to Liverpool, where with some 900 others they boarded the sailing vessel Horizon.
As the wind caught the sails, they sang, “Farewell, My Native Land, Farewell.” After six weeks at sea—to cover the distance covered today by a jet plane in six hours—they landed at Boston and then traveled by steam train to Iowa City for fitting out.
There they purchased two yoke of oxen, one yoke of cows, a wagon, and a tent. They were assigned to travel with and assist one of the handcart companies.
Here in Iowa City also occurred their first tragedy. Their youngest child, less than two years of age, suffering from exposure, died and was buried in a grave never again visited by a member of the family.
Now let me give you the very words of this 13-year-old girl as I share a few lines from her story:
“We traveled from 15 to 25 miles [25 to 40 km] a day … until we got to the Platte River. … We caught up with the hand cart companies that day. We watched them cross the river. There were great lumps of ice floating down the river. It was bitter cold. … We went back to the camp and went to prayers, [and] … sang ‘Come, Come, Ye Saints No Toil Nor Labor Fear.’ I wondered what made my mother cry [that night]. … The next morning my little sister was born. It was the 23rd of September. We named her Edith. She lived six weeks and died. … [She] was buried at the last crossing of [the] Sweetwater.
“[We ran into heavy snow. I became lost in the snow.] My feet and legs were frozen. [The men] rubbed me with snow. They put my feet in a bucket of water. The pain was terrible. …
“When we arrived at Devils Gate it was bitter cold. We left lots of our things there. … My brother James … was as well as he ever was when he went to bed [that night]. In the morning he was dead. …
“My feet were frozen[;] also my brother Edwin and my sister Caroline had their feet frozen. It was nothing but snow [snow everywhere and the bitter Wyoming wind]. We could not drive the pegs in our tents. … We did not know what would become of us. [Then] one night a man came to our camp and told us … Brigham Young had sent men and teams to help us. … We sang songs, some danced and some cried. …
“My mother had never got well. … She died between the little and big mountains. … She was 43 years old. …
“We arrived in Salt Lake City nine o’clock at night the 11th of December 1856. Three out of four that were living were frozen. My mother was dead in the wagon. …
“Early next morning … Brigham Young … came. … When he saw our condition, our feet frozen and our mother dead, tears rolled down his cheeks. …
“The doctor amputated my toes … [while] the sisters were dressing my mother for her grave. … When my feet were fixed they [carried] … us in to see our mother for the last time. Oh how did we stand it. That afternoon she was buried. …
“[I have thought often of my mother’s words before we left England.] ‘Polly, I want to go to Zion while my children are small, so they can be raised in the Gospel of Christ for I know this is the true church.’”

