Gospel Story Finder

Sarah heard her mom call her. “Coming, Mom,” she called back. She set her doll on her bed and ran down the hall toward the kitchen. She took the shortest route through the family room—up onto the corner table, across the sofa, over the big stuffed chair, and around the breakfast bar. “Here I am,” she announced.
Mom smiled. “That was very fast,” she said, “but next time I would appreciate it if you walked around the furniture.”
Sarah giggled. “But then I wouldn’t be as fast.”
“That’s true, but now look who’s trying to do what you did.”
Sarah turned around and saw her little brother, Adam. He was standing on the corner table, ready to make the jump from the table to the sofa. Mom hurried over and lifted him off the table.
“Adam learns a lot from watching you,” said Mom. “You need to set a good example for him to follow.” She set Adam down on the floor. “The reason I called you was to tell you that I’m going to go outside to work in the garden,” Mom continued. “Do you want to come out with me?”
“Sure,” said Sarah. She looked down at her bare feet. “But I need to get my shoes on.” She turned to run back to her bedroom. Adam followed. This time she hurried around the furniture, and so did Adam.
“You’re right, Mom,” she said as she returned with her shoes in her hand, and Adam right behind her. “He does follow my example.”
Sarah sat down to put on her shoes.
“Sissy, outside,” said Adam, walking to the door.
“He knows you’re going outside because he sees you putting on your shoes,” Mom said. She followed Adam to the door. “We’re all going to go outside,” she told him with a smile.
Adam pulled on the doorknob but couldn’t turn it. He looked at Mom. “Open?”
Shoes on, Sarah ran to the door. “I’ll open it,” she said. She turned the doorknob and gave a mighty tug. Adam cheered when he saw the sunlight streaming in through the open door.
“Come on, Adam,” Sarah said, “let’s ride our trikes.”
Adam ran past Sarah to the swing set. “Swing, Mommy?” he said hopefully.
Sarah hopped onto her tricycle. “No, Adam, we’re going to ride our trikes,” she insisted.
“Swing, Mommy?” Adam repeated.
Mom lifted Adam into the swing. “I think Adam wants to swing right now,” she said to Sarah.
“He can’t,” Sarah said sadly. “He’s supposed to follow my example.”
Mom gave Adam a push. “Having him follow your example, and making him do what you tell him to do aren’t the same thing,” she said.
“They aren’t?” asked Sarah in a disappointed tone.
“No.” Mom explained, “Adam is just a little boy, but he is starting to make some of his own decisions. Sometimes he will do what you want him to do, and sometimes he won’t.”
“I wish he would always do what I want him to do,” said Sarah.
“But that’s not the way life works,” Mom pointed out. “We all have our agency, which means that we are free to make our own decisions. There are good examples that we can follow, and there are bad examples that we can follow.”
Sarah thought for a moment. “I know it’s all right for Adam to follow my example, but is it all right if I follow Adam’s example?”
Mom nodded. “It would be fine for you to follow Adam’s example as long as he’s not doing something wrong,” she said.
“I’m going to follow his example right now,” Sarah said, climbing off of her tricycle, “because I want to swing, too.”

A few months after my stepfather passed away, I told my mother about my baptism. That did not go as well. Nevertheless, when I went to the Netherlands to visit Dutch family members on my mother’s side, I shared my conversion with them. That’s when I learned of another family connection to the Church.
During my visit, my uncle approached me. “I have something to give you,” he said. Then he handed me a first edition of the Book of Mormon in Dutch, published in 1890.
“It belonged to our family long ago,” he said. “I want you to have it.”
These two family connections to the Church were very comforting to me. Today, I treasure that Book of Mormon in Dutch. It reminds me of those first missionaries who visited me. It reminds me of how important teaching the Book of Mormon was to my conversion. It reminds me of my late father’s respect for the Church and that some of my ancestors had accepted the restored gospel.

Dear Reed,
It was awesome to get my very own letter from you. I’ll keep writing to you, if you’ll keep writing to me. But I still miss you very, very much! Nobody else calls me Buddy, but you can because I will always be your buddy.
Last night was our second grade Spring Sing. Everyone was there but you. Even Grandpa Richards was there, and your girlfriend Kelly. She says that she misses you very much, but I know that she doesn’t miss you as much as I do.
After the Sing we went to get ice-cream cones, and we talked about you. Mom and Dad said that you seem grown-up now. Natalie and Rachel said that they’re proud to be the sisters of a missionary. Scooter didn’t say anything because he’s too young.
I ate two scoops on my cone, one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of your favorite, pralines-and-cream. I did it for you.
I still have something I need to tell you, but I’m still afraid to tell you.
Love,Buddy

A few weeks later, Mac suddenly went missing. He didn’t come back the next day, or the next. We were terribly worried, but we knew just what to do. Dad and my brother put up posters and talked to the neighbors. Mom notified the animal shelter. And all of us prayed.
After three days, Mac came home. He was thin and dirty, but safe. We were all grateful.
That night, when family prayer was called, I was happy to stand aside and let Mac precede me down the hall to the bedroom.
“Mac the prayer cat,” my sister said, scratching his head. “At night he reminds us to have family prayer.”
“And during the day he reminds us to pray anytime we need help,” I added.
“Even when he’s gone he reminds us to pray for him to come back,” my brother said.
“And now that he’s back,” Mom said, “he reminds us that prayers are heard and answered.”
“Can you tell how glad we are to have you in our family, Mac?” Dad asked.
In answer, Mac curled up in the middle of our family circle and purred.

