Gospel Story Finder

Adam Hickenbotham of the Las Vegas 68th Ward, Las Vegas Nevada Sunrise Stake, set a rather ambitious goal for himself. He decided to try to read all the standard works in one year. Adam admits that reading is one of his favorite hobbies. He is at the top of his high school class with straight-A grades. He also loves sports and Scouting. He has earned his Eagle Award and runs on the school track team. Adam recommends that others try what he did and read the Old and New Testaments, the Doctrine and Covenants, the Pearl of Great Price, and the Book of Mormon in one year. “It was a great experience. I really learned a lot, and my testimony was strengthened,” he said.

Elisa walked into Primary and sat by her friend Armando.
“Welcome!” Sister Russo said. “Let’s start with a song.”
Elisa sang with her class. “Faith is like a little seed: if planted, it will grow” (Children’s Songbook, 96).
Sister Russo passed out paper and crayons. “Think about what we sang,” she said. “When you plant your seed of faith, it grows into a testimony. Now draw what your testimony would look like if it were a plant.”
Elisa stared at her blank paper. Everyone else started to draw. Elisa peeked at Armando’s drawing. His plant had a straight stem with lots of leaves. It looked like the basil growing on her apartment balcony. Maybe that’s what her testimony looked like too! She gripped her crayon and drew one like his.
“Please open your scriptures to Alma 32,” Sister Russo said.
They read about planting a seed in your heart and feeling it grow. Elisa looked at her testimony plant. Did she have a testimony? What did that even mean? She wanted to ask but felt too shy.
When class ended, Sister Russo came over to Elisa.
“You seem distracted. Is anything wrong?” Sister Russo asked.
Elisa glanced down at her drawing again. “I’m not sure I have a testimony. I don’t really know what that means.”
Sister Russo gave Elisa a kind smile. “That’s OK. Do you remember what faith is?”
Elisa nodded. “Believing in something we can’t see?”
“That’s right!” Sister Russo said. “What are some things you believe in?”
That was an easy question. “I believe in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I know They love me.”
Sister Russo smiled. “You just shared your testimony! A testimony is what you believe about the gospel.”
Elisa thought about it. “So I already have a testimony?”
“Yes!” Sister Russo held up her scriptures. “And remember what we read today? You nourish the seed by doing things like coming to church. Then your testimony will grow stronger.”
Elisa felt like she understood. “So that’s why we drew our testimonies as plants?”
“Exactly. Because plants grow little by little,” Sister Russo said. “Testimonies are the same way. They usually don’t come all at once. They grow a little at a time.”
Elisa felt better about the plant she had drawn. When she got home, she wrote “My Testimony Plant” next to her drawing. She hung it up by her bed. She knew her testimony was already growing. And she wanted to keep following Jesus so it could grow even bigger!

A few years ago, my wife and I were struggling with one of our young single adult children. A long series of events had left us emotionally drained. I regrettably remember saying, “I’m over it. I’m turning off the ‘I care’ switch.” For a few days, I felt better, detached, less stressed, and I thought I had found peace.

But then came Sunday.

I had recently read Elder Peter F. Meurs’s 2016 general conference talk, “The Sacrament Can Help Us Become Holy.” He offered five ways to deepen our worship:
Prepare in advance
Arrive early
Sing and learn from the sacrament hymn
Participate in the prayers
Remember Jesus as the emblems are passed
I tried to apply those teachings, but my heart was still heavy. Then came the opportunity to learn from the sacrament hymn. Verse 2 pierced my heart:

As now our minds review the past,
We know we must repent;
The way to thee is righteousness—
The way thy life was spent.
Forgiveness is a gift from thee
We seek with pure intent.

Immediately my heart turned not just to the Saviour but to my child. The Spirit whispered to me, “Call him and tell him you are sorry. Let him know you love him.”

After the meeting, I messaged: “I’m going to call you this afternoon, I need to talk. Please answer. I promise I won’t hassle you.”

I called and said, “I love you, Son. Please forgive me.” There was a period of silence, then his voice: “Aw, is that it? All good, I love you too. I’m sorry. How was your day?”

That moment was sacred. It was healing. It was the Saviour’s balm, and it came because I tried, however imperfectly, to build on the rock.

