Gospel Story Finder

The youth I saw confined to a wheelchair was a startling contrast to the boy I remembered from the year before. I remembered him as a happy, 18-year-old Indian boy whose swift, strong legs had carried him up and down the basketball courts. But that was yesteryear. Today he was in a wheelchair. Today his dark eyes and handsome smile caused me to be amazed at his youthful courage.
I first met Don a couple of years ago and learned that he was a convert to the Church. His widowed mother lived in a remote section of the Navajo Indian reservation, and he was a participant in the Indian student placement program, a program that places Indian children and teenagers in foster homes during the school year so that they may get a better education. His school work was excellent; he played the piano skillfully; and with the same slim brown fingers he could paint beautiful pictures or strum the guitar in accompaniment to his clear soft voice. Don’s personality was pleasant, his standards were high, his testimony strong. He was soon to graduate from high school, and his plans were to spend a short time with his people on the reservation before returning to live with his foster parents, where he would work preparatory to receiving his expected call to the mission field.
Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a small truck with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he expressed the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor told this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he left the room he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was filled with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He eagerly read the words of this book for three days and two nights, resentful of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with his new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps away the feeling of unhappiness.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble prayers to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known cheerfully as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often sang as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for singing and entertainment and patients joined together with singing and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name.
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to get enough courage to ask the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special program was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song sung in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had affected the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had accepted the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the wind of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

Cathy has also spent many hours helping at rest homes. “I guess because I was so close to my grandparents and my mother is a nurse, it was easy for me to volunteer my time,” said Cathy. “My Aunt Mamie worked as a recreation specialist at a rest home when I was 11, so she’d ask me and my cousin to go over there and help. We’d spend the whole day. We’d play bingo with the people. I’d help roll them in their wheelchairs out into the middle of the halls for supper, deliver the mail, read to them if they needed it, and just talk.”

In the front window of the little grocery section of the Murdock service station in Beaver, Utah, was a poster advertising a big candy bar broken open with chocolate and nuts and filling, sending out a message the advertiser had intended. The candy bar was called Chicken Dinner. Every day I passed this window four times—twice going to school and twice coming home.
We had no money to purchase such luxuries in our home, but the gnawing desire to eat one of those candy bars kept building up in me.
Late one afternoon, my mother sent me to the store to purchase a loaf of bread for supper (one of the rare times in my young life to get store-bought bread). I had a quarter and purchased the bread for a dime.
As Mrs. Murdock gave me the 15 cents change I was staring at the back side of that candy bar poster—knowing every detail that was on the front, as I had studied it so many times.
The candy rack was to the side of the counter and open. I looked around the little store; no one else was in there at the time. I was very nervous, for I was going to be dishonest. I had made my plan, and I executed it by shoving the dime back across the counter and blurting out in a strained voice, “I’d like two Chicken Dinner bars,” and pointed to them as I put the nickel in my pocket. I don’t know why I bought two. I guess I was so nervous I didn’t really know what I was doing, and the two nickel candy bars added up to the dime I had in my hand at the time.
“Help yourself,” she said with a look and sound of questioning in her voice, like it wasn’t right for a Hutchings kid to blow a whole dime on two candy bars.
I was shaking as I reached over and took two bars and slid them in my pocket. She thanked me and I left.
I walked very fast to get around the corner before anyone saw me and I could get to where I could eat one of those candy bars. I don’t know why I didn’t want anyone to see me.
I slipped around behind Harry Deal’s electric shop, where I would be alone, and started eating one of the bars. It tasted all right, but it didn’t go down very well. Maybe I was eating it too fast since I was so hungry for candy.
Having finished the first one behind the shed, I must have felt a little braver and walked out from behind the electric shop and down the sidewalk eating the other. I walked slowly so I could finish it well before I covered the three blocks to home. Besides, I needed time to plan how to account for one missing dime.
I dropped the bread on the kitchen table and headed out of the room trying not to have eye-to-eye contact with my mother, thinking maybe she would have too much on her mind to think about wanting 15 cents change.
“Don, thanks for getting the bread. Where is the change?”
I fumbled in my pocket, pulled the nickel out, and put it on the table, pretending to search the rest of my pockets with such suggestions as, “I wonder if I lost it” or “Did Mrs. Murdock put the dime in the wrapper when she wrapped the bread?” (That last suggestion must have given my mother a clue that something was wrong.)
“Did she give you the right change?” my mother asked.
“Yes, I remember her giving me the 15 cents,” I said as my mother was reaching for the telephone to call the store.
“Then you lost it?” my mother asked with a tone in her voice of doubting. “Let’s go look for the dime,” she said as she picked up her sweater and headed out the door.
We backtracked the route and looked on both sides of the sidewalk. All the time, I was trying to call off this excursion, but my mother was locked in on getting to the bottom of the missing dime and would have no part of giving up until she found out just where that dime was.
I said a silent prayer, asking the Lord to produce me one little thin dime to get the pressure off. I had found a quarter once along that same sidewalk, and I knew that the Lord could produce a little dime now. I reinforced my petition by telling him I would never do anything like that again if he would come to my aid.
The voice inside of me seemed pretty loud, “No, Don!” I was getting desperate as we had worked our way now past Harry Deal’s electric shop and close to the store. I knew what the conversation would bring once my mother and Mrs. Murdock got together.
Oh, how thankful I am for a mother that would follow up and help a boy learn a lesson he needed so badly. I’m sure as anything that my mother knew just about what had happened before we left the house to look for the lost dime, but in her wisdom she knew a teaching moment when she saw one. I don’t think she knew, though, the torment that was exploding inside a little boy who realized he was about to get caught in a big lie.
As we stood outside the Murdock store, I told my mother, with tears running down my face, what I had done, right in front of that big poster of a Chicken Dinner bar.
My mother stood there, I’m sure with her heart aching, as she confessed to part of the blame by being so limited with money that she could not give her children some of the things she would like to, especially when it would bring one of her children to lying and stealing.
“Don, I brought the other nickel, and I would like you to go in and buy another of those bars, just to have to eat when you want it and to know that you do not have to steal anymore. Next time you come and ask, and we will find some way to buy it, the right way.”