When Wilford Woodruff was the president of the Church, he said that it was the will of the Lord that no amount of time be allowed to pass between the death of the president of the Church and the time that the First Presidency was reorganized. Therefore, on December 30, 1973, just four days after President Lee’s death, President Kimball, the president of the Twelve, called the members of the Twelve together in the upper room of the temple for the purpose of discussing the reorganization of the First Presidency and to take whatever action was decided upon. Those who had been counselors to the President—that is, President Romney and myself—took their respective places in the Quorum of the Twelve.
President Kimball, upon expressing his great sorrow at the passing of President Lee and his feeling of inadequacy, called upon the members of the Twelve in order of seniority to express themselves individually as to how they felt about reorganizing the presidency of the Church.
As each member of the Twelve spoke, he expressed himself as feeling that now was the time to reorganize the First Presidency and that President Spencer W. Kimball was the one whom the Lord wanted to preside at this time. The sweet Spirit of the Lord was present in rich abundance and there was complete unity and harmony in the minds and spoken words of the Brethren. The only purpose and desire was to do the will of the Lord, and there was no question in anyone’s mind but what the will of the Lord had been expressed.
Elder Ezra Taft Benson then made the formal motion that the First Presidency of the Church be reorganized and that Spencer W. Kimball be sustained, ordained, and set apart as the president, prophet, seer, revelator, and as trustee-in-trust of the Church. This motion was seconded and unanimously approved.
In all humility, President Kimball stepped forward and made his speech of acceptance, praying that the Spirit and blessings of the Lord would attend him that he might be made able to carry out the will of the Lord. He said he had always prayed for President Lee’s health and strength and vigor and for the blessings of the Lord to attend him as he carried on as the president of the Church. He emphasized the fact that he had prayed sincerely with his lovely wife, Camilla, that this position would never come to him and that he felt sure that President Lee would certainly outlive him.
On this occasion I thought of the Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane as he prayed: “… O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.” (Matt. 26:39.) And he so accepted.
He then chose and nominated as his first counselor N. Eldon Tanner and as his second counselor Marion G. Romney, each of whom expressed himself in all humility and pledged himself to support and sustain President Kimball as the president of the Church and to fill his office to the best of his ability, and prayed for the blessings of the Lord to attend him.
Following this, President Benson was sustained as president of the Council of the Twelve. President Kimball then took his seat in the middle of the room, and as all those present placed their hands upon his head, we felt the Spirit of the Lord was truly with us, and this sweet Spirit filled our hearts. Then, with President Benson being mouth, in a beautiful prayer and blessing, Spencer Woolley Kimball was ordained and set apart as prophet, seer, and revelator and president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Let me tell you about Noelle Pikus-Pace, one of those Latter-day Saint athletes. Her event was the skeleton. Imagine traveling headfirst with your face inches above the ground down a winding, icy track at 90 miles (145 km) an hour, all on a small sled! In the Olympics, Noelle had only four minutes—four 60-second runs—to win her medal.
For Noelle, this was not the first time she’d tried for the Olympics. In 2006 she broke her leg and couldn’t compete in the Olympics. In 2010 she missed winning a medal by one-tenth of a second. But she didn’t give up. She trained for hours, days, weeks, and months. In the 2014 Olympics, her runs were flawless! She won the silver medal!