I didn’t always pay attention. After hearing the sacrament prayers every week since childhood, I had started to tune them out. If there was something I found more interesting to think about, I’d let my mind wander.
But then one Sunday as I bowed my head to take the sacrament, I noticed my hands. They had many scrapes from various sources. One was caused by a bicycle crash on a night my parents had told me not to go out, and another scratch was from falling down stairs because I was careless. My hands had several marks caused by things I had done.
Some marks had been there longer than others, but I knew that most of them would heal with time.
As I gently touched the scrapes on my hands, I thought of the wounds on someone else’s hands and how those scars are so vital for us. Jesus Christ went through intense suffering for our spiritual well-being.
I realized that just as my body had physical scars it was trying to heal, my spirit was also pocked and scarred by careless things I had done. Heavenly Father knew we would hurt ourselves spiritually on earth, so he sent his Son to help us heal our wounds.
As I started to listen more intently to the sacrament prayers, I realized that by taking the sacrament and renewing my covenants, the Savior could wipe away the inward bruises on my soul. Through the years, I had been unpleasant to my family, ungrateful to my Young Women leaders, and imperfect in other ways. My soul was blemished from its original perfection. I knew the formula for healing physical wounds, but the way to heal spiritual scars hadn’t seemed so obvious until I listened closely to the prayers: “… keep his commandments which he has given them; that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:77).
I can be healed through the atonement of Jesus Christ.
I’m thankful for what my slightly scarred hands remind me of when I reach out to partake of the sacrament. Each Sunday I commit to try to keep myself from getting more inward scrapes during the next week, and I remember that the wounds I have on my soul can be healed as I keep the commandments and listen to the Holy Ghost.

Forty-six years ago I was called as an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve, and for the first time, I came to this pulpit. I was 37 years old. I found myself standing among the venerable and wise prophets and apostles, “whose names,” as the song proclaims, “we all revere” (“Oh, Holy Words of Truth and Love,” Hymns, no. 271). I felt how keenly inadequate I was.
About that time here in the Tabernacle I had a defining experience. It gave me assurance and courage.
In those days Primary conference was held here before the April conference. I came through a south door as the opening song was being sung by a large choir of Primary children. Sister Lue S. Groesbeck, a member of the Primary general board, was leading them. They sang:
Rev’rently, quietly, lovingly we think of thee;
Rev’rently, quietly, softly sing our melody.
Rev’rently, quietly, humbly now we pray,
Let thy Holy Spirit dwell in our hearts today.
(“Reverently, Quietly,” Children’s Songbook, 26)
As the children sang quietly, the organist, who understood that excellence does not call attention to itself, did not play a solo while they sang. He skillfully, almost invisibly blended the young voices into a melody of inspiration, of revelation. That was the defining moment. It fixed deeply and permanently in my soul that which I most needed to sustain me in the years to follow.
I felt perhaps that which Elijah the prophet had felt. He sealed the heavens against the wicked king Ahab and fled to a cave to seek the Lord:
“A great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks … ; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake:
“And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire [came] a still small voice.
“And it was so,” the record says, “when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave” to speak to the Lord (1 Kings 19:11–13).
I felt something of what the Nephites must have felt when the Lord appeared to them: “They heard a voice as if it came out of heaven; and they cast their eyes round about, for they understood not the voice which they heard; and it was not a harsh voice, neither was it a loud voice; nevertheless, and notwithstanding it being a small voice it did pierce them that did hear to the center, insomuch that there was no part of their frame that it did not cause to quake; yea, it did pierce them to the very soul, and did cause their hearts to burn” (3 Nephi 11:3).
It is this still, small voice which Elijah and the Nephites heard that the Prophet Joseph Smith understood when he wrote, “Thus saith the still small voice, which whispereth through and pierceth all things” (D&C 85:6).
In that defining moment, I understood that the still, small voice is felt more than heard. If I hearkened to it, I would be all right in my ministry.
After that, I had the assurance that the Comforter, the Holy Ghost, is there for everyone who will respond to the invitation to ask, to seek, and to knock (see Matthew 7:7–8; Luke 11:9–10; 3 Nephi 14:7–8; D&C 88:63). I knew I would be all right. As the years have unfolded, so it has been.