This story happened in the USA.
“Hey, come watch this,” Darren said to Henry. “It’s hilarious!”
Henry’s stomach sank. Not another video.
He sat next to Darren and Drake on the couch. They laughed at the video, but Henry wanted to shrink into the cushions so he couldn’t hear the bad words.
As soon as the video ended, Henry jumped up. “Let’s go outside and ride bikes.”
“Later,” Drake said. Darren kept scrolling on his phone.
Henry sighed and sat back down as Darren pushed play.
When Henry biked home later, he thought about all the other times he felt uncomfortable with Darren and Drake. Like when they told mean jokes at school. Or stole apples from Mr. Garcia’s tree.
Maybe I should talk to Mom, Henry thought. But what if she said he couldn’t hang out with Darren and Drake anymore? Then he’d be alone. Again.
Mom was setting the table when Henry walked inside. “Hey, how was your day?” she asked.
Henry shrugged. They sat down for dinner, and Mom said a prayer. Henry stirred his soup without eating a bite.
“Did something happen at Darren’s house today?” Mom asked.
Henry felt sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to tell her everything about Darren and Drake. But maybe he’d tell her a little. “All we do is watch videos. I want to ride bikes, but Darren and Drake always say no.”
“Is anything wrong with the videos?” she asked.
Henry’s heart raced. Should he tell her? He couldn’t say anything about the bad words. He couldn’t be alone again. “I don’t feel like talking right now.”
Mom took a deep breath. “I know that moving here has been hard. You were so happy when you became friends with Darren and Drake. But I hope they never pressure you to do or watch something bad. True friends help you do what’s right.”
Henry looked down. “Darren and Drake are my true friends.”
“Well, if they are, they’ll respect your decisions. Even when you say no.”
At Darren’s house the next day, the words “true friends” stuck in Henry’s mind.
“Check out this new video,” Darren said.
“No,” Henry said.
Darren and Drake stared at him.
“I’m not watching anymore,” he said, a little louder this time. “I don’t like how they make me feel.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Drake said.
Darren and Drake laughed. They started teasing Henry about how his face always got red when they showed him videos or when they told jokes at school.
Is this what true friends would do? Henry thought.
He stood up from the couch. “I’m riding my bike. You guys can come if you want.”
“Nope,” Darren said. “We’re staying here.”
Henry walked outside alone. As soon as the door shut behind him, he realized the sick feeling in his stomach was gone. He felt light and calm instead.
Then he realized something else. He wasn’t alone. The Holy Ghost was with him. Henry was still sad about Darren and Drake. But the Holy Ghost was telling him he made the right choice. Smiling, he got on his bike and rode for home.
Illustrations by Matt Smith