Billy Fisher pushed his cap off his forehead and wiped the beads of sweat off his warm brow. It was a good five miles from Horse Water Junction to his place on the flats, and the road under his feet was hot. But aching as he was to stop and rest under the shade of a big cottonwood tree, he knew he’d best keep traveling the rutted stage trail that pointed toward the sod house.
The sun was more down than up, and Billy had chores waiting for him, and he needed to study for a big test the following day at school. Mr. Beecher’s a tolerable enough schoolmaster, Billy pondered, but he’s awfully strict—especially toward me. “Is it because I’m a Mormon, Ma?” he had asked one day as he helped fetch water for washday.
“We are the only Mormons in all of Spillman County, but only God and Mr. Beecher know for sure, Billy,” his mother had replied as she dragged the huge black kettle into the yard.
“Why do the Saints get so tromped on sometimes, Ma? It doesn’t seem right.”
Billy’s mother had walked with him back down to the creek that trickled by the family’s vegetable garden. “Now, Billy,” she had started, with a gentle wisdom that the boy often stood in awe of, “the Lord doesn’t backhand a good person, but He just might bless him with a little trial and tribulation every now and again to keep him meek and humble. Like the bumps on the road between our place and town, there’s just enough of them to keep a body watchful.”
Billy’s mother had sat down on a fallen tree by the creek and pushed a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. Billy had plopped down beside her and let his bare feet dangle in the cool water.
“I do believe,” she had continued, “that if the righteous could stack all their hard times under them, they could rise almost to heaven.” She had brushed at the tangles in the boy’s matted hair. “I suspect a rose without a thorn is only half a rose, honey. And if the rain can make the flowers grow, why not the rest of us too?”
Billy sighed as he plodded along toward home. What his mother had said made sense, just as it had when she’d talked about a light shining its brightest when surrounded by the blackest black and about having to fight and maybe even die for what’s right. Yet, the knowledge that what Ma said was true didn’t always make life any easier.
Billy stopped to rest a moment and to pat his dog, Banjo. The dog was hitched to a travois loaded with supplies from J. D. Hollins’s mercantile store. Billy dug into his huck shirt and withdrew a crumpled list his mother had given him. “I’d better make double sure we got everything Ma wanted, Banjo,” Billy said. “It’ll be a long walk back to town if we forgot anything, and I just have to study for that test Mr. Beecher is giving us tomorrow. Let’s see. We got the flour, hardtack, dried beef, salt, four yards of gingham, the new bullet pouch for Pa, the whetstone, and the—”
“Hey, Holy Joe!” a derisive voice shouted. “You haven’t shown me your horns yet!”
Billy whirled around. The voice belonged to Silas Marsh. Twelve-year-old Silas had taunted Billy on more than one occasion, and the jeers were usually followed by shoving and blustery threats. Besides being considerably larger than Billy and most of the other children in and around Horse Water, Silas had a mean streak in him. Billy had seen the effect of that meanness more than once. He stiffened as Silas swaggered up, grabbed him by the shirtfront with one hand, and rumpled his hair with the other. “Where’d you stash those horns, Mormon?”
Banjo growled.
“You’d better let go of me,” Billy sputtered weakly, “or my dog will—”
“What could that mutt do,” Silas snarled, pulling a knife from his boot, “with this toad-sticker between his ribs?”
“Please don’t hurt him, Silas,” Billy pleaded.
Gloating because he had the upper hand, Silas slit the leather straps binding the mercantile goods to the travois and dumped the bundles out onto the road. “Looks like you had a little accident, Mormon,” he sneered, grabbing Billy by the arm. “And you’re going to have an even bigger one tomorrow after school if you don’t give me the answers to that test. I’ll pound you so far into the ground that they’ll have to drop a light to find you!” Giving Billy one last shove, Silas tromped off down the road.
Billy kicked his foot in the dirt. He didn’t like the idea of looking at the world through a couple of black eyes. He’d seen it happen to Stanley Jackson, the boy who sat three seats behind him. Silas had told Stanley to give him the piece of cherry cobbler packed in his lunch. Without thinking, Stanley had said no, and Silas had blackened both of Stanley’s eyes and had taken the cobbler too.
Won’t slipping Silas a few answers be better than taking a beating? Billy wondered.
In school the next day Billy felt a breeze on the back of his neck from the open window. It was a welcome relief as he sweated over the test questions. He had studied the night before, and although the questions were difficult, he was prepared.
Then Billy felt something else on the back of his neck—Silas Marsh’s eyes.
Silas sent a note saying, “Write the answers on this paper and slip it back to me. Or else!”
Sweat trickled off Billy’s forehead and salted his eyes. He blinked back the sting and stared numbly at the slip of paper, then glanced at Mr. Beecher. The schoolmaster was seated at his desk, busy with paperwork. Billy’s heart pounded, and his lips were dry.
The memory of Stanley Johnson getting a beating skittered across Billy’s mind. Still, Billy thought, if I cheat, I’ll have to live with my conscience a lot longer than with two closed eyes and a swollen lip. Then he remembered what Ma had told him about trials and tribulatons. Finally he wrote on the back of the note, folded it, and slipped it back to Silas.
Silas, grinning from ear to ear with cocky assuredness, opened the paper. His grin disappeared as quickly as Billy wished he could after school. On the paper Billy had written, “I won’t give you any answers. It’s just not right. I’ll meet you out back after school. I know what you are going to do to me. I can’t stop you. But I won’t let you do it without fighting back. Billy.”
An hour later the class began to file out of the sweltering one-room building. As Billy reached for his cap hanging on a wooden peg by the door, a hand rested firmly on his shoulder. Billy’s muscles tensed and he turned around, expecting to see Silas’s fist. Instead, it was Mr. Beecher grasping him. “William Fisher,” he intoned.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Beecher,” Billy responded with an unmanageable lump in his throat.
The schoolmaster displayed a piece of crumpled paper. “I procured this from the trash bucket. Silas Marsh passed this note to you.”
“You saw him pass it?” Billy blurted out with surprise. “But you were—”
“Mr. Fisher,” the schoolmaster clipped, “there are two things that rarely elude me: One is mischief, and the other is good judgment—though in relation to the latter, I must admit I have badly misjudged you.” He gestured toward the paper, and a smile trickled across his face. “I also read your response to Mr. Marsh’s demands. You did well, William. Very well indeed.” He started to turn away, then hesitated, looked back at Billy, and added, “May God be with you. Judging from the tone of that note, you’ll be needing Him.”
“Yes, sir,” Billy replied. He put on his cap, girded himself up, and walked out.
Mr. Beecher sat back down at his desk and stared at the door that closed behind Billy. That boy has more gumption than I thought he did, he mused. Then he smiled and went back to his work.
Silas was waiting for Billy when he came walking around the corner of the schoolhouse. Billy stopped a few feet from his adversary, doubled up his fists, and looked the big, brawly youth right in the eye. “Well,” Billy got out in an as-bold-as-he-could-muster voice, “let’s get it over with. I have chores waiting for me at home.”
Silas just stared at him. Then he twisted his face up like a tree knot and stared some more. “Just what is it with you Mormons?” he finally said, looking as perplexed as anyone could be. “Don’t you remember what I said I was going to do to you?”
Billy nodded.
“Well, aren’t you afraid?”
Billy nodded again. “My ma says that the time comes when a body has to face up to his fears. So here I am.”
Silas shook his head. “You’re really something, you know that?” He threw up his arms and started to walk away.
“You mean you’re not going to beat me up?”
Silas looked back, scratched his head, and said, “Maybe tomorrow.” Then he fidgeted a little and looked questioningly at Billy.
“What is it?” Billy asked.
“Nothing,” Silas returned, “except … well, you and me, we take the same road home. I was wondering if we could walk together.”
Billy tried to swallow his surprise. “Sure, I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.”