Two young elders were beginning to feel desperate for a place to stay. They had knocked at many doors in the little English village and they had talked with members of the Church and non-members. No one was interested in giving “digs” (a room with meals provided) to two Mormon missionaries.
The elders felt that they had checked every possibility and that they had wasted days in following leads. But their efforts met with failure after failure. They had prayed for help but no help came.
Then the elders decided that there was just one last thing to do—add fasting to their prayers. One of them was so discouraged that he said he was a little doubtful whether even this would bring results, but he was willing to try anything.
Whenever the missionaries had a problem, they usually fasted for only twenty-four hours, but when these two young men had not found a place to live after that period of time, they decided to fast for another day and night. After forty-eight hours of fasting and prayer, the young men still had not been successful. By this time they had returned to the same tracting area for the second time.
Hardly knowing whether they were being guided by inspiration or desperation, one of them was impressed to knock on a door from which they had been rather rudely turned away the first time they had called. There was no answer but a neighbor saw the elders and recognized them. She remembered their request and called out, “You’re still looking for a place to live, aren’t you?”
When they told her they were, she said, “Well, I happen to know of a lady who is looking for some people to live with her.” And as it turned out, this was a perfect place for the elders to stay.
Said one of the elders in telling this experience later, “We gratefully recognized that the Lord had accepted our fast and answered our prayers. I gained more of an understanding of the ways of my Heavenly Father. We should have fasted at first, for He directed us only after we started fasting and had put forth considerable effort and after there was sufficient sacrifice.”

A sense of humor also works well for Loraine Taylor of Calgary, Alberta, Canada.
“Everybody’s not a jokester,” says Loraine, “but for me that usually works.”
“I was invited to a graduation party, and I knew that joking wouldn’t do it. I also knew that I wouldn’t be able to leave early because I had a date. So I prayed really hard before the party that I would be able to resist.
“People kept offering me drinks all night, but I had a prayer in my heart the whole time, so I made it through the evening.
“At first, it wasn’t easy. It took time and a lot of refusals before my friends finally knew me well enough to know that I was still their friend—even when I said no. But later they wouldn’t smoke or drink around me.”

“When my husband was four years old, he became very ill and went into a coma. Everyone thought he had died. In fact, his body had been placed in a casket for burial. In a little while they heard a faint knocking on the side of the casket. The child was alive! The casket was quickly reopened and the boy sat up. ‘I want a soda pop,’ he said.
Thereafter, he was known as the ‘soda pop kid.’ His parents have often said that after this experience he was a changed child. He was more responsible and would help tend the others in the family. He was concerned about others and seemed to be blessed with a special spirit.

Soon after I was sustained last October, I traveled to Pakistan on an assignment and, while there, met the magnificent and dedicated Saints in that country. They are few in number but large in spirit. Shortly after returning home, I received the following note from Brother Shakeel Arshad, a dear member I had met on my visit: “Thank you, Elder … Rasband, for coming to Pakistan. I want to tell you that we … Church members … sustain you and love you. [We are] so lucky that you were here and we heard from you. It was just a golden day in my family’s life that we met an Apostle.”
Meeting Saints like Brother Arshad was an overwhelming and humbling experience and, using his words, “a golden day” for me as well.
Shakeel Arshad, my friend in Pakistan, sent his support to me, his brother and friend. So have many of you. When we reach out to lift one another, we prove those powerful words: “[No one] goes his way alone.”

A few weeks before leaving on my mission to Ecuador, I was ordained an elder and received all the responsibilities that come with the Melchizedek Priesthood.
Soon afterward, my mom and I were visiting some family members, and my uncle gave me a white missionary handbook, saying that I would soon be needing it. I thought he was referring to my mission—only weeks away. But that night my uncle asked me to assist in giving a blessing to my aunt, who was sick. I was surprised at the invitation but knew I now had the authority to administer to the sick—and even more, to help my aunt who was in need.
I immediately read how to give a blessing in my newly acquired handbook and was able to carry out my first priesthood blessing, feeling truly grateful in this new capacity to serve others.

