Gospel Story Finder

One day at recess I was bored, so I went over to my teacher. I was surprised when she asked me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She said she went to a Christian church, so I told her about ours. I told her what the sacrament represents. She told me about her church and seemed interested in what I was saying about our church. I felt glad for doing missionary work. I’m glad I had the chance to teach my teacher.

In 1988 I was struggling in my business. After I consulted with my stake president, my wife and I decided to sell the business and find other work. I followed numerous leads in pursuit of employment, but each one left my wife and me frustrated, heartbroken, and without a steady income.
After a year our funds were running low, and I felt weighed down by a burden that seemed unbearable. We had a son on a mission and six more children at home, and I felt that I was failing them.
One day while feeling this burden, I realized that I had been repeating a tune in my mind for several days. I soon realized that it was a hymn, and the Spirit comforted me as I recalled the lyrics:
Be thou humble in thy weakness, and the Lord thy God shall lead thee,
Shall lead thee by the hand and give thee answer to thy prayers.
(“Be Thou Humble,” Hymns, no. 130)
Instantly my burden seemed lifted, and I realized that Heavenly Father knew my situation. Although we struggled financially for several years, I felt comfort knowing that He would guide our decisions if we sought to do His will.
We moved to a new town and eventually acquired a new business. With the help of others, our family was able to buy a home and make the business successful.
Even though that financial challenge is now gone, I continue trying to listen when hymns come to mind. I have learned that Heavenly Father often answers my prayers through sacred music.
Warren C. Wassom, Idaho, USA

After the First Presidency’s announcement that the groundbreaking for the Neiafu Tonga Temple would be held on September 11, 2021, everyone who had a part to play went to work immediately under the wise guidance of our leaders from the Pacific Area and Church headquarters. It was not smooth sailing, but we witnessed the hand of the Almighty God guide us. From working on the building permit, to negotiating the environment internal assessment fees required by law, to the final preparation of the site, and to the actual temple groundbreaking ceremony, there were challenges.
An excerpt from a report prepared by Brother Tukia and Sister Linda Havea, the temple groundbreaking organizing committee coordinators, best explains this faith-promoting and miraculous sacred event.
On the night of September 10, 2021, the members were trying to complete the preparation of the temple groundbreaking site. It was raining nonstop. Even into the wee hours of the morning, it continued. However, the Saints awoke as this was the day that their forefathers had envisioned, prayed, and sacrificed for. They hurriedly flocked to Saineha, synonymous with the sun, a source of energy and spiritual healing. This was the site of the new temple.
What a great calming feeling. It was so serene that many wept silently in humility and gratitude. The Saints were seated to the right of the royal shelter. All members, choir and church leaders in the program were exposed to the elements with no shelter. The sound of the Tabernacle Choir certainly settled all despite the menacing and cumulonimbus clouds looming above. The program proceeded as planned without rain, for the clouds had receded. The wondrous moments occurred as Elder Kupu began the dedicatory prayer for the groundbreaking; the sun shone through, bathing the site with its brilliance, enhancing the Spirit that was abundant and prevailing. All wept for joy in admiration for the Omnipotent who had wondrously and gloriously revealed to ALL present that this groundbreaking was indeed, a heaven-sent undertaking!
Glory be to the Almighty, who is a “God of miracles.”5 I testify that if we allow Him, who is without beginning of days and end of years to prevail in our lives, we will continue to witness the workmanship of His hands,6 just as I have witnessed for myself His miraculous power and intervention during the sacred groundbreaking of the Neiafu Tonga Temple.

Imagine this scene: The date was going perfectly. He knew this was the night to declare his feelings.
“I love you!” he blurted out to the woman of his dreams. “I love you … from the bottom of my temporal lobe!”
Unless the woman was a med student, this statement would probably fall short of the intended effect. The thing is, though, he’s spot on for accuracy, because the brain is the organ that processes emotions.

