Gospel Story Finder

The Warwoods always planned to go on a senior mission, and Sister Warwood was certain she knew where the Lord needed her to serve. As a neonatal nurse practitioner, she felt drawn to humanitarian work in developing countries.
“I always thought I would serve a humanitarian mission in a third-world country, something with mothers and babies,” she explains. But when they visited Africa a year before their mission call, something unexpected happened. “When I thought to myself, ‘We’ll be here in a year,’ I just had this dreaded feeling,” Sister Warwood recalls.
Back home, during a senior mission meeting, coordinators asked about their preferences. She answered, “Third world, something medical, saving lives.” The dread returned. “I thought, ‘I guess I don’t really want to serve a mission. This is a horrible feeling.’”
Everything shifted when coordinators learnt the couple’s backgrounds—he an accountant, she in healthcare. They explained that “the Mission Health Adviser (MHA) is the most coveted job in the mission because you get to know, love, and serve all of the missionaries.” Sister Warwood realised the MHA “did many of the things I did in the NICU—just with much bigger babies!”
“By the time we left the meeting, instead of feeling dread, I was very excited.” She realised: “The Lord’s been trying to tell you third-world humanitarian is not where you’re supposed to be. He couldn’t have made it more obvious.”
The Warwoods accepted a call to the Auckland New Zealand Mission, where that guidance proved itself many times. In one memorable incident, a sister missionary called with allergic reaction symptoms. She had eaten mussels and was experiencing throat itching and nausea. As they talked, her symptoms escalated.
“Her tongue and face were swelling, she could hardly swallow, was drooling, coughing and developed a rash,” Sister Warwood remembers. She coordinated care, managing four phones at the same time—with the missionary, her leaders, transportation, and the urgent care centre—so they would be prepared to treat her on arrival.
“The urgent care answered right away,” she marvels, “no eternal ‘on hold’, as usual.” The missionary received immediate treatment. “Everything went so smoothly,” Sister Warwood reflects. The Lord’s hand was undeniable in this event.
Meanwhile, Elder Warwood was discovering his own unexpected path. “When we came out, I didn’t know what I was going to do,” he admits. When another senior missionary couple had to return home early, Elder Warwood inherited their bicycle maintenance responsibilities, in which he had little experience. “I know enough about bike repair to get myself in trouble,” he laughs.
The solution came through family. His brother Dan was planning to visit New Zealand for just one week with his wife. Sister Warwood suggested they extend their stay. “Gary could really use some help with bikes.” Her sister-in-law’s response was immediate: “Oh, Dan would love that.”
Dan, a skilled mechanic, ended up staying almost three weeks, teaching Elder Warwood everything about bicycle repair. “He fixes anything,” Elder Warwood says gratefully. “The Lord just provided that help.” Now he manages both mission finances and keeps dozens of bicycles running.
As President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) taught, “Whom the Lord calls, the Lord qualifies.” Elder Warwood has learnt that this principle applies not just to the calling but to every challenge that arises, “for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish … them” (1 Nephi 3:7).
The Warwoods have four children, two with challenges, making it especially difficult to leave their family. But their setting-apart blessing included a promise that “people would come into their lives to help and serve them in ways that we are not able to from far away,” Sister Warwood shares.
That promise taught her new faith. “I find peace when I say, ‘OK, Lord, I can’t do anything about this, but you can. So I’m going to leave it with you.’ It takes the worry away.” The mission has shifted her perspective. “I’ve learnt to think more celestial, seeing what really matters in the end, and what doesn’t.”
Elder Warwood sees this divine orchestration everywhere. “The Lord puts people in our space—it’s this big jigsaw puzzle where He knows exactly where we’re all supposed to be to help others. He fulfils everyone’s needs.“
In that jigsaw puzzle, every piece has been shaped for its exact place. While they wondered at first how they might fit into the senior mission experience, the Warwoods have learnt that the Lord has been preparing them for this work their whole lives. They were already the pieces that He needed.

In a branch with many recent converts, the girls have had several opportunities to fellowship new members and to do missionary work. After Elizabeth had been a stake missionary for about a year and a half, one of her Cambodian friends from elementary school began investigating the Church. Missionaries asked Elizabeth to attend the discussions to support her friend, Phally Chhim. Elizabeth happily agreed, and a few months later Phally was baptized.

Amy explained that when her modern-day family saw the pageant performed in Nauvoo over a decade ago, they recognised the beautiful pioneer spirit there and knew they wanted to be part of it. After applying multiple times, they were accepted as part of the family cast of the Nauvoo and British Pageant to be performed in Nauvoo during 2018.
Remembering that amazing experience, Amy reminisced, “We danced and sang and worked day after day in the hot sun to learn our parts, to be ready to perform. Our kids danced and played music in the country band all while costumed from head to toe in 1840’s pioneer attire. One week of rehearsals and the next week is go time! It’s quite miraculous how it all comes together. I’ll always remember and cherish the feeling of unity we shared as a family.”