For a more specific example of this realization, not too long ago, I was reading books that my friends (many of whom are members of the Church) were reading.
Often, I would be enjoying the stories, only to be unexpectedly jarred by profanity or sexual content.
For a while, I convinced myself this wasn’t a big deal. They were just books, right? Everyone from the millions of readers on social media to my friends seemed to be reading them with no complaints.
So how could I not agree?
I enjoyed these books and wanted to be part of conversations about them! Deep down, though, they were affecting me and my outlook on life and relationships. But I was afraid to stop reading them because I didn’t want to be seen as prudish or immature.
The Lord offers this warning: “The weak things of the world shall come forth and break down the mighty and strong ones, that man should not counsel his fellow man, neither trust in the arm of flesh” (Doctrine and Covenants 1:19).
This helped me realize I needed to be honest with myself.
I was justifying my behavior by following everyone else’s choices. I was fearing their judgment and ignoring the Spirit’s red flags instead of heeding His warnings.
A few years ago, President Nelson invited us to fast from social media for 10 days. While studying his challenge recently, I noticed that in addition to social media, he included “any other media that bring negative and impure thoughts to your mind.”
So I started taking note of what content I am sensitive to. I’ve tried to establish better habits with the media I consume. Media use isn’t inherently bad, but it’s always important to make sure we pay attention to the Spirit when consuming it.
If you are having trouble knowing where to make changes in your media habits, try asking yourself questions like these:
Are you feeling uplifted and inspired? Or numb and lonely?
Have you felt any discomfort that might be prompting you to step away from certain content?
Are you feeling a need to “fit in” with others by watching or reading certain media?
Are you being honest with yourself?
Elder Ulisses Soares of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles recently taught, “It takes a courageous and a willing heart to pause and pursue an honest and meek introspection to acknowledge the presence of weaknesses of the flesh in our life that may impede our ability to submit ourselves to God, and ultimately decide to adopt His way rather than our own.”
And he’s right. It can be hard to acknowledge our weaknesses and make changes that align with God instead of the world. I still have a lot of work to do when it comes to my media choices (and all my choices), but I’m striving to do better each day.
We have the beautiful promise of having the Spirit as our constant companion as we renew our covenants through the sacrament each week and through the gift of repentance. As we do this—and are truly honest with ourselves—we can “resensitize” our hearts to His guiding influence.
I know that we can always try again when we don’t always make choices that align with the Lord’s commandments. But by focusing on Jesus Christ, we can increase the Spirit’s influence in our lives and limit the world’s.

