Gospel Story Finder

My favorite experience with fasting involves a sweet elderly woman I home teach. She once had a stroke and ended up in the hospital. The doctors didn’t expect her to make a recovery and told us we should say our goodbyes.
We asked the ward to fast for her. I had already been fasting for her health and that I could accept God’s plan for her. Afterward, she made a miraculous recovery. It was a really special experience for me and strengthened my testimony a lot.
Michael D., 18, Minnesota, USA

Sister Penaloza wanted to serve a mission. Year after year she expressed this desire to her bishop but never received a call. Finally she cornered the mission president’s assistants and told them her plight. They called the president on the phone.
“This sister wants to serve a mission, but she has one problem.”
“What is it?”
“Her age. She’s 103!”
President Enrique Moreno interviewed her and called her to a two-month “summer mission” in Puebla, about two hours from her home, with a companionship of strong, capable sisters. Ward members there loved her and were eager for her to teach their friends. “What a blessing she was for the work,” says President Moreno. “What a great motivation she was for both members and missionaries!”

Do you see her yet, Okorie?” The eight-year-old boy strained to see as far down the road as he could, hoping for the telltale cloud of dust that would signal the approach of their mother’s car. No sound of a motor could be heard over the rustling of palm trees and the calls of birds in the Nigerian rain forest.
“No, Bernice. Nothing yet.” Okorie sat next to his little sister in the shade of the school compound. “I’m sure everything is all right. Maybe she is just busy with baby Ikechi.”
Bernice nodded, unconcerned. “Or maybe she went to the market to buy food. I hope she brings home lots of yams again. They’re my favorite.”
Okorie’s stomach growled at the thought of the orange-colored sweet potatoes. He did hope Mum would hurry—it wasn’t like her to be this late picking them up after school. Everyone else had gone home long ago. The school was many kilometers from Owerri, the nearest village, and Okorie was starting to feel a little scared.
“Okorie! Look what I found!” Bernice held up a worn leather soccer ball that had rolled under a nearby bush.
Okorie grinned broadly. Here was one way to make the minutes fly by! Eagerly he joined his sister in kicking the ball around the yard.
They were having so much fun that they didn’t notice the box-shaped car until Mum pulled up in it. She parked it and turned off the engine.
“Okorie! Bernice! I am sorry that you had to wait for me such a long time!” Mum hugged them. “I was trying to do too many things in one day, and the time slipped away from me. Hurry now! I’ve left Ikechi with Sister Anya’s daughter much longer than I planned. Ijeoma is only eleven. It probably is hard for her to watch a baby so long by herself.”
The brother and sister jumped into the backseat of the old car. “Look at all those yams!” Bernice squealed, peering into Mum’s shopping basket.
Mum smiled. “If we hurry, we can have dinner ready before your father comes home.” She turned the key to start the engine.
Click.
Mum’s smile turned upside down. She tried turning the key again. Once more, there was only a click instead of the familiar noisy roar of the engine. Mum tried for several minutes to get the car to start, but it didn’t.
“What’s wrong with it, Mum?” Bernice asked. “Are we out of fuel?”
“No, no—I filled the tank only an hour ago.” There was concern in Mum’s voice. “But I did drive many kilometers today. Perhaps the engine just needs to rest a few minutes.”
Okorie and Bernice looked at each other and giggled. They had never heard of a car needing a nap before!
“What should we do while we’re waiting, Mum?” Okorie asked.
“Well, I have my Book of Mormon. Should we read our scriptures now instead of after dinner?”
The children agreed. Okorie loved listening to Mum’s voice as she read the scriptures. If he listened very carefully and tried to understand what the words meant, he always felt warm and happy inside. Sometimes the words puzzled him, but he still had that happy feeling. Mum said that that feeling was the Holy Ghost and that if he always tried to do what Jesus Christ would have him do, he could have that feeling all the time.
They started reading in the book of Ether, chapter twelve. It talked about several different prophets who were able to do wonderful things because of their faith in Jesus Christ. It talked about Alma and Amulek, Nephi and Lehi, and Ammon and his brothers. Okorie remembered most of those names from his Primary class. One story—about the brother of Jared—especially caught his attention.
“Mum, did the brother of Jared really make a mountain move?” Okorie asked curiously.
“It was not the brother of Jared who moved the mountain, my son, but Heavenly Father. I am certain that the brother of Jared had a good reason to move the mountain. He knew he couldn’t do it himself, so he prayed to Heavenly Father. Heavenly Father knew that what the brother of Jared was asking was good and that he truly believed Heavenly Father would help him. So Heavenly Father answered his prayer and moved the mountain for him.” Okorie thought about that as Mum finished reading the chapter.
“It’s been a really long time,” Bernice said then. “Should we try the engine again?”
Everyone held their breath while Mum again turned the key. When the engine failed to start, she put her head in her hands.
“What are we going to do?” Bernice asked quietly.
Mum shook her head. “I don’t want to leave you two here alone, but there is no one to help us for many kilometers, and it’s too far for you children to walk. It would take hours to walk there and return with help. Poor little Ijeoma—I have left her so long by herself with the baby!” Tears began to trickle down Mum’s cheeks.
Bernice and Okorie glanced at each other with wide eyes. They had not realized the seriousness of their situation before. What could they do?
“Mum,” Okorie said quietly, “I know what we should do.”
“What?”
“Let us say a prayer! I am sure Heavenly Father will make the car start—just like when He moved a mountain for the brother of Jared!”
“Prayers aren’t always answered right away, Okorie,” Mum sighed. “Someone will still need to look at the engine and fix what is wrong before it will work again.”
“No, no, Mum! If Heavenly Father can move something as big as a mountain, don’t you think He can make our little car work?”
Mum looked at Okorie’s shining eyes. She could see that he was very serious. “All right, my son, we will pray. Which of you wants to offer the prayer?”
While Okorie and Bernice decided which of them would say the prayer, Okorie saw his mother bow her head and close her eyes, as if she were saying her own private prayer. When Mum opened her eyes, the two children told her that they had decided to both say a prayer.
Bernice went first. “Heavenly Father, we are stuck out here all alone because of our broken car. Please bless Ikechi to be safe until we get back. And please help Ijeoma know how to take care of her. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Now it was Okorie’s turn. “Heavenly Father,” he began, “please bless the car to start. We know that Thou canst do it. Everybody else has gone home—there is no one else to help us. Please, Heavenly Father, help us start the car and get home safely so that Mum can take care of us and the baby. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” Mama said. She put her hand on the key one more time. “Here is the big test.”
Rrrruuuummmm! The engine sprang to life and hummed happily, as if nothing had ever been wrong with it. Bernice and Okorie jumped up and down for joy.
“Okorie! You did it!” Bernice exclaimed.
Okorie stopped jumping long enough to solemnly shake his head. “No, I didn’t do it. Heavenly Father did it.”
Mum hugged both of her children tightly. “Yes, Heavenly Father did it. But I think it was your faith that really pulled us through, Okorie. You never doubted for a second. You are an example to me. Both of you children have made me a very happy mother.”
They all said a quick prayer of thanks, then drove home, singing all the way.