I met Brother Cerda August 1972 while reporting his nation’s first area conference. I had asked to meet some Latter-day Saint families and learn of the gospel’s impact on their lives. Thus it was that my translator, Jesse Trujillo, and I were driven to Benemerito and welcomed into the home of Manuel and Maria Cerda, parents of five adult sons.
I soon learned why we had been brought to their home. Their story started seventeen years earlier, when missionaries had knocked at their door in Tehuacan, 225 kilometers southeast of their present home. Within six months, father, mother, and five sons were baptized—Víctor was twenty-three, Augustin twenty-one, Moises nineteen, Ramon seventeen, and Gilberto sixteen. In less than a year, the sons began to be called on missions. Before long, there came an extraordinary six-month period when all five sons served simultaneously in the missions of Mexico. Of equal interest was the remarkable coincidence that all five sons had served two or more months as a companion to one of their brothers.
With the turning of his family to missionary service, Manuel Cerda decided it was not enough to send and support, as best he could, his sons. He decided he must be an example. Together, he and his wife María determined that they would be missionaries, too. Were there not nonmember friends and neighbors and relatives all around?
Thus, during the three-year period that five sons served missions, Manuel and María Cerda were personally involved in the conversion of seventy persons into the Church. Letters from Manuel and María went out weekly to their sons, telling of one acquaintance after another joining the Church. The witness of joy and truth from father and mother burned into the hearts of five sons—father and mother doing missionary work at home, father and mother encouraging their missionary sons, brothers serving together as companions.
Soon this family witness flamed into a great fire of faith and energy and love, reaching out farther and farther. At the end of their missions, this was the report of the sons to their father and mother: Víctor and his companions—140 persons baptized into the Church; Augustin and his companions, 106 persons; Moises and his companions, 160 persons; Ramón and his companions, 75 persons; Gilberto and his companions, 233 persons. Total: 784. When I met them in 1972 the family had brought in 53 more—837 eternal friends among the membership of the Church.

During my rebellious teenage years I did not always want to listen to the counsel I was given. When I graduated from high school I wanted to attend a college where I could experience my freedom; even though my two older brothers attended BYU I did not want to attend a church school with what I saw as a rigid honor code. One reason was that my parents had strict rules about appropriate church attire and did not allow any casual clothes on Sunday.
This rule was especially challenging when I was a little girl because we wore dresses to school all week so girls particularly eagerly anticipated weekends so they could wear jeans and shorts. But on Sundays at my house my sister and I wore church dresses all day and my brothers wore shirts and ties. While other children rode bikes and played ball we played croquet in the backyard and board games in the house. I chafed at the rule and couldn't wait to go to college and wear what I wanted to wear-especially on Sundays.
My first Sunday at Utah State I was delighted to change into jeans after my meetings. But lounging around the dorm in torn levis and a tee shirt was not the anticipated relaxing experience. Physically and spiritually I didn't feel right. I discovered I was not comfortable departing from the habit developed as a child. From my youth I had been taught that the Sabbath lasted the entire day, not just the hours I spent at church, and if I meant to "Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy" then for me that meant dressing appropriately.
That was the only Sunday I changed into casual clothes.
From my parents I had been taught the law of the Sabbath, and dressing appropriately for the ordinance of the sacrament, and I could not turn away from it-even when my meetings were over: "He that receiveth my law and doeth it, the same is my disciple; and he that saith he receiveth it and doeth it not, the same is not my disciple."[29]
Honoring my parents, and obeying their counsel, transformed me. A rule I found restrictive as a youth became a behavior that brought me comfort and peace as an adult.