“I’m going to get rich,” Tom told his mother on Saturday morning. “All the money I have in the world is the quarter Uncle Fred gave me. A quarter isn’t enough to buy the green bike in Thompson’s department store window. So I’m going to get rich.”
“How are you going to do that?” his mother asked. “There aren’t many ways a boy your age can earn money.”
“I’ll find things to do,” Tom assured her. “Mrs. Davis’s yard is a mess. I’m sure she’ll pay me to clean it up. Don’t worry. There are lots of ways I can earn money.” He smiled. “I’ll make at least five dollars, just today! In a few weeks I’ll be rich enough to buy the bike.”
Tom whistled as he pulled his wagon down the sidewalk. He was still whistling when he rang Mrs. Davis’s doorbell.
“I’m going to earn money for a bike,” he told Mrs. Davis. “Will you hire me to clean your yard?”
Mrs. Davis looked surprised. Then she looked sort of embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Tom,” she said. “I would certainly like to have this dirty yard tidied up, and I can’t do it myself. But my pension isn’t enough for me to pay to have it done.”
Tom looked at the branches and paper scraps cluttering the yard. Then he looked at Mrs. Davis. Even though she was old and could barely stoop to pick up things, she kept the inside of her house clean. Tom was sure that she hated having a messy yard. “Look,” he said. “Your yard is small, and it’s early. I can easily clean it before I start getting rich.”
“Why, thank you, Tom!” said Mrs. Davis. “Come in when you’re finished. I’m baking cinnamon cookies today.”
Tom smiled. Mrs. Davis’s cookies were worth waiting an hour to start getting rich!
The sun was inching higher into the sky when Tom carried the last branch to the trash pile. If he hadn’t been so hungry, he would have skipped eating the cookies and gone right on to getting rich.
He’d barely left Mrs. Davis’s house with the extra bag of cookies she’d insisted he take home, when he heard someone call, “Young man! Could you help me?”
Looking around, Tom saw Mr. Gunther waving at him. “I need help carrying some boxes to the basement,” the old man said. “I have to store some of my junk down there, or there won’t be room upstairs for me.”
He cackled at his own joke, and Tom smiled. Mr. Gunther lived on a pension too.
I won’t get rich here either, Tom decided.
“Come on,” the old man urged. He walked toward his house, not even waiting for Tom to agree to help.
Tom sighed, then followed Mr. Gunther inside. His mom wouldn’t be happy with him if he refused to help a neighbor. Besides, Mr. Gunther was pretty nice. Last summer he’d showed Tom how to make neat little boats from plain old tree leaves.
An hour later Tom looked at the clock in Mr. Gunther’s kitchen. It was ten-thirty, and he still had only a quarter!
“Wait,” Mr. Gunther said as Tom started for the door. He looked embarrassed, like Mrs. Davis had, and Tom knew that he was going to apologize for not having money.
“I don’t want anything for helping,” Tom said quickly, feeling embarrassed too.
Mr. Gunther looked relieved. “Checks just don’t reach far enough nowadays,” he mumbled. Then he took a small box from the table. “I found these when I was cleaning. Do you have a stamp collection?” He opened the box, and Tom stared at a stack of old envelopes. The one on top had a big stamp with an airplane from World War II on it.
“Wow!” Tom said. “I don’t have any stamps this old!”
Mr. Gunther looked pleased. “Here, then,” he said. “And if you’re trying to make money, Mrs. Jackson seldom moves her car from her garage. She’s sure to need some errands done.”
“Thanks a lot!” Tom said as he left. Helping Mrs. Jackson was a good idea. Once she’d given him a whole dollar just for getting a loaf of bread from the store!
Mrs. Jackson was pleased to see Tom and sent him to the store. But after he’d paid for her bread and milk, there was only a dime and four pennies change.
“I’m so sorry, Tom,” she said after she had dug through three old purses to see if she could find more money. “I guess fourteen cents is all I can pay today. I haven’t been to the bank lately to get any cash.”
Tom gulped. Then he remembered the dollar she’d paid him last time, and he knew that he’d already been paid for today too.
“That’s OK,” he said. “Fourteen cents is plenty. Thank you, Mrs. Jackson.”
“Thank you!” she said. Then she smiled. “You’re a nice boy, Tom. It’s good to have helping neighbors.”
Her words made Tom feel so good that he was almost home before he realized that the morning was gone and that he was only fourteen cents closer to being rich enough to buy the green bike.
Still, he thought as he parked his wagon, Mrs. Davis’s cookies will make a great dessert. And he was eager to get Mr. Gunther’s old stamps soaked off the envelopes and into his album. As for Mrs. Jackson … well, she had given him some money, and she was a good friend.
“Hurry, Tom. Lunch is ready,” his mother called. When he went into the kitchen, she asked, “Well, are you rich yet?”
Tom grinned and replied, “Yep—I sure am.”

The importance of what a good reputation means was emphasized to me when I entered into business many years ago with a great business leader. Our plans were to start a new wholesale business. He was to furnish the capital, and I was to furnish the management. After we reached an understanding he wrote me a check for a very large amount of money, and then he said, “If the business is a success, you will get all the credit; and if the business fails, you will likewise get all the credit.” He then went on to say, “Should the business fail, you will lose more than I will. I’ll only lose money, and I have more of that; but you will lose your reputation, which is much more valuable than money.”

Fortunately for both of us, the business was successful.