The summer I volunteered at the animal shelter, I met Bobbie. He had sandy hair that flopped in his eyes, and he smiled all the time. Bobbie liked to feed the animals, and he played with them a lot. But he never took them for walks, gave them treatments, or talked to the visitors who came in.
“Bobbie can’t do anything too complicated,” Ray, the director, explained to me. “He has a mental handicap. But he has some special gifts that make him a great help.”
I nodded—I’d already noticed that Bobbie didn’t understand the simple directions for the flea treatment we used on one dog’s skin. It didn’t matter to me. Bobbie was friendly and listened well, so I figured I might be able to teach him how to do some of the different chores.
The next morning, Bobbie wanted me to open a kennel for him.
“Watch,” I said. “I’ll show you how.”
Then I used my thumb to press down a button while I flipped up a lever with my other finger. Bobbie tried, and I guided his hands until the latch clicked open.
“I did it!” He grinned, proud of his new accomplishment.
“Way to go,” I told him, feeling pretty happy myself. I liked helping Bobbie.
Ray didn’t say anything, but then I’d already discovered he wasn’t a big talker. I did catch a glimpse of a smile on his face, though, before he sat down at his desk to fill out some forms.
Later that day, someone brought in a small, stray dog that had been abandoned in a field outside of town. The poor animal trembled every time we came near it, and his coat was ragged and matted.
“Someone didn’t treat this little fellow right,” Ray said as we gave the dog a bath. “He’s almost afraid to breathe.”
Ray gently scrubbed the dog’s reddish coat; then I rinsed it. The whole time, the dog cowered with his tail tucked between his legs. I wondered how he could ever be a good pet for anyone.
“What should we name this one?” Ray asked Bobbie.
Bobbie came over and looked at the wet straggly dog.
“Call him Happy,” Bobbie said. “He needs a good name.”
“Happy it is, then,” Ray said, but I’d have named that dog Scruffy.
After Happy’s bath, Ray put him into an empty kennel. Happy went all the way to the far corner and curled into a tight ball. Bobbie sat down on the floor by the kennel door and quietly watched him. “He’s afraid,” Bobbie told me.
I nodded, thinking that terrified was a more accurate word.
Bobbie started talking to Happy. His voice almost sounded like a lullaby, but the dog didn’t respond. He just trembled in the corner. Bobbie kept talking softly to Happy for the next hour. Finally Bobbie had to leave, but first he put some treats near Happy. The dog still didn’t move.
Every day that week, I watched Bobbie with Happy. One day, he brought in a little stuffed bear for Happy to sleep with. Each day he talked and talked to the dog in that same soft, reassuring voice. Bobby started sitting inside the kennel, each day just a little closer to the shy dog, and Happy’s ears began to perk up every now and then.
“Bobbie really likes that dog,” I told Ray. “He’s spending hours with him. Do you think Happy will come around?”
“No doubt. I think Bobbie could talk the birds out of the trees if he set his mind to it.”
Ray was right. It took another week, but Bobbie finally had Happy going to the front of the kennel to greet him. In a few more weeks, I couldn’t believe Happy was the same dog. His tail wagged behind him like a furry red flag, and he came running to me when I called, nuzzling my hand so that I’d pet him. Ray even allowed Bobbie to let Happy out of his kennel all day, and the little dog stuck to him like a shadow.
One day, an older, quiet lady came to look for a pet. I noticed that Bobbie was really staring at her, and I wondered what the problem could be. Usually he didn’t pay attention to our visitors.
The lady looked at a few dogs, but she didn’t seem very interested. Suddenly Bobbie walked over and tapped her arm to get her attention. “I have a dog for you.” He bent down and scooped up his furry little shadow. The dog wagged his tail as Bobbie put him into the lady’s arms. “Meet Happy,” he said.
“Hello there,” the lady said in a gentle voice, and the dog tried to lick her cheek as she scratched his ears. Then he rested his head on her shoulder just like a little baby. “Oh, I like him!” The lady smiled.
Fifteen minutes later, she had signed the papers, and she and Happy walked out with Bobbie’s little bear. He had insisted that she take it. I just stood there staring after them.
“I thought you were going to keep Happy,” I told Bobbie. I’d figured that was why Ray let Happy follow Bobbie around.
“My mom’s allergic to dogs,” Bobbie explained. “She gets itchy spots and sneezes a lot.”
“Oh,” I mumbled, not sure what to say next.
“Happy will like the lady,” Bobbie told me. “She talked soft. She won’t yell at him. Happy will have a nicer home than the kennel.”
“You’re right,” I said.
Bobbie started filling dishes with dog food. I noticed he had to stop to wipe a few tears away with his sleeve. I turned around and stared at Ray. He was shuffling papers on his desk, and I wanted him to say he would call the lady and tell her there was a mistake and that she had to bring Happy back.
“Bobbie always helps with the animals that are timid and scared,” Ray finally said as I stood there unable to speak. “He likes to help them find good homes, even if it means his heart is a little broken each time they leave. I told you that he has some special gifts. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
I nodded and slowly began filling food dishes with Bobbie. We worked side by side, and neither of us said a word. It didn’t matter. I had thought that I had a lot to teach Bobbie, but the tears slipping down his cheeks were teaching me more about the true meaning of love than a million words ever could.

I remember, as a small boy, sitting on my dad’s lap and hearing him tell me about when he was a boy and how afraid he was of the dark, and how he would wake up in the night and be so frightened that he would jump out of bed and run to his parents’ room. There Grandma would always let him get in bed with her and then everything was alright. I don’t know if it was because of Dad telling me about this or not, but I grew up a total coward. I had, and still do have, a great fear of the dark. I understand why the scriptures relate darkness to that which is not good. My biggest challenge day after day as a boy was going to bed each night because I would have to turn out the light and then get clear across the room and into bed before a booger could get me. I knew they were in the closet and under the bed and behind the curtains. I got so I would start to run, hit the light, take one step inside the room, and then take a huge leap and hit the bed—most of the time! Mother never did know why the springs were broken on that side of the bed. Once in bed, up would go the covers over my head, and there I would lay paralyzed until I went to sleep.