Julie’s first day at Flower Elementary School just happened to be the day before Valentine Day. At breakfast that morning she felt sick.
“You’re probably just nervous,” her mom said. “Going to a new school can be scary.”
Julie did feel scared as she walked into the school yard. Everywhere she looked, she saw children she didn’t know. She wondered if she’d ever make friends.
Julie and her mom found her classroom and met her new teacher. Then Mom went home.
The teacher asked each of Julie’s new classmates to give his name and tell about something that he liked. Julie tried to remember everyone, but it was too hard.
After all the children had introduced themselves, the teacher talked about the valentine party for the next day. “You’re here just in time for the fun,” she said to Julie, handing her a written list of everyone’s name.
After school Julie told her mom about her day. “I’ll feel bad at the party because I don’t really know anyone yet.”
“Why not use the party to make new friends?” Mom suggested. “Give a special valentine to everyone in your class.”
Yes, Julie thought, I can do that. I’ll try to make extra-special valentines.
The first name on the list that her teacher had given her was Kim Anderson. Julie remembered Kim because she seemed nice. “I like cats and picnics,” Kim had said. So I’ll draw a picture of a cat having a picnic for Kim’s valentine, Julie decided.
She read the other names on the list and remembered what six of the children had said that they liked. For those that she couldn’t remember, she decided to draw hearts and cute stuffed animals.
When Julie explained her plan, Mom smiled and took her to the crafts store for supplies. Julie was picking out poster board when her stomach began to itch. She scratched it with her left hand and grabbed a sheet of pink poster board with her right one.
Back in the car Julie scratched her stomach again. Mom peeked under Julie’s sweater. “Oh, honey,” she said, “you’re coming down with the chicken pox. No wonder you didn’t feel well this morning.”
They drove right to Dr. Elder’s. “You just have a mild case of chicken pox,” he said. “Take it easy and don’t scratch. And no school for about a week.”
“No school!” Julie wailed when she got home. “Can’t I at least go to the party? I was going to make lots of friends with my special valentines.”
“I’m sorry, dear, but there will be other ways to make new friends when you can go back to school—you’ll see.”
The next morning Julie watched through the living room window as other children walked to school. She saw Kim and another girl from her class and plenty of children whom she didn’t know. They all chattered happily as they walked, making Julie feel lonelier than ever.
Even though Mom smeared lotion on Julie’s itchy blisters and read stories to her and played games with her, when two o’clock came, she felt especially sad because that was the time that the valentine party was supposed to start.
“I would have taken your valentines to school if I’d realized how much it meant to you,” Mom said.
“I didn’t make them, anyway,” Julie reminded her mom. “I was too tired to cut out that many hearts.”
Mom nodded. “That’s too much cutting for a girl with chicken pox.”
Then Julie had an idea. She could make one valentine by the time the children walked home from school. Working fast, she drew a giant heart on the poster board and cut it out and used a red crayon to write “Let’s be friends” on it. Then she drew a cat having a picnic, a truck, a horse, a baseball bat, a dog, some flowers, and some hearts. At the bottom she added, “I’m sick with chicken pox, but I’d still like to be your valentine. Julie.”
Mom helped her tape the giant heart to the living room window.
Soon dozens of children were walking past her house. They all looked at her valentine, but she didn’t recognize any of them. Then Kim came down the street. As soon as she saw the window, she pointed at it and called to other kids. Julie recognized them—they were her new classmates! She waved to them, but they had gathered together and were talking and didn’t wave back. Still talking, they sat on Julie’s lawn and acted very busy.
At last they stood, walked up to Julie’s front door, dropped envelopes into the mail slot and grinned and waved to her as they went on down the street.
Julie waved back enthusiastically, a big smile on her own face. Then she sat on the sofa and opened the envelopes. What fun it was. She had valentines from five children in her class—and even some from children in other classes! Her favorite one had a picture of a cat saying:
“To my chicken-pox valentine—
Get well so that we can have a picnic together.
Your friend,Kim.”