When Anna Nadasdi participates in temple work, her enthusiasm is obvious. It is easy to understand that enthusiasm when one knows her story.
Sister Nadasdi was born in Hungary and raised in the Greek Catholic faith. Her father, who had worked in the United States as a young man, told her many stories of that distant “land of promise.”
She was a young woman during World War II when her country was invaded. During those perilous years, she always carried her family genealogy records to prove to the authorities that she was not Jewish. The records, covering one hundred years, were carefully wrapped in a handbag made from braided cornstalk leaves.
After the war, she married. She and her husband decided to leave Hungary, but they could not get exit permits. The only route open to them was through a minefield covered with barbed wire and guarded by soldiers in gun towers. After a period of consideration, they decided on a night to make the dangerous journey. In the agonizing crawl across the minefield they were expecting any moment to be blown up by a mine, ensnared by the barbed wire, or be shot. “The Lord must have been guiding us,” Sister Nadasdi says, “because we crossed safely into Austria. All we had with us were the clothes we wore—and my genealogy. I felt I had to bring my genealogy records with me even though it made crawling across the minefield even more difficult.”
Unable to find a sponsor in the United States, the couple emigrated to Australia. But memories of her father’s stories about the United States stayed in her mind.
One night, Sister Nadasdi had an unusual dream. She saw a beautiful building with many towers, surrounded by lovely grass and trees. She saw happy people entering and leaving the building. When she awoke, the memory of the building was clear in her mind, but she had no idea of what or where it was. She would often think about her dream and wonder what it meant.
In 1954, Sister Nadasdi and her husband separated.
The years passed, and she was successful in her work as a government clerk, but Sister Nadasdi felt something important missing in her life. As this feeling grew stronger, she decided to pray to God. Feeling lonely and desperate, she found a secluded spot and she began to plead with the Lord. After recounting the many difficulties in her life, she asked, “If there is another way, why don’t you show it to me?”
Almost immediately after her prayer, she met two Latter-day Saint missionaries who had just entered her apartment building. After they introduced themselves and explained the purpose of their visit, Sister Nadasdi thought, “As I was talking with the Lord, these two young men were already on their way into my life. Surely they must have an answer for me.”
Sister Nadasdi was receptive to the gospel message, but she was particularly affected when they showed her a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and she recognized the beautiful building of her dream. “If I hadn’t been supported by the arms of my chair,” she later said, “I would have fallen off on to the floor!” In response to her keen interest, the elders explained the doctrine of temple work for both the living and the dead.
“I finally understood why I had brought my family genealogy with me when I left Hungary,” she says. As the missionaries talked, she knew she would join the Church and one day go to Salt Lake City to do the temple work for herself and for her family.
Sister Nadasdi was baptized, and she did make the long round trip from Australia to Salt Lake City for her own temple ordinances and for those of her family.
In 1983, after visiting Hungary, the land of her birth, she moved to Salt Lake City to retire and to fulfill her greatest desire to serve in the House of the Lord of which she had dreamed so many years before.

One Saturday when I was a bishop, I was preparing to go out with my family to the beach when the Spirit caused me to stop. My family asked what happened, and I responded that I couldn’t go with them because I had to visit a certain couple. I didn’t understand the reason, but I returned home and prayed and felt that I should take with me a copy of the Liahona. I did not know what message I would share, but as I arrived I felt I should talk about eternal marriage.
Later, the husband told me that God sent me there because they had been having a fight that stopped when I arrived. What that couple needed at that moment was the message I had brought.
It is very important that we have the Liahona in our homes because we don’t know when we will need it to solve our problems. I am grateful to always have the Liahona in my home. I feel the Spirit stronger when I read it and seek to apply its teachings.Marcial F. Lima, Brazil

Hector González of the Villa Nueva Guatemala Stake says the gospel has given him strength to face the cancer that cost him a leg and nearly took his life. At one point, he wondered why this should happen to him. His wife brought his patriarchal blessing to him in the hospital, and he found hope in its promise of a long life of service. When it became obvious that he would lose his right leg, he received a spiritual witness that all would be well. After the surgery, he recalls, “It was incredible the support I found in reading the Book of Mormon. It gave me the strength to go on.” Now back at work, he says, “I know the Lord has been watching over me. I know He has cared for me through all of this.”