My family and I moved to the island of Dominica in the Caribbean in August 2016. We immediately fell in love with the island’s beauty, culture, and people. We attended the local branch and learned much from the members there.
On Monday, September 18, 2017, a Category 5 hurricane, Maria, hit our small island. My husband and I watched as homes and vehicles were thrown down the street by the powerful storm. The fury of Hurricane Maria passed directly over the island, and the destruction was devastating. The day after the storm, we walked through the streets and found that the lush and vibrant rainforest of Dominica now looked like a wasteland.
That same morning, we walked to our fellow branch members’ homes. Only two homes were unscathed and livable. Six of the eight member families who lived on the northern side of the island lost everything. Eighty percent of the homes and buildings on Dominica were declared uninhabitable. Despite this tragedy, many families still smiled. When we asked how they were doing, they responded, “We are blessed to be alive.”
Because our family heeded the prophet’s counsel to be self-reliant, we had food storage. We were able to feed many neighbors, missionaries, and members of our branch. At each meal, we fed an average of 20 people. As we used our food storage to serve and care for those around us, our own burdens felt lighter.
This experience reminded me of Alma and his people, whose “burdens … were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease” (Mosiah 24:15).
Even though we still lived without running water, electricity, and day-to-day comforts, we were strengthened to overcome and to lift others. In the months since Hurricane Maria, I have realized that while it is important to be temporally prepared, we need to be spiritually prepared as well. As we obey and build our testimonies on faith in Jesus Christ, we will have a solid foundation that will not fail when the winds and tempests of life blow around us.

My dad is not a member of the Church. I love spending time with him, but it was hard to keep the Sabbath day holy when I was with him. I never wanted to hurt his feelings by not going to a movie or shopping with him on Sundays, so for a while I ignored the matter.
When I got a little older, I realized that what I was doing wasn’t right. I finally sat down and told my dad how I felt. Surprisingly, he didn’t mind. He was understanding enough to help me with the problem.
Talking to someone about your beliefs isn’t always easy, but it isn’t as scary as it seems. Let people know how you feel. For me, it worked out in the end.

In the years immediately after the war, the most pressing tasks of local Church leaders were to find and care for scattered members and to build up the remaining branches. This latter work needed the strength of young priesthood holders and full-time missionaries, but it had to be carried on by women, children, and older members. However, as soon as priesthood holders began returning from the war and from prisoner-of-war camps, they were called to missionary service.
Walter Krause was released from prison on 2 July 1945 in Cottbus, near the Polish border. Several Church members lived in a refugee camp there. Toward the end of November, mission president Richard Ranglack asked Brother Krause what he would think about going on a mission, as there were many branches that needed help. “If the Lord needs me, I will go,” Brother Krause replied.
“On December 1, 1945, I set out with 20 Marks in my pocket, a piece of dry bread, and a bottle of herb tea. One Brother had given me a winter coat that had belonged to his son who did not return from the war. Another Brother who was a shoemaker gave me a pair of shoes. And so I set out on a mission with two shirts, two handkerchiefs, and two pair of socks,” Brother Krause recalled. (In an unpublished collection of autobiographical sketches edited by Manfred Schutze, page 3.)
Transportation was either difficult to obtain or nonexistent. Brother Krause reported that it was common to walk twelve or thirteen hours, for distances of up to fifty kilometers, to visit various branches of the Church. But many members, like Sister Elli Polzin, still had to be found and cared for.

My heart swelled with happiness and pride. Then, as if in a dream, my mind went back eight years to the time when the doctor told us that our newborn son, David, could not live. I had felt I was losing the fulfillment of my greatest desire, even before I had a chance to hold him in my arms. I rebelled against the cruelty of the situation. Not even my husband could soften my suffering.
Then I found a source of hope. I realized I could ask help from someone even more powerful than the doctors. I knew that God, who had sent us this child, could help us.
I began spending hours in prayer. Gradually, the impression came to me that our family’s lives were going to change. Two and a half months later, the doctors let us take David home, even though his condition was still serious. As Jose and I continued to pray, our feeling of imminent change grew stronger.
Two weeks after we took him home, David again required hospitalization, and the doctors began trying to prepare us for his death. At this low point, we finally experienced the change we were anticipating. Jose had mentioned our problems to one of his colleagues, who said that two young missionaries he knew claimed to have authority from God to give blessings that could heal people if they had faith.
“If what they say is true, tell them to come to our home. We need them,” my husband replied.
Several days later, the missionaries came to our home and began giving us the discussions. Within several weeks’ time, Jose and I had each received a testimony of the Book of Mormon and of the restored gospel, and we were baptized.
I will never forget placing our infant son in the hands of the brethren who anointed him with oil and gave him his first blessing. From the moment of that blessing, I felt certain that our son was under divine protection and that nothing would further threaten his life.
Several days after that blessing, I took David to the hospital for a checkup. When the pediatrician examined David’s X-rays, I knew by his amazed expression that my son had been healed.
“It’s unbelievable. His lungs are intact. There isn’t even a trace of disease … a veritable miracle,” the doctor exclaimed.
“Yes, a true miracle,” I murmured, blinking the tears from my eyes. From that time, David grew normally. His testimony grew, too, strengthened by his knowing the circumstances of his birth.