“I went a little farther that time!” Lewis exclaimed, marking where he had landed with a stick. A new house was being built next door, and six-year-old Lewis loved playing in the big piles of dirt. He and his brother especially liked to jump off the top of a dirt pile to see who could go the farthest. Jumping was the next best thing to flying, and Lewis wanted more than anything to be able to fly. Not just to ride in a plane—he’d done that lots of times with his dad in a little four-seat airplane. He wanted to fly like a bird. He thought about it all the time.
Last Sunday, Sister Jones had taught a lesson in Primary about faith. She had said if you have enough faith, you can do anything—even move mountains! Lewis didn’t want to move a mountain—he wanted to fly over one. He believed Heavenly Father could help him do that just as easily.
Lewis didn’t hear the rest of the lesson that day because he was dreaming about his first flight. He knew exactly how it would be. He would jump off something very high and dive to the earth. Just before he hit the ground, he would spread his arms and glide above the earth, rising higher and higher. He could almost feel the wind in his hair and see the look of surprise on his brother’s face as he flew effortlessly over his head. Yes, it was going to be wonderful!
“Lewis,” Mom called from the house.
“Yes, Mom?” he replied from the top of the dirt pile.
“Grandma is here and wants to see you.”
Lewis jumped one more time, marked the spot where he landed, and rushed to the house. “Hi, Grandma. How was your trip?”
“Oh, it was great fun. I brought you something.” She held up a small wing-shaped pin she had received on her flight home.
“Wow! Thanks, Grandma!” He had wings! Now he knew he could fly. He pinned them to his shirt and ran outside to the dirt pile. Sure enough, he seemed to jump a little farther and a little higher. The problem, he thought, is that this hill is too small. If I could find something higher, I’m sure I could start to fly before I hit the ground.
The next day, Dad took Lewis to look at some new playground equipment, and Lewis saw the biggest jungle gym he’d ever seen. He grinned. Today was the day he was going to fly!
While his dad was busy talking to someone, Lewis pulled his pin out of his pocket and pinned the wings to his shirt. Then he raced over to the jungle gym. He climbed to the very top bar—about five meters from the ground—and yelled, “Watch this, Dad!” He jumped off, completely unafraid. On the way down, his leg caught on a bar and he crashed to the ground.
Lewis’s leg was broken, and his body was bruised and scratched.
“Are you feeling better now?” Dad asked on the way home from the hospital.
“Dad,” Lewis sobbed, “I don’t understand. My Primary teacher said if I have enough faith, I can do anything.”
“Lewis, you need to understand something about faith. The scriptures say that faith must be based in something that is true. If I believed with all my heart that the oceans were filled with spaghetti, it still wouldn’t be true. We can have faith in Jesus Christ because He really did come and die for us and He really does love you. We can have faith in the scriptures because the Lord really commanded the prophets to write them so we could learn about Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ and the scriptures are true. Can you see the difference?”
“I guess so.”
Dad continued, “There are also natural laws, like gravity, that are true. You will be able to fly someday, Lewis, but you have to do it using the natural laws of the earth. When you get a little older, you can learn how to fly an airplane. Now let’s go home and let that leg heal.”
Today Lewis is grown-up, and he flies high in the sky—as an airplane pilot.

When I joined the Church, I was eager to get involved in family history work. I began visiting local archives to search for my ancestors’ information in public records.
I found the work fulfilling, but it was not always easy. The old handwriting was often difficult to read, and some of the books were moldy, which agitated my asthma. Still, I continued researching as best I could.
One day I was researching about my grandfather, looking for his date of birth. I found a 1,500-page book that might be helpful. But what if it didn’t have the answer I needed? I dreaded having to look through more big, dusty books.
I began skimming the book’s contents, hoping a familiar name would catch my eye. Suddenly, I thought I heard someone say, “The last page.” I looked around, but it did not appear that anyone had spoken to me. I continued and read several more pages. Then I heard the same words again: “The last page.” Somewhat hesitantly, I decided to check the last page. I found the text that is usually written there: a summary of children born and the total number of pages. Just in case, I checked the page that preceded the last one but found nothing helpful there, so I turned back to the page I had been reading before.
My thoughts were soon interrupted once more by the soft but persistent voice: “The last page!” I decided to try the last page again and read the now-familiar text several times.
Then I noticed something I had missed before: an extra page pasted inside the back cover. As I read the handwriting scribbled across the page, I saw the names of children born near the end of December. There I recognized my grandfather’s name and saw that it stated where and when he was born and baptized. I was astonished but filled with gratitude that I had been led to the information I needed.