Over the next several years, members of the branch, including my grandma and my mother (now in her teens), were sometimes taken in by the secret police for questioning about their religious practices. One time my grandmother was questioned aggressively for five hours. Her questioners told her they would put her in prison for five years if they learned she was teaching religion to her children.
She recorded, “I stayed peaceful and said, ‘If you think that I do something wrong teaching my children religion, then you can lock me up.’ They didn’t answer. From that time on they called me in repeatedly. They talked against the Church, and they tried to get us off our faith. The more they tried the more I clung to the Church, [for] the true Church was always persecuted.”
My mother wrote in her journal, “In these most difficult years, members met on Sunday in our branch president’s apartment. We couldn’t sing loud so we whispered. We didn’t want our branch president in jail. For 18 years we were gathering like that and we were dreaming of the time when we all would be able to go to the Rocky Mountains and settle in [Salt Lake City].” They had hope even though at the time families were seldom granted paperwork that would allow them to leave the country.

Seven-year-old Craig Parker of Spanish Fork, Utah, gained a testimony of the role of prayer in the repentance process. One day while he was playing, he said a word that he knew was wrong. He felt very bad afterward. “In our home and at church I have learned about Jesus, and I know that He would not want me to say that word.”
Craig decided to kneel and pray for forgiveness. “I folded my arms and told Heavenly Father I was sorry for saying that word. I felt better after praying. I knew that Heavenly Father forgave me, and I have never said that word again.”