Invariably I would wake up in the middle of the night and figure for sure I was a goner. Finally, when I just couldn’t stand it any longer, I would throw back the covers and leap out of bed so the boogers under the bed couldn’t grab me, race past the closet that must have always had a couple in there, and then run down the hall to Dad and Mother’s bedroom. That hall seemed like it was as long as a football field. Now that I think about it, it was only about ten feet long. But I had to go past the bathroom, the door to the kitchen, and the door to the living room, and you know who was lurking at each of them! Once in the bedroom I could see my dad’s big arm raise in the air with the bed covers in his hand and I would jump in beside him. Down would come the covers and his arm over me. Then I knew there wasn’t a booger in the world big enough to get me. I have often wondered what would have happened if one night my dad would have said, “Bobby, you big boob, get back in your own bed!” I’m afraid it would have caused permanent damage, But he loved me, he understood, and I knew I was safe and secure in the arms of my dad and that he would never turn me away.

For a long time, whenever I searched the Topical Guide or the index of the scriptures to write a talk, I preferred finding scriptures in the Book of Mormon, the New Testament, and even the Old Testament over scriptures in the Doctrine and Covenants. Sure, a lot of the information in the Old Testament has old book names and seems hard to understand, but the Doctrine and Covenants has just numbers—no interesting book names at all.
My feelings about the Doctrine and Covenants changed when we studied it in seminary. I had already tried to read through the entire standard works during my personal scripture study, which I had started when I was eight, but I had skipped the Doctrine and Covenants. The Doctrine and Covenants seemed to be just tedious numbers and instruction—no storylines, no main characters, no wars, no challenges. How could it mean something to me?
So the Church history and Doctrine and Covenants year of study came. During my previous two years of seminary, I had fulfilled my goal to read the entire book of study (the New Testament and then Book of Mormon) as we studied it in seminary throughout the school year. I couldn’t skip that goal just because of a bunch of boring numbers, so I took up the challenge.
Throughout the year, my seminary teacher taught us the historical context of each section in the Doctrine and Covenants. This instruction really helped me understand what I read on my own. The greatest thing I learned that year in seminary was that I was wrong—the Doctrine and Covenants is not a book of boring numbers that doesn’t apply to me. On the contrary, I found that I connected to this book of scripture in a special way because the people the Lord talks to in the Doctrine and Covenants are a lot closer to me in lifestyle and time period than the people in any other book of scripture.
My experience with the Doctrine and Covenants taught me that if, for whatever reason, I feel uninterested in any type of gospel instruction, I’m usually missing out on something great. With patience and a sincere desire to learn, I came to appreciate the Lord’s revelations to the Prophet Joseph Smith in the Doctrine and Covenants, as well as all the writings of ancient and modern prophets. Through this experience the Holy Ghost touched me and the gospel blessed my life every day.

Neal A. Maxwell said, “God does not begin by asking us about our ability, but only about our availability, and if we then prove our dependability, he will increase our capability!”1
When we were called to help start service missions in the UK and Ireland, in the middle of what became a year of lockdowns and self-isolation, the obstacles seemed overwhelming. But we embraced the new reality of virtual meetings. This increased our capacity to meet leaders and members without having to travel the long distances that this calling would have required. We have seen many blessings due to making ourselves available, giving all that we can to this exciting new chapter of the Church in the UK and Ireland.
Across the 47 stakes, and 333 wards and branches, we have been welcomed by ward councils, delivered youth firesides, presented fifth-Sunday lessons to Relief Society and priesthood, spoken in sacrament meetings, participated in lessons, and joined coordinating councils. We have had the pleasure of meeting with individual missionaries and their families, as we shared the good news about service missions.
Bishop Dann from the Nottingham 4th Ward wrote to us after one such meeting and said, “Thank you very much for joining us for our ward council meeting last night. Speaking personally, I felt the Spirit very strongly reinforce to me that service missions are a fantastic opportunity for those that are unable to serve teaching missions. I hope that the number of service missionaries can grow in the coming years. I can see it is good for those that serve, good for those that are served, and good for the Church in general.”