During the tears and other hubbub of leaving the airport, I paid little attention to all the words of advice and caution everyone was giving me. All I could see was the jet pulling up to the gate and visions of converting the entire countries of Guatemala and El Salvador. Finally, we were told to board, There was a rush of last minute hugs, kisses (from my parents and sisters), and, of course, that special handshake from a smiling, beautiful girl who was close to crying.
When I reached the door leading to the boarding area, my father said, “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” I nodded a hurried “Sure, Dad” and left. As I walked to the plane, I laughed to myself. “Dad, you got your words mixed again. You meant to say, ‘Obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy on your mission.’” With that, I tossed his advice into my memory, filed under “Parental Counsel.”
Seven months later, my father was dead.
In those first wavering hours after my mission president told me of the tragic plane accident, I found myself much like the cartoon character who has a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The devil said: “What are you doing here? All that talk about life after death is not true. You go on a mission and what happens. You break your foot; go to the hospital; come to a strange land, with strange people and strange customs; and your father gets killed. Sure it’s the happiest two years of your life. 3,200 kilometers away from home, and you’re all alone.”
Such thoughts were foreign to me. I had been a faithful member of the Church all my life; yet, the thoughts were there.
The angel on my other shoulder said: “Be strong, Elder. You had a great father you can be proud of, a mighty patriarch who taught you the gospel in all things. You know eternal life is a true principle of the gospel, and you know your father will be waiting for you. You ve had a testimony of the gospel since you were old enough to cry. This is no time to start doubting.”
In the midst of this struggle between doubt and reality, my father’s last words at the airport came echoing into my mind: “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” Dad hadn’t confused his words at all. Those final words to me were inspired counsel that would guide me for the rest of my life. My father lived as he taught, and a few weeks following his death, the full testimony of his life was made manifest to me.
Finances became a major concern. I had enough money in the bank to cover 11 of the remaining 15 months of my mission and hoped Mom could get enough together for the remaining four. My plans for college now became hopes and dreams. However, the Lord takes care of his missionaries.
I received a letter from my mother telling me that I needn’t worry about finances anymore. A man had contacted my bishop and asked if he could support me for the rest of my mission. This is not too unusual, since there are many good-hearted men in the Church, but the difference in this instance was in what the man told my bishop: “l’m not a member of your church, but out of the love and respect I have for Horace Rappleye, I’d like to support his son for the rest of his mission.” And he did. For 15 months the money was placed regularly in my bank account by the anonymous benefactor.
He remains anonymous to this day.
My father’s life of obedience brought blessings to him even after he died. His death became the highlight of my mission. That may be a strange thing to say, and I wish my father were still alive, but my mission thereafter became a living testimony to my father’s life. I soon found how precious it is to live “all the rules.” No matter how small or insignificant the rule seemed, if I obeyed, I was happy.
We are told by the Lord, “There is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—
“And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” (D&C 130:20–21.)
This scripture is true. Whenever I find that I become depressed or unhappy. I usually find it is because I am not being obedient in all things as I should. At these times a comforting echo reverberates in my head. “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.”

Whitney is a very bright 14-year-old girl who joined the Church about a year ago. It was a magical moment as I looked at the girls’ soccer team who were there for her baptism. They had been there for each other many times. That’s the way it is with teams, and this team was one of the best, in soccer—and in life. Each girl was a Beehive, setting an example, standing as a witness of goodness, even on the playing field. Whitney liked being part of that. It felt good.
After her baptism, Whitney stood before us with her friend Elizabeth. Their faces were glowing, their eyes were bright, and their smiles sincere as they repeated these words they had learned by heart: “We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us, and we love Him. We will ‘stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places.’” Whitney already had the whole Young Women theme memorized. In fact, it was because Whitney’s friends had stood as witnesses that we were all there on that memorable day to welcome a beautiful daughter of God into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I am the only member of the Church in my neighborhood. My best friend, Jared, lives in the home behind mine. One day, I invited Jared to come to church with my family. He couldn’t come that day, and I decided to give him a Book of Mormon. I hoped that he would read it. I thought that maybe he wasn’t ready to come to church yet and that I would ask him another time. Mom didn’t think we had an extra Book of Mormon, but I went to the basement to look for one, anyway. I found three copies that our family had forgotten were there.
I combed my hair, put on a white shirt and a suit coat, and got some cookies from Mom to take to Jared. When my four-year-old brother, Cameron, found out that I was going to “be a missionary,” he wanted to go as my companion. He held the plate of cookies, and I knocked on Jared’s door. Jared and his mom invited us in, and we gave them the cookies and the Book of Mormon.
One Monday night Jared came over. Mom and Dad said that he could stay for family home evening. It was my turn to start with prayer. I asked Heavenly Father to bless Jared and all of my other friends. Then Cameron and I sang “When Jesus Christ Was Baptized.” Our lesson was on honesty, and we watched a filmstrip about it. After the lesson, Mom asked Jared if he wanted to say the closing prayer. He said yes, so Mom showed him how to pray. He did a great job!
It makes me feel good inside when I share the gospel with Jared.