Recently I had an experience that made me reflect on that understanding again. My companion and I had been working nonstop the entire day. We had just finished teaching a new investigator and started making our way back home. Along the way, a group of kids came over to talk to us. They gathered around my companion as he began doing some tricks for them while I stood back and watched. Then I noticed a young boy not watching but staring at me. He walked up to me and looked at my name tag. He took his pointer finger and dragged it along each word. He mumbled until he got to one part: “Jesus Christ!” His jaw dropped and he slowly looked up at me.
I can’t describe how I felt at that moment. I looked into the eyes of this young boy and thought to myself, “Was I representing Jesus Christ well?” I felt I had been. How grateful I am that I could stand there and say I had been doing my best to show others the light of Christ.
This experience has stuck with me throughout my mission, and every day I try my hardest to remember who I represent. I know that as members of the Church, we must strive in our everyday lives to represent Jesus Christ. I think King Benjamin said it best in Mosiah 5:8: “There is no other name given whereby salvation cometh; therefore, I would that ye should take upon you the name of Christ.”

President Romney was born September 19, 1897, in Colonia Juárez, Mexico, to George S. and Teressa Artemesia Redd Romney. When his family fled from Mexico during the Mexican Revolution, two soldiers stopped them, searched their wagon, and took their money. “Then,” said President Romney, “they turned around, drew their guns, and I looked down the barrels of rifles that seemed very large to me. I expected them to shoot, but for some reason they did not, and I have lived to tell the story.”

As her fellow Saints planned to gather to Missouri in 1838, Cyrena felt determined to join them. This caused further tension with her family and was a “severe blow” for her father. He had been sympathetic toward the Church but could not bear the thought of her leaving. She recounted that “when he found that I was determined to go, he requested me to leave home immediately, that he might become reconciled to the separation before I left entirely.” However, she felt that “his real motive was a hope that I might become so homesick that I would give up the idea of going with the Saints and return home again to stay.” Unable to remain in her family home, she relied on the kindness of a neighbor and fellow Latter-day Saint, Alexander Stanley, who took her in and “was like a father” to her.4

Before the Saints left Ohio, Cyrena returned to her parents’ home to say goodbye. Her parents tearfully begged her to stay. When that failed to change her mind, her father threatened to have her “arrested and brought back by a process of law.”5 Despite her family’s pleas, Cyrena remained determined to go and bore her testimony of the truth of the gospel before leaving.

Although Cyrena feared setting off on her own, she trusted in the Lord and His promises. She soon found that her new religious community, her fellow Saints, cared for her as if she were part of their families. Because she lived in Alexander Stanley’s home for a short time, she was able to set out with his company for Far West, Missouri.

Years ago, in my childhood home, my parents decided to recarpet the house. The night before the new carpet arrived, my mom asked my brothers to remove furniture and rip out the old carpet in the bedrooms, so that the new carpet could be installed the next morning. Emily, who was 7, was asleep on her bed.
While she soundly slept, my brothers removed all the other furniture from her room and everything from the walls and the closet—then even the carpet. Then they had an idea—an awful idea; they decided, as big brothers around the world sometimes do, to prank their little sister.
They then removed everything from the walls and the closet.
The room was completely bare except for the bed.
Then they wrote a note and tacked it to the wall:
“Emily, we moved. We’ll write in a few days and tell you where we are. Love, your family.” Well, the next morning Emily did not show up for breakfast as usual. My mom sent one of my brothers to get her. Emily was not in her bed, but my brother did hear the sound of crying coming from inside of the closet. There was Emily, curled up and crying her little heart out.
Emily reflected on this experience later:
I wondered, why would they just leave me?
I felt so alone and unloved.
Was I really that unimportant?
In my 7-year-old mind I thought, “No one likes me, not even my own family.” I was crushed. But what would have happened if I just opened the door? What would I have heard? What would I have smelled? I would have known I was not alone.
I would have known I really was loved. The thought never even crossed my mind to do something about my situation. I just gave up and stayed in my closet crying. And yet if I had simply opened the door...