A young man newly out of graduate school got a new job, bought a home, and made all kinds of plans to remodel it into his dream home, complete with a gym and study. Within seven months he got engaged to a woman with three young daughters. Six months after they were married his wife was expecting a baby. Things weren’t easy for this family. The young man’s job was promising but not lucrative. To meet expenses he took a second job as a newspaper delivery man.

One Saturday morning, cold and early, he pulled out of his driveway listening to a blues song on the radio. He resonated to the song about love and life and the pain of trying to get ahead in a grueling world, and he sank right into the blues himself. As he drove from site to site making his deliveries, the blues deepened into what you might call the blue funk. Now, to be in the blue funk is to feel like two cents looking for change. It is to think hope has gone south for the winter and has forgotten to come back.

As the sun crept into a new day, he thought about his life. He mentally looked at the faces of each one in his family and walked through the halls of his home. He considered his profession, his extended family, his neighborhood, and his church responsibilities. He weighed the complexities and challenges, the satisfactions and pleasures. And into his mind came one sentence: “Life doesn’t get any better than this.”

He said,
It was a realization that arrived unbidden. It didn’t mean life couldn’t get any easier or that I wanted to have the blues. It simply meant I had everything I needed. And it hadn’t been that way when I lived alone and roamed my house, planning the interior. [Bruce Sylvester, “Making Room,” Christian Science Monitor, 25 August 1992, p. 19]

Some years later he invited his aging parents to come live with him and his family. As he rose at 3 A.M. daily to help his mother with her needs, he often thought, “Life doesn’t get any better than this.” He never got his library or gym, but in the midst of his very full house, he thanked the Lord often for what was also a very full life.

Some years ago, Zulma—my wife, my better half, my best part—received some difficult news just two weeks before the wedding of one of our children. She had a tumor in her parotid gland, and it was growing rapidly. Her face began swelling, and she was to immediately undergo a delicate operation. Many thoughts ran through her mind and weighed on her heart. Was the tumor malignant? How would her body recover? Would her face become paralyzed? How intense would the pain be? Would her face be permanently scarred? Would the tumor return once removed? Would she be able to attend the wedding of our son? As she lay in the operating room, she felt broken.

In that very important moment, the Spirit whispered to her that she had to accept the will of the Father. She then decided to place her trust in God. She strongly felt that whatever the result, His will would be the best for her. Soon she drifted into surgical sleep.

Later, she wrote poetically in her diary: “On the surgeon’s table I bowed before Thee, and surrendering to Thy will, I fell asleep. I knew I could trust Thee, knowing that nothing bad can come from Thee.”

She found strength and comfort from surrendering her will to that of the Father. That day, God blessed her greatly.

One day I joined my siblings at the table to do our family scripture study. My mom started our Come, Follow Me lesson, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I was thinking about something else: Is Jesus really real?
In church and in Primary we learned that He is real, but I didn’t know for myself. I thought and thought, but I couldn’t find the answer.
After scripture study, I asked my mom, “Is Jesus real?”
“Good question,” she said. “How about you pray about it?”
“OK,” I said.
That night I said a prayer and asked, “Heavenly Father, is Your Son real?” Then I felt a really warm feeling inside. I knew God had answered my prayer. After that, I said a thank-you prayer to Heavenly Father for answering me. I know He listens to my prayers and that He will also listen to yours.