A beautiful illustration of Joseph F. Smith’s love for his family comes from his early years as a father, when he was existing on a poverty wage and was paid only in commodities. In these destitute circumstances, he made a trip to town one day before Christmas to buy “something for my chicks.”
“I wanted something to please them, and to mark the Christmas day from all other days—but not a cent to do it with! I walked up and down Main Street, looking into the shop windows … everywhere—and then slunk out of sight of humanity and sat down and wept like a child until my poured-out grief relieved my aching heart; and after awhile returned home, as empty as when I left, and played with my children, grateful and happy … for them.”

Six-year-old Jason rode down the street on his new red bicycle. It was the first time he had ridden his bicycle without his eleven-year-old brother, Ray, riding along beside him. Jason grinned as he thought about his big brother. Ray wa fun to be with. But now Ray had gone on an errand for Mother, so Jason was riding by himself.

“'Aaaa!' he called as he pedaled past his mother.
She smiled and waved at him. Jason didn’t dare let go of the handlebars to wave back, but he gave her a big smile. When he turned around and pedaled back to his house again, his mother motioned for him to stop. Born with a very bad hearing loss, Jason wore a hearing aid in each ear. The only sounds that he could hear were very soft and unclear, so Jason had only recently begun to learn to talk.
“Jason,” Mother said, at the same time using sign language, “I’m going into the house to do dishes now. It will soon be dark. Please come inside in just a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Jason tried to form the word with his mouth as he finger-spelled.
Mom smiled and rumpled his hair before she walked into the house, and Jason pedaled his bike down the street again. It was exciting riding with a rush of the wind against his face. Jason pedaled faster and faster. He didn’t pay attention to where he was going. “Aaaa!” he cried delightedly.
Then the cry froze in his throat as he stared at the unfamiliar houses that he was passing. The bicycle wobbled and nearly fell over before Jason could come to a stop. He looked around him with wide, frightened eyes. Where am I? he wondered.
Jason turned his bicycle around and pedaled back toward the nearest corner. He peered at the houses in the gathering darkness. They were all strange. Jason choked back a sob. How would he ever get back to his own home? He couldn’t ask anyone for help. He pedaled up and down the streets looking for a familiar sight, but it was no use. The longer he searched, the more confused he became.
Soon it was dark, and Jason had never been so frightened. He didn’t know what to do. Suddenly there came to his mind a picture of his family kneeling in prayer, and he thought, I’ll ask Heavenly Father to help me!
Jason got off his bicycle, then knelt on the sidewalk and folded his arms. Dear Father in Heaven, he prayed silently, I’m lost. Please help me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Jason opened his eyes, half-expecting to see a familiar face, but no one was there. He could see lights shining through the windows of nearby houses. He though about his family in his own home and about how much he loved them. Maybe I’ll never see them again. Tears trickled down his cheeks at the thought. Then the words I am a child of God! Popped into his mind. They were from a Primary song that his mother had taught him.
“You can learn to say the words if you try,” she had said as she signed to him. “Then you can sing it with your voice, your hands, and your heart.”
Jason had tried. It was hard, but he could sing it well enough for his family to recognize it. Now he loved to sing it often, even though he could barely hear the sounds that he made. He knew that there was beautiful music inside him, though, because he had such a happy feeling when he sang.
Maybe, Jason thought, I won’t feel so scared if I sing. He squeezed his eyes shut against his tears and began, “I am a child of God, And he has sent me here, Has given me an earthly home With parents kind and dear. …”
As he sang the last few words, Jason opened his eyes. He could scarcely believe what he saw: His big brother was coming down the street!
“Aaaa!” Jason cried, leaping to his feet. “Aaaa!”
Jason started to run. He didn’t stop until he ran straight into his brother’s open arms. Ray caught him in a big hug, swinging him off his feet.
“I’d never have found you if I hadn’t heard you singing that song!” Ray exclaimed. “You’ve sung it so many times at home that when I heard it in the darkness, I knew just who was singing. It led me straight to you!”
Jason couldn’t follow all that Ray was saying, but he knew that he was safe, and he knew that Heavenly Father had answered his prayer.