Archie noticed the red-orange reflection in the mirror as he walked through the family room on his way out the door. He had seen that color thousands of times in his life. He had grown fondly accustomed to the vibrant orange hue that surrounded his roundish face. Every time Archie looked in the mirror he was reminded of the fact that he was not only a redhead, he was the personification of the brightest, most intense, flaming red that ever graced the top of a young man’s head.
He recalled several years earlier when he was living with his parents in Africa that people would pat him on the head because they thought red hair was an omen of good luck—a symbol of good fortune.
His pleasant reflection was startled by the “MEEOOOP!” of the horn from the enchanted yellow bus that would carry him to his first day of junior high.
Archie anxiously gathered his books and papers and rushed to the front door where he was greeted by a proud reception line composed of his mother, his two little brothers, his grandmother, and his dad. After all, it isn’t every day that the oldest son in the family takes off for the first day of junior high. A little embarrassed and hurried, Archie kissed his mom on the cheek, waved to his grandma and brothers, and shook his dad’s hand as he galloped off to his new adventure.
Archie slipped through the folding doors of the bus, only to find himself staring into the faces of dozens of different and older students who would also be attending Jefferson Junior High School.
With a sigh of relief he focused on Jimmy, his best friend, who had saved a seat for him by the window.
Archie plomped into the seat as the bus rumbled down the road. Jimmy said, “Greg said that we’d better watch out today at school or he and his ninth grade friends will sit us on the fountain or write on us with lipstick.”
Archie asked, “Why do they do that?”
“He said it is called initiation to junior high. Sort of like when you have to do something scary to join a club.”
While Archie’s face showed no fear, he suddenly became intensely aware of the bigger kids at the back of the bus who were laughing and joking.
Finally the bus halted in front of the big sign that said Jefferson Junior High. As he and Jimmy jumped down from the bus, his combined excitement, joy, fear, and anticipation made his heart thump twice as fast as normal.
As he reached the top of the stairs he pulled open the big metallic doors that led into a whole new world. He gazed down the hall and saw hundreds of jostling, laughing, bustling students who all seemed to know where to go and what to do. Even his friend Jimmy had wandered down the hall on his own. Now Archie was alone in the strange and exciting new environment. As he walked down the hall he felt as if everyone was staring at him. Just then he saw one of his pals from grade school.
Walt yelled across the hall, “Well, if it isn’t red Archie!”
Archie cringed when he heard the word red, and his face blushed to fit the description. Suddenly he wished that he had a hat to cover his bright thatch of red hair.
Just then the “ZZIINNGG!” of the bell sounded to go to class. He hurried down the hall to his locker and spun the dial to his combination, but nothing happened. Again he tried … 37 to the left … 15 to the right … and 22 to the left. His locker still wouldn’t open!
Frantically he pulled on his locker door but to no avail. “ZZIINNGG!” went the second bell, and Archie realized that he was tardy for the first period. He gave up on his locker and ran down the hall to his first class. As he-entered the room everyone looked at him and he hurriedly went to one of the empty desks and sat down. The teacher called the roll, “Steve Cranbrook … Archie Crenshaw … Richard Daines …” until he had called out all twenty-six students in the homeroom.
Mr. Williams, the teacher, closed the rollbook and said, “I remember the first day I went to junior high. I was so scared that I had to walk around the block twice before I dared go in. Then I couldn’t remember where my locker was and was late to every class for the first week. The worst thing was that everyone teased me.”
As Mr. Williams talked, Archie felt a grin blossom on his face. The teacher went on to explain how the first day is always the worst, and after that you get to know your way around and have a good time.
From that moment on, Archie felt a lot better about being in junior high. He didn’t even mind if kids called him Red. In fact, his bushy red locks became his trademark. Archie became confident and happy (and finally figured out how to open his locker). And it all started with Mr. Williams in social studies class.
Archie’s parents were both proud and happy that their son was doing so well in school. Nearly every day Archie had something good to say about Mr. Williams and what he had learned in social studies.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw were interested in meeting Mr. Williams, the man they had heard so much about from Archie. Finally the day came for parent-teacher conferences for Jefferson Junior High. Archie couldn’t wait for his folks to go and talk to Mr. Williams. He even drew them a map of how to get to his room so they wouldn’t get lost!
Archie’s mom and dad walked into room 29 with the sign that said Mr. Williams and suddenly understood everything they had heard about him. As they went in Mr. Williams gave them a glowing grin that was accented by the brightest, curliest, flaming red hair imaginable.