This story happened in Malaysia.
Claire heard the fish sizzling in the kitchen as she played with her little sister. While Mom and Dad cooked dinner for Lunar New Year, Claire and Chloe pretended to be the festival dragon.
Chloe giggled when Claire stomped through her room in her dragon mask and red shirt. Everyone was wearing red today. On Lunar New Year, red meant you’d be happy and strong. Claire loved her family’s Lunar New Year traditions!
“Mom, will we talk to Grandma and Grandpa today?” Claire asked when Chloe went to bed for a nap. Usually they celebrated with Grandma and Grandpa. But they were living in a different country now.
“Yes. We’ll call them after dinner,” Mom said. She wiped her hands on her red apron. “Do you want to help me make cookies?”
Claire nodded and climbed onto the chair by the table. She carefully cracked eggs into a big bowl.
While the cookies were baking, Claire helped Dad set the table. They put out the special holiday plates with pretty patterns on them. Then Claire put photos of Grandma, Grandpa, and other family members on the table. Setting out the photos helped make it feel like they were all together.
Soon the kitchen smelled like buttery cookies. It was time to eat! Claire, Chloe, and their parents sat around the table.
Claire said the prayer. “Thank Thee for another year to be with my family.” After everyone said amen, Claire put a sticky rice ball in her mouth and smiled. It was so good!
When dinner was over, Dad got out two red envelopes. This was another tradition. They meant good luck in the new year. “One for Claire and one for Chloe,” Dad said. Claire shook the envelope next to her ear. She listened to the coins clinking inside.
“Thank you,” Claire said to her parents. “Now can we call Grandma and Grandpa?”
“Of course!” Dad said. He set up his phone on the table, and Grandma’s and Grandpa’s smiling faces filled the screen. Claire and Chloe waved.
“Hi, Grandma! Hi, Grandpa!” Claire said. “We miss you so much!”
“We miss you too. How are you?” Grandma asked. Claire talked with them for a long time.
After Claire talked with Grandma and Grandpa, Mom asked them about people Claire didn’t know.
“Mom, who are those people?” Claire asked after they said goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa.
“They are some of our family members. I’m learning their names and stories so I can include them with our family history,” Mom said.
Claire thought about that. “What’s family history?”
“It’s when we learn about all of our family,” Dad said as Chloe climbed onto his lap. “The more we learn about our family, the stronger we become.”
Claire nodded. “Can you tell me the stories?”
“Of course!” Mom reached across the table and picked up the family photo album. She turned to an old photo in black and white. “This is Dad’s great-great-grandpa. He lived a long time ago. But we can feel close to him when we learn about his life.”
Claire looked at the photos while Mom and Dad told her stories. While she listened, she felt happy. She didn’t have to always be near her family to feel their love. She smiled. It was a very good Lunar New Year.
What’s your favorite family tradition?
Illustration by Hannah Li

Not long before Elaine S. Dalton entered her second year at Brigham Young University, her father passed away unexpectedly. It was a trying time in her life, and she prayed often to understand why her father would be taken away from a family that needed him so much.
The answer to her prayers didn’t come until the following summer, when she was touring Europe with the BYU folk dance team. On Father’s Day, as the team held sacrament meeting, one of the speakers referred to Proverbs 3:5–6: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
“I realized that scripture was my answer,” Sister Dalton says now. “I still didn’t know why my father passed away, but I knew I needed to trust in the Lord. That scripture has since guided my life. In everything that has happened that I haven’t understood, I’ve known that if I trust in the Lord, He will direct my path.”

Thirty years ago a true story unfolded in the most remote part of New Zealand. The windswept Chatham Islands are located in the South Pacific Ocean about 500 miles east of Christchurch. A hardy and resourceful 650 people lived there, isolated in the lonely, harsh environment of those days; and a young, inexperienced, and newly qualified doctor was responsible for their medical care.

An eight-year-old boy, Shane, had sustained a serious head injury 40 miles away on the far side of the island. He was being rushed in across the swamps and along the beaches on the backseat of an old, rusty car to the four-bed cottage hospital. He was unconscious.

The young doctor was unprepared to handle such a case, with little experience and having only the most basic of surgical instruments. Shane was in a critical condition. There was obvious bleeding inside his fractured skull—and blood clotting could fatally compress his brain. The doctor had never even seen a brain operation, but he knew he had to perform the delicate surgery immediately—or watch a little boy die.

There were blood donors to be called in, blood to be cross matched, an anesthetic to be prepared. The antique X-ray machine had broken down, so no helpful X-rays could be taken.

There was the first of many phone calls to Wellington, where a neurosurgeon tried to imagine the scene and guide the nervous young doctor through the process of a very delicate surgical procedure.

Shane’s mother prayed. The doctor prayed; the nurses prayed; the doctor’s wife prayed.

Responsibilities had to be delegated in this busy scene. The policeman administered the anesthetic, a nurse became the surgical assistant, and the work began under an Anglepoise light as darkness fell.

The first surgical incision, nervously performed, did not reveal any bleeding, so other incisions needed to be performed through Shane’s small skull to find the source of the bleeding. More calls to the neurosurgeon for direction and reassurance were made, and his advice was followed in every exact detail. After six hours of anxiety and pressure, the surgery was completed, the hemorrhage of blood into the brain cavity ceased, and a successful outcome was achieved. Serenity replaced chaos. It was around midnight.