I don’t know when I started liking Jarom as more than just a friend. Maybe the first day. But the more I was around Jarom, the more I liked him. I didn’t date much, so it was nice to have someone to hang around with. One lunch hour he asked me to the Iron Man’s Ball, a dance sponsored by the school’s weight lifting club.
After I accepted, I began to wonder how I’d explain Jarom to Mom and Dad. They’d always taught me to date LDS guys. I decided on a subtle strategy.
“Do you ever go to church?” I asked him one day.
“Not that I remember. Why?”
“Why don’t you?” I quickly added. “You’d like it.”
He grinned. “I don’t think I’d fit in.”
“Come to a fireside. There’s one Sunday.”
“Fireside? What the heck’s a fireside?”
I laughed and explained it to him. “My dad’s our bishop, and he’s giving the talk. He’d be impressed if you showed up.”
Sunday evening I was nervous, not sure how Jarom would come dressed. He showed up in a pair of white Levi’s, a pale blue dress shirt, and a tie. And he had shaved.
“Mom and Dad, this is Jarom Wade.”
Dad shook his hand warmly. “Jarom’s a good Book of Mormon name.”
Before Dad could ask him anything else, I explained, “Jarom’s the one I’ve told you about, the one who settled our seminary class down.”
Before Mom and Dad could ask any personal questions, I hurried Jarom out of the house. But things started unraveling at the fireside. Dad spoke about the last thing I wanted Jarom to hear—dating! And he managed to say all the wrong things, talking hard about not dating before you’re 16, not dating nonmembers, no steady dating, and on and on. It’s not that I disagreed with Dad. I just didn’t know if Jarom would understand.
After the fireside Jarom drove me home. As he helped me out of the car, he asked, “Do you want to go for a walk?”
We were both quiet for the first half block. Jarom was the first to speak. “Your dad made sense tonight.” He chuckled. “I finally understood something that a Mormon was teaching.”
“He says what he thinks,” I said, blushing in the darkness.
Jarom didn’t answer right away. “He doesn’t know I’m not Mormon, does he? I guess my name and my going to seminary threw him off.” I stared ahead, suddenly nervous. “But you knew it would, didn’t you?”
“I haven’t lied about you, Jarom,” I came back defensively.
“But he’s thinking one thing, and I’m thinking something else.” He hunched his shoulders. “I shouldn’t take you to the Iron Man’s Ball.”
“Jarom, Dad didn’t say that,” I spoke out, feeling hurt.
“I want to go,” Jarom said softly. “You’re probably the first girl I’ve really wanted to go with. But I have to be fair to your dad too.” He pondered a moment. “I don’t have much, Brookley. Mom’s gone. I don’t know where Dad is. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I don’t have much money. But I can still say I’m honest. I can still make a promise and have it mean something. Mom taught me that. That’s why I get up every morning and sit through your Mormon seminary. Because of a promise.”
When we walked back to the house, Dad was just pulling into the driveway. He jumped out of the car, spotted us, and invited us into the house so we could get out of the heat. We sat in the living room and talked with Mom and Dad while some of the younger kids hung around a bit. I could tell Jarom felt awkward and wanted to speak but wasn’t sure what to say.”
“Mr. Reeves,” Jarom finally said, rubbing the palms of his hands on his thighs, “I liked your speech tonight.” He shifted uneasily on the sofa.
“Bishop Haroldson probably gives you the same speech in your ward.”
Jarom glanced at me, then at Dad. “I don’t know Bishop Haroldson. I’m not Mormon.” I could tell Mom and Dad were surprised. “With a name like Jarom, you probably figured I was. And I go to seminary.” He looked at his hands and explained briefly how he’d ended up in seminary and how he’d agreed with Rhett to stay awake and listen. “I know how you feel about Brookley going out with guys like me.”
The room was quiet while Dad thought. “A promise means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Jarom nodded. “Do you believe what you hear in seminary?”
“I haven’t had a chance to really process all of it. It’s still pretty new. I don’t disbelieve it.”
“Will you make another promise?”
“Depends on the promise.”
“Keep listening to Sister Batson. With your heart and your ears.”
Jarom considered the request. “I don’t know that I’ve ever listened with my heart. I’m not sure I know how.”
Dad smiled. “I don’t think somebody makes promises like you’ve made without listening to his heart.”
Jarom considered that a moment and then nodded once. “You have my word then.” He took a deep breath and stood up. He held his hand out to Dad, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Now I guess I better head home and get to bed or I’m going to have a hard time staying awake in seminary tomorrow.”

After returning from my mission to Spain, I felt ready for my next step in life. I wanted to experience the Church in a bigger way, beyond the borders of my home in Vienna, Austria, where members are devoted but relatively few.
I felt that I needed to be among like-minded young people at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, USA, and I hoped to meet a young woman there whom I could marry and with whom I could start a family. I passed the English language test and was soon admitted. My parents offered to help pay my expenses.
One nagging thought, however, troubled me. I hadn’t consulted the Lord. “Why do I need to ask?” I reasoned. Was I not “engaged in a good cause,” not needing to be directed in all things? (see Doctrine and Covenants 58:26–27). How could heaven possibly object?
But the Holy Ghost kept prompting me, “You need to pray before deciding.” Fully expecting the Lord to approve, I thought, “OK.”
An answer came swift and strong—one of the clearest answers I have ever received. I heard in my heart, “I need you here in Austria to build up the kingdom.”
I put the BYU class schedule away and canceled my plans. I thought about my family, how the Lord had helped us immigrate to Austria from Uruguay when I was young. I realized that maybe the Lord did need me here. With a new spirit, I focused on building the kingdom in Austria, which is drenched in beauty, rich in history, and home to many great musical masters, like Beethoven and Mozart.