“There’s the temple!” Dad said, pointing out the car window.
Rachel leaned forward in her seat. She could see the tall white spire in the distance with the golden angel Moroni on top. It was beautiful!
All her life, Rachel had looked forward to going inside the temple. Now she was just minutes away from going inside for the first time! Mom and Dad had even helped her find family names to be baptized for.
Rachel had heard about how peaceful the temple was. But as their car pulled into the temple parking lot, Rachel started feeling kind of panicky.
I’m going inside God’s house, Rachel thought. What if I’m not ready? What if I’m not worthy? She swallowed hard as Mom parked the car.
“You OK?” Dad asked as they got out.
“I’m a little nervous,” said Rachel.
“It’ll be great,” Mom said. “There will be lots of kind temple workers to help you.”
“And we’ll be there too.” Dad gave Rachel’s arm a gentle squeeze.
That made Rachel feel better. But just a little.
Rachel and her parents walked through the temple doors. A man in a white suit was at a desk. “Welcome to the temple,” he said, smiling. Rachel showed him her recommend. Some nice temple workers gave her a white jumpsuit in her size.
Rachel tried to feel the peace everyone had talked about. But new worries kept popping up in her mind like crazy popcorn kernels. What if the water’s cold? What if I don’t know where to go? What if I do something wrong?
When Rachel went into the locker room to change, she knelt down in the stall and prayed. “Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “please help me feel more calm. Please help me to feel peace.”
Rachel’s worried mind felt a little clearer as she finished her prayer. She stood up, zipped on her white jumpsuit, and walked out to meet her parents by the baptism font. She was feeling better already!
There were some other kids waiting to be baptized, so Rachel sat on one of the soft benches to wait. It helped a lot to watch them and see how it was done.
Then it was Rachel’s turn. She gave a temple worker the cards with her ancestors’ names. She took a deep breath and stepped into the water. It was warm!
Rachel listened as the young man baptizing her said the words to the baptism prayer. As she came up out of the water, she felt like her ancestors were giving her a big hug for doing this for them. She felt like she could almost hear them whisper, “Thank you.”
After Rachel changed into her dry clothes, she was confirmed for the ancestors she was baptized for. When she and her parents walked back out the temple doors into the sunshine, Rachel felt good inside.
“So, what did you think?” Dad asked.
“I loved it,” Rachel said. “I loved it with my whole heart.”
As they drove away, Rachel smiled as she watched the temple disappear in the distance. She really had felt peace inside the Lord’s house. And she could honestly say that she loved to see the temple.

After completing a full-time mission in the Brazil São Paulo North Mission, Elder Koch studied statistics at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, USA. “On a trip back to Brazil, I visited the ward of a friend, where I met my future wife,” said Elder Koch. “She walked up to me and asked me if I was married.” After an eight-month, long-distance courtship—and only 15 actual days together—he married Liliane Michele Ludwig on April 26, 1988, in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. They have two children.

Millions of people around the world watched on television as the first humans walked on the moon. My dad was one of them. Suddenly, at only age seven, he knew what he wanted to do with his life.
When he learned that many astronauts started out as fighter pilots, he decided right then what he wanted to focus on in school—aerospace engineering. He eventually became a fighter pilot in the United States Navy with the dream of becoming an astronaut.
Even with the best-laid plans, things don’t always turn out the way we think they will. My dad’s life didn’t. He never became an astronaut, but he’d be the first to tell you that the Lord guided him to what was best for him and our family.

Missionaries can teach people in the same town and some accept the truth and others reject it. I noticed a couple of passages in my great-grandfather’s missionary journals that showed the difference in people’s reactions to the truth. He went back to his native England in the 1880s to serve a mission. He tells a story of preaching in a meeting of another faith to a congregation of about 200 people. He explained:

"I spoak (sic) for more than an hour on the literal fulfillment of prophecy, and restoration of the Everlasting Gospel to the prophet Joseph Smith, concluded by baring (sic) a strong testimony to the Truth of the work of God. Some of the people were very much interested and wished me to come again, others wiggled in their seats a good deal, when I bore testimony that Joseph Smith was a prophet of the living God."

He had another experience that was more extreme. He was speaking in a town hall to a large group of people. Things were going well until they were just ready to close the meeting. Then an apostate and a group of agitators from a neighboring town came into the meeting. The apostate began speaking to the people and telling them lies about missionaries and the church. In my great-grandfather’s words:

"He continued to tell the blackest and foulest lies that ever was (sic) uttered by fiends from the lower region and called on the people of Ginnislake, to drive us out to drown us, that we were worthy of death. There was tremendous excitement and uproar in the meeting and the mob kept pinching us and pulling our hair and insulting us by the most foul insinuations. I finally got upon the table and asked the people to listen to me for a short time. The place was densely packed and more than 500 people present by this time a good many of whom wanted to hear me."