My first visit to Queenstown as a newly appointed alternate high councilor in the Durban South Africa Stake was to be the beginning of many unforgettable experiences. Those experiences would lead me to understand better how our Heavenly Father touches the hearts of his children of all races and how he extends his love and protection to those who try to serve him.
Queenstown is located in the eastern part of the Cape Province, surrounded by mountains and situated between states inhabited by the blacks of the Ciskei and Transkei. I was assigned to Church units in East London, on the coast; Queenstown; Sada and Cimezile in the Ciskei; and Illinge in the Transkei.
As a recent immigrant from Harare, Zimbabwe, I served at first as a companion to Brother Dennis Raubenheimer on these visits. He was familiar with the areas we covered because he had served in the district presidency.
The Queenstown Branch has a unique meetinghouse—a funeral parlor provided rent-free by the owners, who have no affiliation with the Church. It has wood-paneled walls, soft lighting, special pews, and an organ. The final speaker in sacrament meeting is usually interrupted by the clanging of bells from the church next door. The noise sometimes continues for several minutes, and the speaker must decide whether to be silent for that time, or to speak louder than the noise. Branch meetings begin at 7:00 A.M. on Sunday so those who will be visiting the outlying branches in the black states will have time to travel.
After that first visit to Queenstown, Brother Raubenheimer and I departed for Ilinge, where we met with branch president Augustine Mjiba and the more than seventy Saints there. They met in a rented school classroom with a corrugated metal roof and a dirt floor. They share the building with another religious group, which uses African drums to lead its singing. But in spite of the interruptions by the drumming and singing, we felt the Spirit in abundance and experienced a warmth and love for the Saints who meet in such conditions.
Our next visit to Queenstown included stops at the Sada and Cimezile branches.
Church members at Sada met in a school building similar to the one at Ilinge, except that the floor is of pine strips. President Headman Gquola greeted us with his beaming smile as we arrived. Once again, each member of the sixty-strong branch stood in line, awaiting their turn to greet us eagerly with a handshake.
In these branches we use translators because the majority of the Saints can not understand English any more than we can understand their native Xhosa. (This handicap is being overcome, as high council members have been instructed by the stake president to learn that language.) The singing in these branches is a delightful experience. One has to hear the unique harmony and volume of their singing to appreciate fully the joy of their pure, resonant voices.
After a most uplifting meeting with the Sada Saints, we traveled to Cimezile on a winding gravel road. One has to be constantly alert to hazards such as wandering sheep and goats on these roads, as well as the perils of crossing rocky river beds; on one occasion, the muffler was ripped from the exhaust system of my car.
In Cimezile I met one of the most spiritual families that I have ever known, Wilson and Judith Nqunqa and their eight children. Brother Nqunqa had done the high-quality stone work of the outer walls of their typical rondavel African home. Pictures of the Church president and General Authorities and posters with the words to our hymns line the walls of their spotlessly clean home.
Brother Raubenheimer remarked that in their humble home, where even the children spoke in soft tones, the reverence and spirit we experienced was as it might have been in the house of the Lord.

A young adult named Hannah was invited to the bishop's office one Sunday and was called to teach the Gospel Doctrine class in her YSA ward. She was terrified at the idea. Being naturally shy and introverted, and having never served a mission, she felt very inadequate when it came to explaining the scriptures.

Hannah accepted the calling, but with many misgivings. The bishop assured her that the Lord would help her to succeed. He quoted President Monson, who has said many times, "Whom the Lord calls, the Lord qualifies."

That night, Hannah opened the lesson manual and read the upcoming lesson. Then she knelt down and humbly prayed: "Please bless me with the gift of courage. Help me not to be afraid to teach."

As she pondered the task ahead, this thought came into her heart: "You don't have to do all the talking. If you will ask a few inspired questions, the Spirit will help teach the class."