Like all new members, Jana Riess has found learning about the Church to be a “line upon line” experience (see Isaiah 28:10). She was preparing to become a Presbyterian minister in 1991 when she began listening to the missionary lessons. To express her appreciation, one Sunday she invited the sister missionaries to join her for lunch at a restaurant. They kindly explained that they would prefer not to eat out on the Sabbath. Fifteen years and many Church callings later, Sister Riess still sees her own conversion as ongoing. “Discipleship is a lifelong process that doesn’t end when someone rises from the waters of baptism,” she says. “I’m still ‘converting.’”
Looking back, Sister Riess counts among her greatest blessings as a new Church member those who reached out to her and took an interest in her spiritual development. Today she prizes the blessing of being able to help other converts along the path of discipleship by talking to them about their concerns, praying for and with them, and passing along helpful materials to read. She knows that the transition is often more painful and costly than many people realize. So, while her current official Church calling is Primary chorister, she also considers it a personal calling to reach out to other converts and help them become more committed disciples of Christ through the Church’s teachings and programs.

I was just finishing my freshman year at BYU, way back in 1975. There were ten days left in the semester when i was called to be a Stake Missionary. My senior companion, Elder Sorenson, and I were asked to teach the gospel to Joseph Abel-Abia, a graduate student from Nigeria. We taught him 7 lessons in 12 days. The Lord truly strengthened me those two weeks. I was somehow able to complete all my term papers and final exams successfully. Fortunately, I had memorized the missionary discussions earlier that year, by spending several hours every Sunday working on them.

Joseph Abia was full of faith and humility. He accepted the gospel without reservation. When I asked if he understood that he would be unable to receive the priesthood, He replied that If the church were true, who was he to question God? And if it were false, who cared what the church believes? But then he replied that he knew it was true, and that he would just have to be patient and wait upon the Lord. Little did we know...that President Kimball would receive the revelation on the Priesthood just 3 years later.

Joseph set a date to be baptized one week after final exams.

“My friend was a leader, too, but not in the Church. He also had inactive parents who offered little support. I could see so much potential if only his attitude toward the Church were positive. The only important quality he lacked was a testimony.

“We had many long talks together about the Church. Sometimes he would laugh at the things I would say. I would be hurt and often cried. One night, with tears in my eyes, I finally shared my testimony of Joseph Smith and the gospel plan. From the look in his eyes, I knew he would not laugh at me again.

“He began praying, studying, and attending church. Once he got a taste of the Spirit, there was no stopping him. He was on a mission within a few months. He brought many people into the Church and continues to do so. And now I am his wife!”
Joyce M. AshtonFremont, California

“On a Friday afternoon an opportunity came up to go visit a new girl in our ward,” Emma H., 15, said. “No one wanted to do it, including me. But I think the idea of helping someone else and sacrificing my time was something I was more used to after the Fit Challenge and more used to saying yes to. I said I’d go, and I went and had a super great visit with one of the Beehives. We got her to come watch the general women’s session of conference with us. It was cool because she seemed to have wanted us to come by.”
“When you are asked to do something, whether it’s by a leader in your ward or your stake or a prompting from Heavenly Father, you should act on that,” she continued. “Try something new, work a little harder to be a little better. Those practices can really change your life if you let them.”