The area of Peru where my family lived was particularly troubled by violence. During the afternoon of 20 April, a band of terrorists came into town with guns and dynamite. They began rounding up people—including my mother, my brother, and me—threatening to kill us. Silently I prayed that, if I had to die, I would go to paradise.
The terrorists tied up all those who had stones, sticks, or any other weapon of self-defense in their possession and shot them with machine guns. Women wept for their husbands, brothers, and sons. My mother wept, too, for my brother was among the dead.
Exactly one month later, the terrorists returned at 1:00 A.M. looking specifically for my father. He was a leader in the town, and rumor had falsely accused him of organizing the town against the terrorists. This time they took my parents and several other people from their homes and murdered them. Had my brothers and sisters and I not been sleeping at our aunt’s house, we would most likely have also been killed. But we were able to flee into the hills.
Early that same morning, we were pounded by a hailstorm, but as soon as it was light, I began running to the town over the hill to get help. Suddenly I realized that some of the terrorists were also hiding in the hills and that they were coming after me. As I started down the hill, which was very slippery with hail, I pleaded with the Lord to help me. Miraculously, I was able to escape.
As soon as I was out of danger, I knelt to give thanks and to ask for protection. As I finished my prayer, I felt a wonderful peace, as if nothing bad had happened. My legs had been shaking violently. Now they felt renewed, and I had the strength to continue running. My fear completely disappeared. I had just lost my parents, but I felt a strong assurance that I had a Heavenly Father who loved me.
With help from the people in the town I fled to, I was able to get the rest of my family to safety.

Silver Rain paddled her birchbark canoe with swift, sure strokes, dipping the spoon-shaped wooden oar first on one side of the frail shell and then the other. The bow was headed toward a distant point of land.
Her grandmother, Mourning Dove, seated in the front of the canoe facing her, watched with approval. There were no noisy splashes or roiling of the water. The oar blade was inserted cleanly and lifted the same way at the end of each stroke. Bronzed muscles rippled in the arms of the slightly built girl as the boat glided silently across the deep blue water.
Mourning Dove sighed. Where have the years gone? she wondered. It seemed only yesterday that she had been as young and strong as Silver Rain. Now, in the twilight of her life, the older woman would sit by the cooking fire grinding meal or she would tend her numerous small grandchildren while her sons’ wives did all the more strenuous chores. She had begun to eat a little less food each day, feeling that she was no longer useful to the tribe.
“Where now, Grandmother?” Silver Rain asked quietly, letting the canoe drift. They had rounded the long finger of land, but how could this be the secret place of stunning beauty Mourning Dove had yearned to visit once more? They had reached a dead end. This was only a shallow neck in the huge blue lake where dense forest and tangled vines grew to the edge of the water. The girl was deeply disappointed. There was no hidden valley with a lacy waterfall, giant ferns, riotously blooming flowers, or moss-covered boulders here. The tribe had camped at many sites since then. Perhaps the years she carried had robbed Mourning Dove’s memory.
“There! We go through the trees there,” Mourning Dove cried, pointing at what seemed to be a solid wall of trees. Her eyes glowed with anticipation and she turned to face forward.
“Yes, Grandmother,” Silver Rain murmured gently. She paddled slowly, dreading the old one’s humiliation when she realized that her fading memory had tricked her.
Suddenly the girl smiled with relief and quickened her strokes. There was a narrow path of water between the trees! It was like a silver thread. They were soon swallowed up by a cool green tunnel. The canoe raced over still, crystal clear water with little effort.
Silver Rain, awed by the eerie lush beauty of the tunnel of overhanging trees, was not prepared for their abrupt emergence into the hidden valley nor for the cry of pain from Mourning Dove when she saw only a blackened, burned-over valley.
Silver Rain had been named for the lacy waterfall that bounced down the cliff like a silver veil. And only that remained unchanged. The once-beautiful secret place was an ugly desolation. Months ago a forest fire, probably kindled by a lightning strike, had raged through these wooded hills. Black ashes and charred tree stumps littered the area. Not a single green leaf or blade of grass was left. It was a place of death except for a silvery speckled trout that leaped in a pool near the boulders beneath the waterfall.
After her first agonized cry, Mourning Dove sat motionless. She did not speak again on their return to the camp. Then she entered her tepee and turned her face to the wall. She lay unmoving, refusing to even look upon the food and water Silver Rain carried to her.
Silver Rain fled to the forest in misery. How could she rekindle her grandmother’s spirit? She sat quietly, watching a gray squirrel scurrying over a deep carpet of pine needles and cones. Is he hungry and searching for an acorn he buried last autumn? If he fails to remember the spot, a giant oak will stand here someday, she mused.
The thought electrified Silver Rain. Racing to the village, she gathered the older children and whispered instructions. They snatched up baskets and scattered throughout the forest. The children worked together until dark, returning many times with their baskets filled with small trees, shrubs, ferns, and wild flowers. The women joined their efforts, carefully placing wet balls of mud and moss around fragile roots before repacking them in large storage baskets.
Mourning Dove finally appeared at the door of her tepee and grasped Silver Rain’s wrist as the girl rushed by with a load of greenery. “Is something wrong? Why is there so much commotion? Have the men returned from their hunt?” she asked weakly.
“No, the braves have not yet returned, Grandmother, and there is no trouble,” Silver Rain said, smiling. “We are noisy and busy because tomorrow at dawn we will start to restore your lovely green valley! Many baskets of seeds and small saplings have been gathered. We shall spread out over the hills and plant them. In a few years a new forest will rise from the ashes of the one you remember—but only if I can find your secret entrance alone,” she said slyly, watching her grandmother’s startled face.
The girl’s dark eyes twinkled with mischief as she started on and then turned back. “It’s too bad you have no appetite, Grandmother,” she sighed. “Without food you will be too weak to ride in my canoe and guide me.”
Mourning Dove bristled. “Your tricks do not fool me, Silver Rain. However, I do feel a bit hungry now, I think. Fetch my supper and I will eat. Tomorrow I shall lead you back swiftly. Your fumbling search for the secret water path might cause the plants to wilt. And I shall plant seedlings along the banks of the pools and the lower slopes while you young ones cover the high ground.”
At dawn fifteen canoes left the campsite. Each looked like a tiny, green, floating island as they fell in line. Mourning Dove sat proudly in the bow of Silver Rain’s leading craft that was almost hidden by greenery. Her lap was filled with watercress, water hyacinths, and cattail reeds to restock the deep pool at the base of the waterfall where the speckled trout splashed.
The emptied canoes rode high in the water as they glided back in the light of a full moon. The braves had returned from a successful hunt and a feast had been prepared. The chief announced that tomorrow the tribe would leave this site and continue its trek to northern hunting grounds. Silver Rain felt a pang as she thought that it might be a year or more before they camped here again, a year before she could see how the green growth was spreading over the blackened land.
Mourning Dove stood at the water’s edge and gazed off toward her hidden valley. It was not likely that she would ever see it again, but it did not matter. The beauty would return slowly, perhaps in time for Silver Rain’s grandchildren to enjoy it. Nature would have mended the ravaged valley with the help of birds, squirrels and other small creatures, and with seeds wafted on the wind. But she and the children had sped up the process by many years. The thrill of such an accomplishment made her weariness fade away. To think that together they had restored a forest today!