She responded to that prompting, preparing several good discussion questions based on the lesson material. By the time Sunday came, Hannah felt at peace. She threw out one question after another, and members of the Gospel Doctrine class were quick to respond. The more that class members participated, the more they all learned. As the weeks and months went by, Hannah began to look forward to those Sunday lessons. She realized that courage to "teach in the Savior's way" is a gift that God is happy to give us--if we will just ask.

55 years ago, two faithful missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, were where the Lord wanted them to be, and doing what the Lord wanted them to do, as they were tracting house to house in the Sandhills area of Wailuku, Maui. It was a hot day and in those days the missionaries did not have cars but walked everywhere.

Elders Dwight Flickenger and Michael Mickelson walked down our long driveway and knocked on our front door. My mother, Katherine Gima, was home and opened the door. Seeing the Elders, she quickly but politely stated that we were Christian and that she was not interested in hearing what they had to say. She had them wait on the porch as she went to get glasses of cold water to quench their thirst. My mother actually had 2 older sisters, Ethel and Lillian who had joined the Church on Oahu, so she had heard a little about the Church and knew that these were Mormon missionaries.

My brother and I were attending St. Anthony School, a Catholic school. We were not catholic but my parents felt like this school would give us a good education so we were enrolled there. In fact, my mother refused to join the Catholic Church because being the extremely practical person she was, she could not understand or accept their doctrine of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost being one person. How could 3 people be one being?

So as my mother took the empty glasses of water from the missionaries and was about to close the front door, one of them said, “Do you know that we believe that Heavenly Father and His son Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost are 3 separate beings?” Well, the front door opened widely and she invited them in. After that first discussion, the missionaries made an appointment to meet with my father and rest of the family, which consisted of myself being the eldest child and my brother Ron and younger sister Leona.

I remember that night quite well, as my mother kept us children in the kitchen as she prepared glasses of juice for us to take to the missionaries and our Dad. She held us back as she said, that Dad would probably ask them to leave in a few minutes. Well the minutes went by and she finally sent us out to see what was up. My Dad who was a quiet man, was chuckling and having a good old conversation with these two Elders as they were chatting about golfing. You see my Dad was an avid Sunday golfer and he had a whole trophy case full of trophies to show for all the golf tournaments he won. The missionaries had not even begun talking about the gospel but were talking about golfing!! Well a few months later, after hearing all the discussions, my father, mother and I being 9 years old, were baptized in Waiehu, Maui.

I will be eternally grateful to these two humble, faithful missionaries who taught my family the gospel, who listened to the prompting of the Holy Ghost as they stood on our front porch and said what the Lord wanted them to say concerning the Godhead. These missionaries have become lifelong friends and we share a strong bond of love for each other. Although Dwight Flickenger has passed away, we still keep in contact with Mike Mickelson.

I witnessed such an act of service one Sunday as I attended the sacrament meeting of a small branch which consisted of patients in a nursing home. Most of the members were elderly and somewhat incapacitated. During the meeting, a sister called out aloud, “I’m cold! I’m cold!” Without a moment’s hesitation, one of the priests at the sacrament table arose and walked over to this sister, removed his own suit coat, placed it around her shoulders, and then returned to his duties at the sacrament table.

After the meeting, this young man came to me and apologized for blessing the sacrament without his suit coat. Quietly I said to him that he was never more appropriately dressed than he was that day when a dear widow was uncomfortably cold and he provided the warmth she needed by placing his jacket around her shoulders. A simple act of kindness? Yes, but much more: a genuine love and concern for others.

Later, when I was 19, I was a missionary in French Polynesia, and I had to learn to speak two languages, French and Tahitian, without the benefit of the Missionary Training Center. It humbled me to the depths of my soul. I learned that missionaries did better when they would do everything they could to learn. Even though they made mistakes, the Spirit helped them. I found that without the Spirit, we couldn’t do anything. But when we had the Spirit, the languages, as well as the missionary work, started to unfold.