"He keep shaking his fist in my face and saying \"You are a Liar” “You are a liar\" \"You’re a liar\" \"If I had you in America I would shoot you\" \"I would kill you\" \"I would put my little pop gun against your head\" & c & c. He repeated those sayings a great many times and great many people heard him say it. I got on the table 3 or 4 times during the evening and defended our cause and ourselves as best I could and there was the greatest possible confusion. The police had come into the meeting soon after the row began and we placed ourselves under their protection and I must say the police did the best to preserve the peace, but their efforts were not of much avail for there was the greatest excitement for about 1 3/4 hours."

"The Police thought they could conduct us to Bro Jackman’s house in safety, but no sooner had we got outside the rabble laid hold of us, but we each laid hold of a Policeman and hung on with all the power we had, but we and the Policeman had great difficulty in keeping our feet, the policeman using their sticks pretty freely. We finally got through the mob who followed us and threw stones and tufts of grass and other things at us. The police did their uttermost to drive them back all the time. I was struck pretty hard on the shoulder by a stone and one of the Policemen and another friend were also struck. We arrived at our destination, however, all safe without serious injury."

In 1920, Brother Marion G. Romney attended a Fremont Stake conference in the Rexburg Tabernacle. My grandfather, Elder Melvin J. Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, was the presiding authority. Because Brother Romney was 23 years of age and the financial circumstances of his family were very difficult, he had not contemplated serving a full-time mission.
Years later, on 15 October 1963, Elder Romney, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, explained his experience: “At the time I graduated, I planned to go in the fall to the University of Idaho. It was my intention to play basketball and football and prepare to be a coach. In late August, I attended a stake conference [and] sat on the front row at the east end of the choir seats directly north of the pulpit. As I listened intently with my eyes fixed on [Elder Ballard’s] profile, there came to me by the power of the Spirit an irresistible urgency to go on a mission. There and then I abandoned my plans for a coaching career. In November I left for a mission to Australia” (address given at a Ricks College devotional, 15 October 1963).
Elder Romney, en route to Australia, came to Salt Lake City, where my grandfather set him apart as a missionary. Grandfather gave Elder Romney counsel and said, among other things, “One never gives a crust to the Lord without receiving a loaf in return” (quoted in F. Burton Howard, Marion G. Romney: His Life and Faith [1988], 66). Marion G. Romney never forgot that phrase.