I remember when I was about your age wishing the Spirit would tell me something different. I grew up in a small town in Canada. There were 10 people in my high school graduating class, so I graduated in the top 10 of my class! One evening my sister Shirley and I were going to the same party at a friend’s house. Mom and Dad reminded us to come right home after the party. Shirley was a year younger than I and went with her group of friends, and I went with mine. After the party Shirley went directly home, a clear indication to Mom and Dad that the party was over. I was not as wise. With my group of friends we began driving around the exciting places in town—the grain elevators and the cemetery!
As time passed I got the strong feeling that I should be home. But how could I be the first one to say, “I have to go home”? So I didn’t. I stayed with my friends, laughing and pretending I was having a good time. The feeling that I should go home grew stronger and stronger. Finally I laughingly said to my friends, “If you see a blue car ahead, it’s just my dad looking for me.” No sooner had I said those words than there indeed was a blue car and my dad standing in the middle of the road (there wasn’t a lot of traffic), waving his arms for us to stop.
Dad came around to the car door, opened it, and said quietly, “Sharon, you’d better come home with me.” I wanted to crawl under the floor mats of the car and never come out! How could my dad be so cruel and insensitive, and why didn’t my sister wait outside the house so Mom and Dad wouldn’t know when the party was over? I talked to my sister recently about this, and she said, “I did wait outside until I almost froze to death.” At the time I was sure it was everyone else’s fault that I was so humiliated in front of my friends!
Through the lens of time and reality, I see more clearly what really happened. I was prompted and warned several times—not by a legion of angels or even one small angel, but a still, small voice. Actually, it was just a feeling I had. It was so subtle, so quiet that it could be easily brushed away and I could pretend it wasn’t really there—and my friends were!
I had overstepped something that was expected of me. I had chosen to be popular with my friends instead of pleasing my parents and the Lord. But even when I deliberately chose not to obey, the Spirit was still there prompting me. You can’t do wrong and feel right. Pretending the Spirit isn’t prompting you when it is, is like putting the wrong answer down on a test when you know the right answer.

Vitaly: Katya and I were married in Omsk on February 25, 2006. (The laws of Russia require a civil marriage prior to a temple sealing, as many countries do.) The next morning we set off on a trip to the Stockholm Sweden Temple. We boarded an airplane in Omsk and flew three hours to Moscow, where we spent the rest of the day. Then we took an overnight train to Saint Petersburg. Once there we got on a bus with other Latter-day Saints and traveled for eight hours to Helsinki, Finland. The last leg of our journey was an 11-hour ferry ride to Stockholm.
Finally, we had reached the temple.
For some, such a long trip may seem like a challenge, but in many ways, our trip across Europe made a great honeymoon.
The day of our sealing, March 1, 2006, was a great day—a day of peace and assurance. I knew that the person whose hand I was holding was the one I’d share eternity with. This thought alone filled me with great joy and gratitude to Heavenly Father for trusting me with His daughter for my wife. I felt closer to Him than ever before.