A few years ago I decided to get in shape. I had never exercised much, and I was a lot softer and flabbier than I wanted to be. Fortunately, as a college student, I had free access to the university’s P.E. facilities—weight room, indoor track, whatever I needed.
As luck would have it, someone in my ward was already lifting, and his partner was moving away. So I became his new partner, and we started the program with enthusiasm.
The benefits of having a partner soon became apparent. For one thing, it was nice to have someone to talk to while I was working out. For another thing, I felt more committed to keeping a regular schedule because I knew someone would be counting on me to show up.
But the most important reason came up later, when we were bench pressing.
With most weight exercises, if your strength gives out while you’re in the middle of a set, you can simply drop the weights, or let go of the machinery. With bench pressing, you lie down and push weight above you. If you can’t hold it any more, you can’t just let go, because the bar would fall on your chest and possibly do serious damage. You have to push it up all the way—just one more time—and let it rest on the supports.
That’s why having a partner is so important. If your strength fails you when you’re bench pressing, you say, “Help!” Your partner, who is standing behind you watching, is on the alert and can pull up the bar as you’re pushing it, keeping you from hurting yourself. He can do it because he isn’t tired from lifting, and because standing up, he’s in a better position to hold the weight than you are.
An unspoken rule is that the partner doesn’t interfere until you say so. Sometimes it may look like you’re struggling, but the partner won’t reach in and start pulling up the bar until you ask him to.
One day my partner had to cancel our lifting appointment. He had worked the graveyard shift the night before and was too tired to work out, but he encouraged me to go by myself, which I did. I handled the other exercises just fine, since they don’t require a partner. And then I tried bench pressing.
I knew I shouldn’t try it without a partner. I knew that by the end of my third set, exhaustion would set in and I would need help on my last repetition. Sometimes just knowing my partner was there made me brave enough to try a few more repetitions than I normally would—because I knew if I got in trouble, he could help. Now, without him there, I figured I could do it, since I didn’t push myself too hard. I thought if I just did two sets, instead of three, I could probably handle it on my own.
I was wrong, of course. By the time I was halfway into my second set, my muscles were starting to give out. And yet I didn’t stop. I wanted to push it for just two more repetitions. On the second one, my arms came down, the weight now resting just above my chest—but my arms wouldn’t go up again! My strength was gone. I couldn’t do any more. I pushed and strained and wiggled around on the bench, but my arms were absolutely finished. I could do no more. This was the time I would normally say, “Help!” and my partner would pull the weight off me. But I had no partner. I had gone into it alone, and I was stuck.
Fortunately, a kind soul happened to walk by and saw my predicament, and he helped me out. I was embarrassed, but at least I wasn’t hurt. As I looked back on the incident, I realized how it ties in with the gospel. When we accept the gospel and are baptized, we become partners with Jesus Christ. Having Him with us motivates us to do good, just as having a lifting partner helped me stay on schedule with my workouts. And while we’re “working out”—going through life, trying to endure to the end—it’s good to have a friend there with us.

Heidi Harris of Salt Lake City wanted to study the Book of Mormon but felt she had time only for schoolwork. Then one night, frustrated by a math problem, she exercised her faith and prayed for help. When she finished, the first thing she saw was the Book of Mormon. “I picked it up,” she says, “and began to read. … I finished a chapter in 1 Nephi, then went back to my treacherous math problem. I found I could solve it.”
After several weeks of reading the Book of Mormon, Heidi found herself achieving more academically. “I still had to do the work, but the reading gave me an extra push. … I was able to understand what I studied, and I had the patience to stick with my work. Not only did my grades improve, but I was easier to get along with and happier than I had ever been” (Liahona, February 1996, 13).

When Elder Neal A. Maxwell of the Quorum of the Twelve was growing up, more than anything he wanted to be a basketball star. When he was young, he was the best basketball player among his friends. In fact, he taught one of his friends how to play. But as time went on, his friend grew very tall and he did not. One of the hardest experiences of his life was being cut from the school basketball team while his friend made it.

Let his life be an example to you. Not all of your prayers will be answered the way you’d like. But if you trust Heavenly Father, he will not betray that trust.