For example, Jessica Ocampo from Guatemala offered to watch her friend Lisbett’s son David while Lisbett served at Young Women camp. Jessica asked if there was anything she could do to help David during that time, and Lisbett said that David had never learned to ride a bike. Jessica invited her sons to help, and they taught David to ride a bike. They also knew that David was playing on the ward’s basketball team and preparing for a tournament, so they spent the day helping him prepare. David may not have gotten better at basketball in that one day, but, he said, “they showed me they really care.” He also added, “I still have the video on my phone when I learned to ride a bike.”

I pounded on the door as the tears streamed down my face. I tried turning the doorknob again, but it was locked. “Please let me in,” I begged. My sister had been struggling with an eating disorder, and I knew that behind the door she was doing something that was harmful, both physically and spiritually.
I knocked on the door again. She knew I was out here. After waiting in silence, I heard her muffled response. “Please go away,” she said. “I don’t want your help.”
Her words broke my heart. My parents knew about my sister’s problem, and they had been taking the right steps to help her. All she needed now was someone she could talk to, someone who could help her find the strength to fight her addiction. I wanted so much to be that person, but she refused to let me in. Overwhelmed with emotion, I lay on the ground and began to sob.
At that moment, I understood a little bit better how our Heavenly Father feels when He sees His children participating in acts that bring them pain. More than anything, all He wants is for us to let Him in so that He can help. He has said, “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me” (Revelation 3:20).