The doctor was a young father. He thought about his family and the blessings they enjoyed. He was grateful for the many tender mercies of the Lord in his life and especially for the presence of the Comforter during the last 12 hours. He was grateful for the presence of an unseen expert who imparted of His far-greater knowledge freely in his time of need.

At the critical time in a desperate situation, the Lord provided the guidance and the ability for a young, inexperienced doctor to perform a miracle and preserve the life of a small boy, who was precious before the Lord.

Neil Hutchison was the young doctor who prayed for help and had the faith to rely on the Lord and the neurosurgeon, enabling him to perform a miracle under the most difficult of conditions. He now serves as the bishop in the East Coast Bays Ward in Auckland, New Zealand.

Bishop Hutchison advised me, "I had the privilege of meeting Shane and his father a couple of years ago in Christchurch for the first time since that day in 1976. He is an electrician with his own business and is aware of no defects from his long operation. He is such a nice chap, and I can’t help pondering on how thin the veil is between this life and the next."

Recently, I attended a sacrament meeting given by children with special needs. Each was disabled in hearing or sight or mental development. Beside each was a teenager assigned as a companion. They sang and played music for us. Facing us on the front row was a young girl who stood and signed to those behind us who could not hear.
Jenny gave a brief testimony. Then her parents each spoke. They told of the utter agony they had known when they learned that their child would never have a normal life. They told of the endless, everyday trials that followed. When others would stare or laugh, Jenny’s brothers put an arm protectively around her. The mother then told us of the love and absolute joy Jenny brought to the family.
Those parents have learned that “after much tribulation, … cometh the blessing” (D&C 103:12). I saw them bound together by adversity and refined into pure gold—true Latter-day Saints.
They told us Jenny adopts fathers. So when I shook hands with her, I said, “I’m a grandpa.”
She looked up at me and said, “Well, I can see why!”

I recently heard a wonderful story about a little girl named Sarah, whose mother had the opportunity to help another woman in her ward named Brenda, who had multiple sclerosis. Sarah loved to go with her mother to help Brenda. She would put lotion on Brenda’s hands and massage her fingers and arms because she was often in pain. Sarah then learned to gently stretch Brenda’s arms over her head to exercise her muscles. Sarah brushed Brenda’s hair and visited with her while her mother took care of her other needs. Sarah learned the importance and joy of serving another person and came to understand that even a child can make a big difference in someone’s life.

Emily Richards stepped up to the narrow pulpit at the National Woman Suffrage Association meeting in the U.S. capital, Washington, D.C. She knew this was one of the most critical experiences of her life. The year was 1889, and the topics of women’s suffrage in Utah and plural marriage were being fiercely debated. Although Emily was nervous, she felt prepared to speak on behalf of her home, gender, and religion.
One source related, “It was feared that the lady from Utah would not be able to make herself heard throughout the hall—other speakers having failed in that regard—but to the general surprise and delight, her clear tones penetrated to the remotest recesses of the building, and her speech was a veritable triumph.”1
Although there is not a record of what Emily said that day, one journalist reported that she spoke for about half an hour. She gave “an orderly, scholarly presentation” that presented facts and ideas that “disarm[ed] prejudice.” The reporter went on to say that Emily’s words had a “gentle spirit” that softened many hearts that day towards the territory of Utah.2
However, Emily was not always a skilled public speaker. She remembered how Eliza R. Snow, then Relief Society General President, had given her some advice: “The first time [Sister Snow] asked me to speak in meeting, I could not, and she said, ‘Never mind, but when you are asked to speak again, try and have something to say.’”3
Emily took this advice to heart and made sure she was prepared to speak when she was needed. Like Emily Richards, we must be ready at all times to “open [our] mouths” (Doctrine and Covenants 60:2) and proclaim the word of God.

When I was 18, I faced a turning point in my faith. I knew a lot of people who had grown up religious but weren’t actively involved in their religion, and I felt tempted to fall into that same pattern. But I also knew that real commitment to the Church of Jesus Christ requires much more than passive discipleship, and it was time for me to make a choice.
As I decided if I wanted to serve a mission and fully commit to the Lord, I knew I needed the extra direction that a patriarchal blessing could provide. I needed some personal direction and a glimpse of what Heavenly Father had in store for me.
Although we know from Elder Kazuhiko Yamashita of the Seventy that “a patriarchal blessing is not going to map out your life or answer all your questions,” it is “a message from your Heavenly Father and will likely include promises and inspired counsel to guide you throughout your life.”
My patriarchal blessing was exactly what I needed. I found inspired counsel from Heavenly Father and confirmation that there was a plan for my life.
One of the most amazing things that happened to me on my mission was receiving a real testimony that prophets and apostles are called of God. I’d never prayed for that knowledge before, and when that confirmation came, it was really powerful to me. The knowledge that they truly do speak God’s word gave me another resource for finding direction for my life.
As Elder Allen D. Haynie of the Seventy testified: “Knowing by revelation that there is a living prophet on the earth changes everything. … A prophet is someone God has personally prepared, called, corrected, inspired, rebuked, sanctified, and sustained.”
If we find ourselves wondering about trials we face, we can ask ourselves these questions posed by President Russell M. Nelson: “What will your seeking open for you? What wisdom do you lack? What do you feel an urgent need to know or understand?”
When we know what we really need from Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, we can follow President Nelson’s counsel: “Pray in the name of Jesus Christ about your concerns, your fears, your weaknesses—yes, the very longings of your heart. And then listen! Write the thoughts that come to your mind. Record your feelings and follow through with actions that you are prompted to take.”
As I’ve learned how to seek personal revelation, I’ve realized that it brings together a lot of different aspects of what we practice in the Church. When I want to know if something is true, I rely on prayer, I study the scriptures, and I seek out the words of living prophets.
Building consistent spiritual habits keeps me ready to receive personal revelation when I need it. When I have questions or feel lost, I remember that I have a way to get the answers I need.
In those moments when I find myself asking if Heavenly Father really is guiding my life, I remember the ninth article of faith: “We believe that [God] will yet reveal many great and important things pertaining to the Kingdom of God.”
Heavenly Father has more to reveal to His prophets about the Church, and He has more to reveal to us about our lives.
As Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once promised young adults, “As we strive to trust God and follow His Son, Jesus Christ, one day we will see the finished product, and we will know that the very hand of God was directing and guiding our steps.”
Heavenly Father can make everything in our lives fit into His perfect plan as we continue to trust and follow Him.