Amber stared up at the movie theater marquee and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Her stomach twisted this way and that. Why does this have to happen to me now that I’m finally making friends here? she wondered. Trish, Sarah, and Kristin are so popular that I’m lucky they invited a new kid like me.
There were several people ahead of them in the ticket line. Amber knew that she had only a few minutes to make one of the toughest decisions of her twelve-year-old life.
She ran her fingers through her hair and pinched her lips together as she looked around at the girls with her. Their eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Only Trish could have come up with such a great plan!” exclaimed Sarah.
Trish, a tall, thin girl, laughed. “Well, since Bambi and TeenAgent are playing here together, why not take advantage of it?”
“I’m not sure my parents would let me go to a PG-13 movie if I asked them,” said Kristin, shoving her hands down into the back pockets of her jeans.
“But what parent would say no to good old Bambi!” Trish observed with a mischievous giggle. “Bambi—what a bore! It’s OK for five-year-olds, but we’re almost thirteen. Why shouldn’t we go to a PG-13 movie?”
Sarah moved a few steps closer to the ticket office. “It’ll be perfect. We see the other movie, and our parents think we’re at the kid show. Amber, you’re going to love TeenAgent. My older sister saw it, and she said it was great. The only reason it’s rated PG-13 is the bad language and a little bit of violence.”
“But it’s nothing we haven’t already heard at school,” Trish put in. “And what’s the big deal about a little violence? I can handle it, can’t you?” she asked Amber. Turning to the other two girls she continued, “TeenAgent will run longer than Bambi, so we’ll have to really hurry over to the pizza parlor afterward. If we’re still eating when my parents come, we’ll just tell them that the restaurant was really busy and it took a long time to get our pizza.” With a crooked smile, she added, “They’ll believe us.”
Amber’s stomach twisted into another knot as she looked at Trish and thought, Why didn’t you tell me the truth when you invited me? Why are you putting me in this awful—she couldn’t think of a right word for a second—situation. The word triggered a memory in Amber’s troubled mind. “You’re going to be put in situations that will test your spiritual strength.” She could picture Sister Hansen, her last Primary teacher, saying those words. “You may find yourself in situations that demand that you lower your standards. Unless you have a firm testimony of Jesus Christ and His Church, your spiritual strength may give way under peer pressure.” Spiritual strength. Testimony. The words echoed in Amber’s mind.
Sarah was buying her ticket now.
Which is more important to me right now: following our prophet, or my new friends? Amber’s mind raced as she watched Trish step up to buy her ticket. Do I really, truly believe?
“Amber, it’s your turn,” Kristin whispered after she’d bought her own ticket. Trish and Sarah were standing to the side of the ticket booth, watching her.
Stepping up to the booth, Amber said in a confident tone, “One ticket for Bambi, please.”
Sarah gasped. Trish’s look of surprise quickly turned into a smug glare. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said as Amber joined them. “We’re all going to the other movie. What’s the big deal? Don’t you think you can handle a little blood and bad language?”
“I’d rather see Bambi,” Amber answered in a firm voice.
“Your parents won’t find out that you …” Sarah faltered.
Amber shook her head. “It’s not their decision. It’s mine. And I just don’t want to see the other movie.”
“But what about going for pizza afterward?” asked Kristin, now standing next to Trish.
Amber turned to Kristin. She could see worry in her kind eyes. “Bambi gets out a lot earlier, so I’ll just call my parents to come get me. Maybe we can all go for pizza another—”
“Come on,” Trish interrupted, taking Sarah’s arm. “I guess I made a big mistake inviting her.”
Amber thought she saw a glimmer of understanding in Sarah’s eyes as she was whisked away by Trish. After two or three hurried steps, Trish turned and called, “Come on, Kristin, or we won’t get good seats.”
“I think I’ll go to Bambi, too,” Kristin said, her voice sounding apologetic. Turning to Amber, she added, “If that’s OK with you.”
“Great—just great!” grumbled Trish as she and Sarah disappeared into the theater.
“OK? It’s wonderful! But are you sure? They looked pretty upset,” Amber said.
Kristin shrugged her shoulders. “I’d rather see Bambi, too, but I was afraid to say so. Trish can be pretty persuasive sometimes. Let’s go exchange my ticket.”
Standing in line again, Kristin asked, “Why didn’t you want to go to the other movie? Were you afraid your parents would find out and ground you or something?”
“I’m sure they’d be hurt to know that I lied to them. But even if I had asked to go to a PG-13 movie, they would’ve said it was my decision. Then they would have had faith in me to make the correct choice.” Amber found it a relief to talk about it now. “I just didn’t want to see a movie with bad language and violence in it.”
“Why not?”
“Because our prophet, the leader of our Church, has counseled us not to go to movies that go against the teachings of Jesus Christ.”
“Boy, you must really believe your prophet and your Church,” said Kristin.
“I do, but I didn’t realize how much until today.”
Kristin shook her head a little. “I wish I could be strong like you. My family doesn’t believe in anything, and sometimes I feel so empty.”
All through the movie, Amber thought about Kristin’s words and the look in her eyes when she had said them. As the movie ended and the lights came up, she said, “Kristin, let’s call my parents to come get us. We can go to my house for some of my mom’s famous chocolate chip cookies. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted them!”
“Do you think it would be OK with your parents?” asked Kristin.
“I’m sure it would. Mom always says, ‘When you have five kids, what’s one more?’ Besides, I’d really like you to meet my family. I have a feeling that we’re going to be good friends.”