Brigit stared out the car window as her family drove through the narrow streets of Caracas, Venezuela. There were brightly colored homes and big green mountains. It was a beautiful place. Mom and Dad said living here would be a new adventure.
But Brigit still felt worried. Today was their first time going to church in their new country.
Mom turned to Brigit. “Are you OK, sweetie?” she asked. “You don’t look like you feel very good.”
Brigit twisted her hands. “I’m scared. I can’t speak Spanish. How can I make friends?”
Mom reached over to hold Brigit’s hand. “I know you’re worried. But it’s going to be OK. Take some deep breaths.”
Brigit looked down at her hands. They felt cold, even though it was hot outside. Her heart beat faster, and her stomach felt funny as the car pulled into the church parking lot. What would church be like? Would she understand anything?
Walking into the chapel, Brigit felt like a stranger. She looked around at the other families, all speaking Spanish. Then she saw two girls who looked about her age.
As soon as the girls saw Brigit, they rushed over to her. They spoke quickly in happy voices, with big smiles.
But she couldn’t understand anything they said. Will they go away when they find out I don’t speak Spanish? she wondered.
Brigit took a deep breath. “No hablo español,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t speak Spanish.” Tears started to fill her eyes.
The girls just shrugged their shoulders and smiled even brighter. One girl pointed to herself and said, “Dayana.” Then she pointed to the other girl and said, “Andrea.”
Brigit’s worries began to melt away. She smiled at the girls and pointed to herself. “Brigit.”
Dayana and Andrea sat down next to Brigit. They taught her how to say “scriptures” in Spanish and a few other words. When sacrament meeting started, Brigit’s heart felt warm and peaceful.
After Primary, Brigit and her new friends sat in the grass outside the church while their parents talked. Dayana and Andrea taught Brigit some more Spanish words. Then Dayana pointed to a tree and asked, “¿Inglés?”
Brigit smiled and pointed too. “Tree,” she said. She beamed and pointed at other things, saying the words in English. Dayana and Andrea repeated the English words. Then they taught Brigit how to say them in Spanish. Brigit learned all kinds of helpful words, like libro (book), casa (house), and coche (car). Best of all, they taught her how to say amigos (friends).
Soon it was time to go home. Brigit waved goodbye to Dayana and Andrea.
“How was your first day at church in Venezuela?” Dad asked.
Brigit smiled. “It was great! I made some friends. And they’re teaching me Spanish!”
“That’s wonderful! I’m so glad you had a good day.”
Brigit thought about how Dayana and Andrea had welcomed her. She didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. She knew that Heavenly Father was helping her make friends. And she couldn’t wait to see what the rest of her time in Caracas would bring!

Many years ago now, long before I was called as a General Authority, I participated as a speaker in a young adult conference. The conference concluded with a testimony meeting in which a handsome, young returned missionary stood up to bear his testimony. He looked good, clean, and confident—just like a returned missionary should look.
As he began to speak, tears came to his eyes. He said he was grateful to stand in the midst of such a terrific group of young Latter-day Saints and to feel good about the life he was trying to lead. But that feeling had only been possible, he said, because of an experience he had had a few years earlier, an experience that had shaped his life forever.
He then told of coming home from a date shortly after he had been ordained an elder at age 18. Something had happened on this date of which he was not proud. He did not go into any details, nor should he have done so in a public setting. To this day I do not know the nature of the incident, but it was significant enough to him to have affected his spirit and his self-esteem.
As he sat in his car for a while in the driveway of his own home, thinking things through and feeling genuine sorrow for whatever had happened, his nonmember mother came running frantically from the house straight to his car. In an instant she conveyed that this boy’s younger brother—I do not know what the age of the younger boy was—had just fallen in the home, had hit his head sharply and was having some kind of seizure or convulsion. The nonmember father had immediately called 911, but it would take some time at best for help to come.
“Come and do something,” she cried. “Isn’t there something you do in your Church at times like this? You have their priesthood. Come and do something.”
His mother didn’t know a lot about the Church at that point, but she knew something of priesthood blessings. Nevertheless, on this night when someone he loved dearly needed his faith and his strength, this young man could not respond. Given the feelings he had just been wrestling with, and the compromise he felt he had just made—whatever that was—he could not bring himself to go before the Lord and ask for the blessing that was needed.
He bolted from the car and ran down the street several hundred yards to the home of a worthy older man who had befriended him in the ward ever since the boy’s conversion two or three years earlier. An explanation was given, the older brother responded, and the two were back at the house still well before the paramedics arrived. The happy ending of this story as told in that testimony meeting was that this older man instantly gave a sweet, powerful priesthood blessing, leaving the injured child stable and resting by the time medical help arrived. A quick trip to the hospital and a thorough exam there revealed no permanent damage had been done. A very fearful moment for this family had passed.
Then the returned missionary of whom I speak said this: “No one who has not faced what I faced that night will ever know the shame I felt and the sorrow I bore for not feeling worthy to use my priesthood. It is an even more painful memory for me because it was my own little brother who needed me, and my beloved nonmember parents who were so fearful and who had a right to expect more of me. But as I stand before you today I can promise you this,” he said. “I am not perfect, but from that night onward I have never done anything that would keep me from going before the Lord with confidence and asking for His help when it is needed. Personal worthiness is a battle in this world in which we live,” he acknowledged, “but it is a battle I am winning. I have felt the finger of condemnation pointing at me once in my life, and I don’t intend to feel it ever again if I can do anything about it. And, of course,” he concluded, “I can do everything about it.”
He finished his testimony and sat down. I can still picture him. I can still see the setting we were in. And I can still remember the stark, moving silence that followed his remarks as everyone in the room had occasion to search his or her soul a little deeper, vowing a little stronger to live by these powerful words given by the Lord: “Let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God; and the doctrine of the priesthood shall distil upon thy soul as the dews from heaven. The Holy Ghost shall be thy constant companion, and thy scepter an unchanging scepter of righteousness and truth” (D&C 121:45–46; emphasis added).