“Matthew, you must go get the water now.” Mama’s tired voice barely carried above the wind blowing against his pale cheek. Hunching his neck deeper into his heavy woolen sweater, Matthew looked down at his mother and sisters. Mama had stayed awake the whole night, trying to comfort the seasick girls. Alvina, a slender six-year old, tossed restlessly in her blankets while four-year old Ruth slept fitfully in Mama’s arms.
“Please be careful not to spill it again, Son. We’re only given one bucketful for all of us.” Mama laid a gentle hand on Matthew’s sleeve, then pulled a blanket closer around little Ruth.
Slowly, with cold, reddened hands, Matthew reached for the handle of the heavy wooden bucket resting on top of the box holding Mama’s kitchen supplies. His light blond hair was ruffled by the cold sea breeze. Reluctantly he dragged his feet toward the end of the crowded steamship deck, where people were lining up near the big water casks. Matthew picked his way, careful to step around families sitting among trunks, boxes, and blankets. Babies cried hungrily, children played and shouted, and adults talked and argued. Everyone was bundled in blankets and coats against the early North Atlantic spring gusts.
Never in his ten years had Matthew been among so many people. His home in Finland had been in a small town where there had been plenty of open space in which to run and play. The grass in spring had been bright green, the air crisp and quiet except for the cries of birds. Here, there was constant noise, and the dust and the smell from the ship’s smokestack seemed to soak even into the food they ate.
This was the spring of 1895. Matthew, Mama, Alvina, and Ruth were only one family among many hundreds on the crowded ship bound for the United States. Leaving their homeland and relatives behind, they were all now emigrants headed for the port of New York City.
Matthew wished that Papa could have been with him as he got in line, bumping buckets with an old lady in front of him. But Papa had left for America two years before and had just recently been able to send for the rest of his family. Big, gentle Papa, whose huge hands had made such beautiful furniture in Finland, was felling trees in Michigan in order to earn money to buy land. He had written Mama long letters about life in the big logging camps.
The last letter had come with money for four steamship tickets and the information that friends of Papa’s would meet Mama and the children in New York City. Then the family was to board a train to travel to Michigan. Papa’s letter had also contained a special message for Matthew, written in Papa’s bold handwriting. Feeling very small and alone now, Matthew remembered and tried to gain strength from the words Papa had written: “My son, while on the long voyage, you must be the strong one who helps Mama and protects the little girls. You must be a man on this great adventure.”
When he’d first read the message, Matthew had almost heard Papa’s voice, and he’d felt like a man. But now as an elbow jabbed Matthew in the ribs, he felt very little like a man. He wanted to run away and cry.
Three big boys surrounded Matthew and pushed him. One pushed him so hard that he almost dropped his bucket. Matthew held on, hoping the old lady would say something to stop his tormentors. But the old lady only stared ahead at the slow-moving line.
“Going to share your water with us again, little boy?” The tallest boy leaned his thin face into Matthew’s and roughly whispered the question. Matthew’s face stiffened with fear.
“He always shares his water with us,” a boy in a red woolen cap said, laughing. “He’s a good little boy.” The boy slapped Matthew on the back in an unfriendly way.
Matthew gulped down a sob as he looked at the cruel faces.
The third one, a dark-haired boy, swung a wooden dipper from one hand. He beat it against Matthew’s bucket.
One by one the people in line moved forward to get their water. Then they walked back to their families, careful not to trip on the shifting deck of the boat. Matthew’s turn came, and he numbly watched the cold water fill his bucket. He tried to move away quickly without spilling it. But the three big boys caught up with him and blocked his way.
“My, my, I am so thirsty today,” said the dark-haired boy with his dipper raised. “I could use a drink.” He bent forward to scoop water from Matthew’s bucket. He drank a full dipperful with loud gulps. Matthew’s eyes filled with tears as he watched the boy pass the dipper to the second boy.
Suddenly Matthew straightened up, and his blue eyes flashed. He was still afraid, but Papa’s message—“You must be a man”—had come into his mind again, and he’d asked himself, Would Papa let someone take the water that Mama and poor little Alvina and Ruth needed?
Matthew’s mind had shouted the answer: NO! So as the second boy bent to dip water from the bucket, Matthew quickly moved his bucket behind him, placing it on the deck. He took a deep breath, clenched his fists as he faced the boys, and declared loudly, “I won’t let you take any more of my water!” Then he clamped his feet on either side of the bucket to stop his legs from shaking, and continued in an even louder voice. “My mother and sisters need this water!”
“Why the little rat! He thinks he can stop us! We’ll show him!” The boy in the red cap moved angrily toward Matthew.
“I know I can’t fight you,” continued Matthew, gulping for air. “But I will kick over this bucket rather than let you steal one more drop of my water!”
As people turned to see what the shouting was about, Matthew looked into each boy’s eyes. The boys looked away and began to look embarrassed.
“Oh, come on, let him go. He’s just a little kid,” the tallest boy said as he walked away. Reluctantly, the other two followed, leaving Matthew shivering in the cold. But he also felt a deep warmth, a pride, because he had fulfilled Papa’s faith in him. He picked up the heavy bucket and carefully carried it to Mama and the girls. Whatever the new country had to offer, he felt ready to meet its challenge.

I lived in a ward where one woman was like a beacon of righteousness. Jessica (name has been changed) radiated love and goodness every week in our meetings. She went from person to person, greeting them and loving them—especially those who were “hanging on the edges” of the ward. She invited the lonely to her home, talked to the shy ones, and went out of her way to spread her commitment to Christ and His gospel. It impacted the entire ward for good.