As a child, one of my neighbors owned a large orchard, and my summer job was picking pears and peaches. I would ride my bike over there early in the morning and pick all day. One day, I knew by lunchtime that I had picked fewer bushels than usual, and I thought something really bad would happen to me because I was behind. So I hurried home on my bike for lunch, hoping that somehow my parents would make it right. I was in tears on the way. I remember thinking, “Oh, no, what a terrible thing! What’s going to happen?”
But when I arrived home, nobody was there. The whole family was gone to one place or another. I thought the world was going to come to an end! I had nowhere else to turn, so I knelt down to pray. I asked Heavenly Father to somehow save me from whatever was going to happen. Right away I felt a very sweet inner peace. I knew that everything was going to be all right, and that I didn’t have to worry. So I dried my tears, had lunch, and went back to work. And, indeed, the world did not end—everything was all right. That experience taught me that the Lord is willing to hear my prayers. When problems are important to me, He notices. He will help us when we have trials, even if they seem unimportant to other people.

I recently returned from my mission and have felt unsure of where to go next in my life. Sometimes I wonder if Heavenly Father really is aware of me, my circumstances, and my feelings of uncertainty.
But then I remember that He is. He knows what I’m experiencing.
And how do I know this?
First, because our Church leaders continue to reassure us of these truths. President Russell M. Nelson, for example, recently said: “I assure you that our Heavenly Father and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, love you. They are intimately aware of your circumstances, your goodness, your needs, and your prayers for help.”1
And second, I believe Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know me because I have had many experiences in my life where They have helped me and shown me Their love.
But the experience I think about most frequently is my adoption.
When I was a baby, I lived in an orphanage in Cambodia. I got very sick with pneumonia, and the orphanage couldn’t afford my medical care.
At the same time, my future mother was visiting Cambodia from Finland for a work trip. She had a spiritual experience that guided her to visit my specific orphanage.
When we met, she felt an instant spiritual connection to me.
She took me to the hospital and paid for my medical expenses. She felt that she had been guided to Cambodia to help me get better—nothing more. But over the phone one night, her dad said to her, “Maybe this little girl is supposed to stay in your life.”
She prayed and felt her own spiritual confirmation that I was meant to be her child. So she started the adoption process. It took a long time, but eventually she returned home to Finland with me.
Whenever I’m feeling unsure if Heavenly Father is aware of me, pondering my unique origin story and the miracles involved always reminds me of this truth: He is intimately aware of and involved in my life.
Remembering this experience was a driving force for me during times when I struggled while serving my mission in London, England. When I was given the option to extend my mission for a few weeks, I really just wanted to go home!
But I remembered that Heavenly Father had provided me with miracles so I could be an instrument in His hands. This knowledge gave me strength to serve for those few extra weeks and share the love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ with others.
I know not everyone who is in difficult circumstances may have the same spiritual experiences that I had. But I do know that Heavenly Father has not forgotten any of us. As we reach for Him, He will always give us the strength and guidance we need.
My experience as a child reassures me that even among His billions of children, Heavenly Father knew me—a tiny child in an orphanage—and provided the inspiration that connected me to the gospel and to my family.
And He knows you.
When I feel guilt over my mistakes, when I was overwhelmed while serving my mission, and as I’m now trying to decide what to study at university, I find rest in the knowledge that my Heavenly Father and Savior are with me.
As President Susan H. Porter, Primary General President, recently taught: “God’s love is not found in the circumstances of our lives but in His presence in our lives. We know of His love when we receive strength beyond our own and when His Spirit brings peace, comfort, and direction. … We can pray to have our eyes opened to see His hand in our lives and to see His love in the beauty of His creations.”2
I testify that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ can give us the power and love we need to do all They ask of us. I invite you to willingly seek that truth for yourself, and I promise that They will remind you of Their love in the ways you need most.