Don Mullan, an author, film producer, and human rights leader, organized a centennial commemoration of that truce to take place at the Church of St. Nicholas at Messines, Belgium, in 2014. He contacted me for permission to use the illustrations from my book as part of a permanent exhibition in the crypt of St. Nicholas. The purpose of the exhibition was not only to commemorate the Christmas truce but to create a place of pilgrimage for all lovers of peace and reconciliation in the world.

Don Mullan grew up in Derry, Ireland, and was fifteen years old when British soldiers killed twenty-seven unarmed civilians in his city. He was filled with anger and almost joined the Irish Republican Army. However, he admits that God was watching over him because the night he was to join, his sponsor did not show up. Don chose the path of peace instead, and he later wrote and produced a number of documentaries on the Irish Civil War. He traveled to BYU a few years ago and spoke to students and faculty in our department. Through his work as a writer and filmmaker, Don was in a unique position to communicate his intimate vision to our students and to me. As we walked across campus, he was ever curious, asking about each place and activity we encountered. He gave me the opportunity to see not only through his eyes but also through his thoughts and emotions.

Toward the conclusion of his visit at BYU, he wrote a message to a dear friend:
I wish you could be here with me over these sacred days at Brigham Young University. . . . As you know, I have, over my lifetime, been to many campuses, but I have never had this profound sense of the sacred before. The Mormon people I have had the privilege of meeting on this visit are deeply and profoundly Christian. . . . It has been a deep, spiritual privilege to have been blessed with the grace of walking among them.21

Don is a Roman Catholic. He helped me see the surprising beauty and spirituality that was in front of me here at BYU and helped me celebrate that which I might otherwise have passed by without noticing.

I grew up on a farm outside of town. One evening, my parents were away at church meetings, and I was left in charge. One of my younger brothers ran into the house and told me the garage was on fire. The garage was only a few feet away from our house.
The one side of the garage where my father had been repairing a tractor was on fire, and flames had reached the car on the other side. I told my brothers to get far away from the garage so they wouldn’t be hurt. Then I grabbed a broom and started beating out the fire.
One of my brothers came to help, but he suddenly caught on fire and started to run. I yelled at him to stop and roll, but he just kept running. I chased after him and pulled him down to put out the flames. The thought came to me to have him stand in the canal near our home. I told him to do that while I put out the rest of the fire.
I know I had Heavenly Father’s help in knowing what I needed to do to put out the fire that day. The doctors said that if I hadn’t told my brother to stand in the cold water of the canal, he would have needed surgery from the burns. Instead he healed so well that there was only one small scar on his foot. It was a miracle.
I know that Heavenly Father listens to our prayers and that He watches over us. He stands ready to help us when we pray, listen, and follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

While my wife and I served in Eastern Europe, we lived in Russia. One day I spent about an hour in the Hermitage, a famous museum in St. Petersburg. Our guide said to us, “Be careful that you do not touch any of these important treasures, because the great wealth of Russia is found in the Hermitage.”
The next day was Sunday, and during sacrament meeting a young girl was confirmed a member of the Church. As I and other Melchizedek Priesthood holders stood next to her and placed our hands on her head, a thought came to me: “The wealth of Russia is not found in the Hermitage. The wealth of Russia is found in its children. As priesthood holders, we are allowed to stand close, lay our hands upon their heads, and bless the children.”

“I can remember my first big fishing trip. I was ten years old, and we went to Mackay, Idaho. My father taught me how to put the worm on the hook, and it was very distasteful to me. I kept thinking, Dad, why can’t you do this? I don’t want to do it. When I asked him, though, he said, ‘If you’re going to learn to fish, you have to learn to do everything.’ And so he made me put the worm on the hook. Then, when I caught my first fish, I didn’t know what to do with that wiggly, slippery thing. My father taught me how to clean the fish: I had to hold it in one hand and cut it open and clean out its entrails, which was a very unpleasant job for me. But I could see my father’s wisdom—without actually doing all that a task requires, we often don’t learn everything we need to know.”