I peered diligently at the microfilm of church records and read name after name of my ancestors from northern Spain, written generations ago in elegant Spanish penmanship. These families had lived in peace in their little fishing village for centuries. They loved the Lord and one another. Their village was nestled on a little coastal inlet and surrounded by rolling hills of eucalyptus trees, a setting that provided a serene and quiet sanctuary for their families. Few were ever drawn away from its simple beauty and warmth of spirit. Most were related to one another by blood or marriage.
These records had special meaning to me—my grandfather Andres Sanchez had saved them from destruction during the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s. I grew up knowing his story, but my connection with it became evident only as I began my search for the records. Although I never knew my grandfather, I felt his spirit as I read these names and dates. Together we had become a team that made it possible to provide temple ordinances for more than 10,000 of our ancestors.
This day, however, like most days of the last few years, was also filled with pain and sorrow over my daughter and the direction her life was going. I cried out in the depths of despair to my Heavenly Father, pleading for His help in my daughter’s behalf against odds that seemed impossible. My heart was filled with emotion—though I was working faithfully to provide saving temple ordinances for my ancestors, I could do little to save my own child. Then I felt the strength of past generations joining with me in an effort to save my daughter, and I found a measure of peace at the microfilm reader as I lost myself in extracting the precious names and dates from church records.
Now I sat in a large dim room in the Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, reading a copy of that microfilm. As I proceeded with the tedious task of searching through names so foreign to me, I was drawn to these people. A feeling of family unity grew in my mind and heart.
My husband and I drew inspiration, courage, and hope from the example of my grandfather, who willingly sacrificed for future generations. In turn, we felt the strength of past generations joining with us in our efforts to help our daughter.
It was in March 1999, the same week President Gordon B. Hinckley dedicated the Madrid Spain Temple, that I submitted my first 6,000 family names to the temple file in the Bountiful Utah Temple, as complete as possible and within their proper families. Now my next 4,000 names were ready. The names of an entire community of people were available at the temple for their temple ordinances to be performed. The work of salvation for a faithful little Spanish village had begun.
As temple ordinances were performed for my ancestors, it seemed to my husband and me that the heavens were weeping and praying with us in our daughter’s behalf. In time our daughter realized that she needed to change her life and rediscover the peace that had been missing for so long. She began the arduous process of repentance, and gradually we saw the light enter her countenance again. At long last, our heartfelt, pleading prayers were being answered. She enjoyed the healing intervention of a loving Heavenly Father, who is mindful of all of His children.
On a beautiful evening, I sat in the Bountiful temple, my eyes wet with tears of joy. Beside me was my daughter, there to receive her own endowment and to be sealed to a worthy young man.
But the story does not end there. As family and friends gathered to participate in this glorious event, the sister at the desk handed out the proxy names to those attending the session. By coincidence, the names she gave us were some of the same names I had submitted to the temple file. Indeed, it was a double celebration—we rejoiced as we served as proxies for our Spanish ancestors, and in turn they must have rejoiced with us as our daughter was sealed to her husband for time and all eternity in the house of the Lord. In that moment, we could feel the circle of eternal family uniting the past and the present. We were one.

by Kevin Livingstone
We had all heard stories about the pioneers. We were told of their perseverance trudging through miles of mud, of their intense suffering crossing the barren plains, and of their ever present hunger and incredible sacrifices. Remembering them, we felt a variety of emotions: interest, excitement, a touch of fear. The reason? The Taber Stake of Alberta, Canada, would be participating in a pioneer trek.
The group, youth and leaders, were divided into “families.” Each family selected a handcart and assembled it, loaded it with gear, and left civilization behind.
The first few miles weren’t bad; then we began to get hungry and tired. A couple of miles later we considered rebellion, but then the handcarts ahead of us started singing songs the pioneers might have sung. We pulled some more.
After a day and a half of pulling a handcart, we arrived at base camp, where a variety of activities had been planned. It started to rain, but that didn’t dampen any spirits. We ate roast turkey, learned new games, made candy, and danced the Virginia Reel.
Sunday was a special day with church meetings and an afternoon devoted to quiet times alone in study or meditation.
After returning home to the prospects of hot water and soft beds, good-byes were said and promises made to keep in touch. And tears were shed. Tears for friends we had grown to love; tears for the experiences we had just been through; and tears for the strength of the pioneers. But most of all, we shed tears because we had come to know our Heavenly Father and his deep love for each of us as individuals.

Skull Valley, Utah—that was where I spent two summers as a youth. I lived on Long Island, New York, but my father, who had grown up on a farm in Idaho, told me, “You’re never going to learn how to work until you work on a ranch.” My uncle had a ranch in Skull Valley, and so I, a city boy, was sent to live and work there.
The first few days I spent on the ranch left me exhausted. My entire body ached, and I wondered how I could get through each day. I was discouraged and wanted to go home, but I didn’t tell this to my relatives.
One day I was moving bales of hay with my cousin, and I was having a hard time because I was so tired. My cousin gave me a little push and said, “You aren’t lazy—you just don’t know how to work.” I decided then that I’d learn how to work—and I did. And as I worked on the ranch that summer, I came to enjoy it and my body thrived on it.