Many years ago, our four-year-old son was involved in a serious accident away from home. When he was well enough to be transferred to a local hospital, we found a letter through our door from a dear sister in our ward listing who would bring meals on which days, who would collect our other children to and from school, and who would do our laundry, etc. A few days later my wife was also in hospital giving birth to our youngest son. With her in one end of the hospital, our son in the other end of the hospital and four other children to care for, this sister anticipating our needs and reaching out was so, so much, appreciated over those six difficult weeks.

I do not think we’re less grateful than other people—but we have so much more to be grateful for. This was driven home to me as a young man when my grandfather, who had been the bishop of a little country ward in Whitney, Idaho, told me about a visit made to his house by Elder Joseph F. Smith, who would later become President of the Church.
Grandfather said that they were seated in the living room/dining room combination of the farmhouse. The table was laden with good things to eat. The family was gathered around. Just before they were ready to start the meal, Elder Smith stretched his long arms over the table and turned to my grandfather and said, “Brother Benson, all this and the gospel too!” What did he mean? All this and the gospel too! The food represented the material blessings of life—food, clothing, and all the rest. This family of children—home, family, loved ones—all that the world has and the gospel too. I think that’s what the President had in mind.

With young people keeping this hectic pace, their parents frequently find themselves trying to catch their sons or daughters for a few minutes of visiting. The dinner table is often the only time when most of the family is together during the day, and a common scene at the table is to watch mother or dad attempt to pump out a little information from their frantically scheduled offspring. Mother: How did things go at school today, Jan?
Jan: Okay.
Dad: Anything interesting happen?
Jan: Nope.
Mother: How did your math class go? I know you’ve been worried about it.
Jan: It’s going all right.
Dad: How is your play practice coming?
Jan: Good.
Dad: Any problems coming up that we can help with?
Jan: Not really, but can I have the car tonight? I need to get together with some of the other kids.
Dad: I guess so.
In fairness to Jan, it is not just from her that her parents try to pump information. If you were to listen to the conversation between her mother and dad when he comes home from work, you would probably hear a conversation like this:
Mother: How did things go at work today, dear?
Dad: Okay.
Mother: Anything interesting happen?
Dad: Nope.
Mother: How did that new project go that you’ve been worried about?
Dad: It’s going all right.
Family members often don’t spend enough time talking, sharing, discussing. They don’t often find a time when everyone is together, and the climate for discussion is not created since everyone is rushing through dinner to get to the next activity.
The lack of scheduling in family time is just as much a problem for the children as the parents. Younger children often are the ones who suffer. They would like to get together with the whole family more often to play games and do other things together. Many teenagers don’t really know anything about younger brothers or sisters. The little one goes on in a world of his own, and the teenager only occasionally dips into that world. It is often a surprise to the teenager to find that a younger brother or sister has grown up or has developed habits or attitudes he doesn’t understand. Older brothers and sisters are important role models and sources of influence on younger children.
Scott was caught up in the excitement of his mission call. In two months he would be leaving for Australia. Following the first flush of excitement came a flood of nostalgia for his home and family, which was surprising since he had not yet left home. He began to look around and see things he had been aware of yet not really seen. There was his sister, four years younger, who was beginning to blossom into a young lady. He saw her trying to cope with the sudden attention boys were paying her, wanting to be popular but not knowing how. Scott wanted to tell her things he thought might help, but he didn’t know how. He suddenly realized that he had never once had a serious, sensitive, personal conversation with his own sister. All of their interaction was in bits and pieces of teasing, complaining, or routine daily matters. Here he was about to try to teach the gospel to people thousands of miles away but had disregarded the opportunity to render a similar service at home.

A few days later, we fasted along with our extended family members. For the first time in a while, I felt like fasting in faith made sense. I had faith in the Savior and knew that whatever His will, we could get through it with His help.
We went forward with the treatment, and, amazingly, we soon found out we were pregnant. We were so excited. I felt with my whole heart that God truly is a God of miracles!
A few days later, we learned we were going to lose the baby. All our joy was suddenly replaced with sadness. But because of the experiences I’d had learning about miracles, I felt a sense of peace. I knew that through the Savior’s Atonement we would get through this—I had felt that strongly just a few days before. And the fact that we could get pregnant gave us guidance in the coming months.