Peter Jeppson took the gasoline pump hose out of his tank and with a quick twist of his wrist, secured the tank cap. It was late Saturday night, and he had stopped for gasoline on his way home from his date. He was still thinking of his best friend’s news—a mission call. Peter, himself, would be sending in his own papers in just a few weeks.
As Peter drove through an intersection into the traffic on the main highway leading into Boise, Idaho, his car smashed head-on into another. On impact, the windshield of his car was knocked out and shattered on the street. The full gas tank located in the front of his rear-engined car burst.
Gas sloshed up the hood right through the open window catching me right in the eyes, covering me and the inside of the car completely. Somehow flames were ignited, and the car burst into a blazing fire. It was then that some people who were passing by saw the accident and quickly stopped. Three men were able to get close enough to my car to open the door. The flames were two times as high as the car. They couldn’t find me because the flames were so intense. They threw their coats in the open car door to cover the flames until they could see my hand. The three of them grabbed my hand and pulled me from the wreckage. They rolled me over and over to put out the fire.
Peter had borrowed his brother’s thick, Scottish wool sweater for his date that night. The trunk of his body and his arms down to the wrists, the areas covered by the sweater, were the only parts not burned. It was the fact that he was wearing this sweater that saved his life.
In 1965, Peter was living in his hometown of Boise, Idaho, preparing for a mission like many of his friends. The day of the accident changed all that. He was forced into an experience that would test him to the limit. And it was his triumph over adversity that changed his life.

As the tears wet her nightgown, she remembered once when she saw the Prophet cry. It had happened the year before, when Mary Ann’s family was returning from England. Many converts came with them on the boat, and they were anxious to see Joseph Smith.

“I’ll know him immediately,” one man said. Others agreed that they, too, would be able to pick him out, even in a multitude.

Mary Ann told the converts how noble and grand the Prophet looked on his horse at the head of the Nauvoo Legion. She told them how she had watched him preach to the people in the Kirtland Temple, and to the Indians in the grove at Nauvoo.

Mary Ann still remembered how the steamboat pushed through large, floating blocks of ice on the Mississippi River as it approached the city of Nauvoo. At the landing there was a large group of people waiting to welcome the company of travelers. Right away, Mary Ann noticed the Prophet. He came on the boat, into their cabin, and embraced Parley Pratt. Then he welcomed each family member in turn.

The Prophet was a very big man. Six foot, her father had said. Mary Ann’s head came just above his belt buckle, but he leaned over so he could look into her eyes and shake her hand. Then he sat down and took her little brother on his knees.

“Well, well, Brother Parley, you have returned, bringing your sheaves with you.” He hugged little Parley and Nathan, and the tears filled his clear blue eyes and streamed down his cheeks. Mary Ann had discovered that grown folk sometimes cry when they’re filled with joy, so she knew it was just his happiness spilling over.

Mary Ann recalled how Father had teased the Prophet when he saw the tears.

“Brother Smith, if you feel so bad about our coming home, I guess we’ll have to go back again.”

After that, everyone laughed, the Prophet most of all. Then he said, “Brother Parley, bring your folks up to my house.” Mary Ann remembered how as they walked up the hill with the Prophet, she had tried to match her step with his.

In New Zealand, Denny and Alex were childhood friends who attended different churches. Friendship blossomed into courtship, and courtship into marriage. Religion had never been discussed during their dating years, but after they were married, Denny and Alex faced a dilemma: Which church should they attend?
At one point, Denny, who was a member of the Church, felt he could not continue living in a way that felt divided. His father gave him simple counsel: “Keep going to church. They are your family.” He listened. Two years later, his wife chose to be baptized. In time, they were sealed in the house of the Lord. What began with tension ended in unity. They chose to come unto Christ—together.