One day I visited a church three blocks from our house. When I rang the doorbell, the custodian answered. I told him I had two teenage sons who needed to belong to a youth group. “Do you have Boy Scouts?” I asked. He said yes.
Then I asked him if his church was based on the Bible. Again he said yes—it was based on the Bible and the Book of Mormon. He invited me to Church services the following Sunday. My 13-year-old son, Marcelo, was traveling with friends, so I invited my other son, Sergio, who was 15, to accompany me. He came, although reluctantly.
When we entered the chapel, several members greeted us in a friendly manner. An older man quickly introduced us to the missionaries, and they started teaching us the discussions that day. When Marcelo returned from his trip, he joined us in the discussions. The Spirit touched our hearts, and on 16 February 1980 my sons and I became members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My wife, Isabel, was baptized one month later.

Caregiving has been one of the most difficult experiences we have ever had, but also one of the most rewarding. We have seen so many miracles. There were moments when the right resources and people seemed to come out of nowhere exactly when we needed them. Moments when certain medications suddenly became available. Moments when, after an unbearable day, unexpected peace would wash over us. And one of the most beautiful miracles I (Stephen) experienced was watching tender tears fall down Kay’s cheeks as she departed from this world, finally at peace, and seemingly recalling things she hadn’t remembered in years.

When I turned 18, a lot of members in my ward and stake began telling me I should go on a mission. Even though I had always planned to serve a mission, I didn’t like all the pressure.
Soon I began my first year of college. As a result of hard work, I won a scholarship that allowed me to study in Germany. Germany was very different from my native country, Mexico, but I became immersed in the culture and learned the language quickly.
Eventually I was offered a permanent job at a prestigious European company. Serving a mission suddenly felt more like a duty than a desire. I thought that I could take this job and enjoy worldly success.
One snowy day I traveled to the city of Heidelberg with my friend Melanie. After several hours, the highway was covered with snow, and we became sleepy. We were driving around 65 miles (105 km) per hour when we passed through a red light and hit a bus.
When I woke up, I saw the police, the ambulance, and Melanie, who was crying. The car was destroyed, and I was still in it. Tears came to my eyes when I realized how blessed we were to be alive. I began praying and thanking my Heavenly Father for letting us survive, but a new fear came to me—I was not able to move my legs.
On our way to the hospital, I heard the nurses saying that if I had a spinal injury, I probably wouldn’t be able to walk again. I prayed with all my heart to my Heavenly Father. First I thanked Him again for letting me survive, realizing that my life was not my own. Then I promised Him, “If my legs are OK and I can walk, I will serve a mission with all my heart and mind.”
After four hours at the hospital, my diagnosis was promising: I would walk again. I no longer had any hesitation about serving a mission. Instead I felt a strong desire to share my testimony that God lives, that He is our Father in Heaven, and that He can perform miracles in our lives.
After that experience I decided not to take the job I’d been offered. I knew that my time and everything I have belong to the Lord. Why shouldn’t I give Him a little of that time and serve Him for two years?
After graduating, I was called to serve in Frankfurt, Germany. During my mission I testified of my Heavenly Father. I know that He lives, that He is my Father, and that He protects me. He has given me my life, and it will always belong to Him.

There is one last scene I would call up for you from my journal. I read it as I wrote it in Nha Trang, Vietnam, in May 1967:
“There was a memorable meeting this morning, which began with a senior military chaplain of another church addressing us warmly as ‘My brothers in Christ.’ This touched me deeply.
“After [the meeting], I walked quietly down the passageway alongside the large room where we had met. As I passed the back door, I looked in and saw three men who had their hands on the head of another who sat on a chair. All four were dressed in battle gear; two had returned from air strikes just in time for the meeting, and one was shortly to go. The three members of the district presidency were giving a blessing to an officer senior to them all, setting him apart as a district missionary.”
This sweet scene affected me more deeply than any priesthood sermon I have heard. Priesthood to them meant the right and the power to serve, to act in the name of the Lord as his agents and in his interests with their fellowmen. This scene I hope I will never forget.