Several years ago, two Latter-day Saint missionaries visited me in Marshall, Texas. But I politely told them I wasn’t interested. I was afraid that I didn’t know enough about the Bible to be able to judge what they were telling me, and I had a great fear that they would ask me to pray. They left a Book of Mormon with me. But when I opened it and saw names that I had never heard before—such as Lehi, Nephi, and Alma—I immediately closed it, put it on a shelf in the closet, and forgot all about it.
As the years went by, I hardly gave religion or spiritual matters a thought. But one night I became troubled with the way I was living my life. “If there really is a God,” I thought, “I want to know it.” I decided to make an honest effort to find out and felt the best place to start was the scriptures.
I started studying the New Testament and attending a Protestant church. I enjoyed what I learned there, but something bothered me. In Ephesians 4:5 [Eph. 4:5], we read of one Lord, one faith, and one baptism—yet I had friends of various faiths who seemed content with their different beliefs. I wondered how they could all be right. When I mentioned this to them, they just laughed. “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” they said, “as long as you accept Christ as your personal Savior.”
I didn’t feel comfortable with that concept and tried to find the answer in the scriptures. But I wasn’t getting any answers, and I became upset. Why didn’t the Bible just say which church was right? Next I went to the encyclopedia to see if I could find the answer there. If I learned when different churches were organized, I reasoned, maybe that would help. Again, I was disappointed.
Then one day I found the book I had put on the closet shelf years before. And I began to read it. This time I found it interesting—so interesting that I began to tell my friends at work about it. Whether I was at home, at work, or at a movie, I couldn’t get it off my mind.
When I reached the point where I had to know if the book was really of God or of the devil, I considered praying about it but was afraid of being deceived. Then I read the scripture in Moroni 10:4–5 [Moro. 10:4–5]where we’re told to pray about what we have read in the Book of Mormon. I was still afraid the answer might come from Satan, but then a biblical scripture came to mind that alleviated that worry:
“What man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?
“Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?” (Matt. 7:9–10). I know that the answer that later came was indeed from God.
After having read and studied for a good while, I thought, “I wonder if my minister would like to hear about this book.” I was sure he didn’t know about it because he had never mentioned it. To my surprise, he wasn’t interested. “Clifford,” he said, “evidently you don’t feel as if you’ve ever been saved.” So we knelt in his office and prayed. When we arose from our knees, he looked at me as if to say, “Now everything is okay.”
I said, “I don’t feel any differently now than I did when we knelt.”
“Don’t you believe in the scriptures that say that whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ shall be saved?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “but I can’t help how I feel.” I left, miserable. I felt I had failed because I couldn’t make him understand what I was feeling about the Book of Mormon.
I continued to read and study. Sometimes I’d have to stop. I can’t describe the mental anguish I suffered during those days. I had to know if this book was true. I would go to the Bible, then to the Book of Mormon—back and forth, study and compare.
I decided to talk to my minister again. At one point during the lengthy discussion, I asked him what happens to people who die without ever hearing the gospel of Jesus Christ. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Clifford, they die and go to hell.” Again, I was very depressed when I left him.
Then one day I remembered that the missionaries who had given me the Book of Mormon had told me that the local Latter-day Saint branch president owned a business in town and that if I ever had any questions, I could go to him. I visited President Murray Conley, asked some questions, and was pleased with his answers.
Later, some members of my church visited me and informed me that I was being misled. The next night, the minister and his wife came to visit. But when I asked him to explain Malachi 4:5–6 [Mal. 4:5–6], he got angry and told me I had been brainwashed by the Mormons and there was nothing more he could do.
One night I read 3 Nephi 14:13–14: “Enter ye in at the strait gate; for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, which leadeth to destruction, and many there be who go in thereat;
“Because strait is the gate, and narrow the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” [3 Ne. 14:13–14]
I got up from my chair and walked outside. Alone in the darkness, I could see myself standing at that narrow scriptural gate, pacing back and forth, afraid to go in. I realized at that moment that I had found the way. The Lord spoke to me that night, not as we speak to one another, but with a still, small voice that said, “What are you going to do about it?”
I went back to tell President Conley I wanted to be baptized. But he was in Salt Lake City. Thinking that only the branch president had the authority to baptize, I left, intending to return a week later.
During that week, Satan placed another stumbling block in my path—more doubts. “Do I have to start all over again?” I wondered. After struggling with my doubts for three days, I started reading a book President Conley had given me—Truth Restored, by President Gordon B. Hinckley. As I did, the Spirit, which had borne witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, also bore witness to me that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s true church.
When President Conley returned from Salt Lake City, I told him I wanted to be baptized. As we drove to Gilmer, Texas, for my baptism on 19 October 1970, I asked him, “Do I understand correctly from what I have read in the scriptures that just because I’m being baptized, I’m not saved, but that I have to endure to the end?”
He said, “That’s exactly right.”
I cried all the way to my baptism. I felt very strongly that the Church was true. After baptism, I felt it ten times more strongly.
Many times after, I wondered, “Why me? Why do I know the truth while many good Christian people don’t?” And a scripture always came to my mind, “Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (Luke 11:9).
Several weeks after I was baptized, I had the privilege of receiving a witness of the Holy Ghost once again, stronger than before. One morning at about 3:00 A.M., I sat up in bed with tears streaming down my face. The Holy Ghost was bearing such a powerful witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and of the Church that I felt like saying, “Please, Lord, no more, no more. I know it’s true.”
I do know with all my heart and soul that the Book of Mormon is true. It led me to the living God, to his Son Jesus Christ, and to his church guided by a living prophet.