Carrie’s older brother tugged one of her thick blond braids. “Hey, Freckles, you ought to have the sheepshearers cut your hair, too.”
“Yeah,” chimed in her twin brother, “you have more wool than old Tim Buck.”
Nine-year-old Carrie made a face at her brothers. All three children were sitting on top of the strawstack at the far end of the sheep shed. Sheep, waiting to be sheared, moved about below them, bleating nervously. The shearing clippers buzzed, and men shouted orders as they threw the fleeces up into the wool bag.
Tim Buck, the huge lead ram, seemed to be the only calm one amid the confusion. He was penned apart and was munching on hay. Whenever he shook off flies, the large bell around his neck jingled.
“Carrie Helen!” shouted her dad. “Carrie Helen Shultz, please come here.”
Always anxious to please her father, she called back, “Coming!” Scooting off the strawstack, she ran to meet her dad.
“Carrie, I need you to go with Tim Buck to lead the sheep we’ve already sheared over to the south pasture. There are about a hundred ewes or so, plus the lambs. We have to make room for the next ones.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, grinning up at her brothers and throwing her shoulders back proudly.
Dad fastened one end of a stout rope to the lead sheep’s collar and handed the other end to Carrie. “OK, Carrie, Tim Buck’s ready. Remember what his job is.”
Without hesitating, Tim Buck started out of the holding pen. He showed no fear of Carrie and looked up at her with soft brown eyes, eyes filled with warmth and wisdom.
Confident of her own importance and of Tim Buck’s love, Carrie stepped out in front of the old sheep. She walked through the noisy ewes, who responded immediately to the sound of the lead sheep’s bell. As they followed Carrie and Tim Buck out of the corral gate, she felt their excitement as they rushed forward. They seemed to know that they were free now to go to the south pasture. Sensing their anticipation, and sure of her responsibility, Carrie tugged at the rope fastened to the sheep’s collar, pulling him toward the narrow bridge and her favorite shortcut to the south pasture.
But Tim Buck resisted Carrie’s tugging and headed toward the hill and the longer, usual route. Again Carrie pulled at the rope, trying to head the old sheep toward the bridge. Again Tim Buck resisted.
“Oh, why can’t you do it my way!” Carrie stamped her foot impatiently as Tim Buck stopped and refused to move. Though she pulled hard, her twenty-seven kilograms were no match against the weight of the huge sheep. When her arms began to tire, Carrie glared at Timi Buck and grumbled, “All right! I’ll do it your way this time. Come on. Let’s go up that long hill. At least we can cut across the hayfield and not have to take the long road around it.”
The ewes, confused at the delay, had begun to push forward, bleating worriedly. As Tim Buck moved forward, his bell started jingling, and the sheep quieted. When Carrie, walking a couple feet in front, quickened her step, Tim Buck quickened his. The hungry ewes also increased their pace. Out of breath, Carrie rushed to the top of the hill. “Now’s my chance,” she said, pulling tightly on Tim Buck’s rope, forcing his head toward the hayfield.
Tim Buck butted Carrie gently, loosening her grip. Then he moved toward the well-used road.
“Why, you ornery critter! Can’t you see how much easier it would be to cut across that field instead of going around it!” She yanked at the rope, trying to drag Tim Buck toward the hayfield. He looked at her, then shook his head forcefully. The bell jangled, and the ewes pressed forward as Tim Buck pulled away from the hayfield and moved quickly onto the familiar road. The rope started to slip through Carrie’s hands, but she held on tightly.
Half running, Carrie tried to get ahead of Tim Buck. But he only walked faster. The more she tried, the faster he went, and the faster he went, the faster came the ewes and lambs. Soon Carrie was caught between Tim Buck and the rushing sheep, and the rope was slipping out of her grasp. She clutched it desperately, even though it was burning her fingers.
Familiar with the road and quickened by hunger, the sheep hurried toward the open gate to the south pasture, where Tim Buck saw his own shortcut! He swerved suddenly from the road and down a steep slope. The sudden movement sent Carrie sprawling, and the rope was jerked out of her hands. The sheep quickly moved away from her and down the slope, following Tim Buck through the open pasture gate.
Carrie lay bewildered, hurt, and defeated. Sobbing, she struggled to her feet. With skinned knees and stinging hands, she stumbled back toward the sheep shed. With each step, she imagined her brothers’ teasing and her father’s disappointment.
Her dad met her in his truck before Carrie reached the shed. Stopping his truck, he got out and hurried over to her. Then, tilting her tear-stained face up for him to see, and putting one hand on her shoulder, he said, “It looks like you’ve had some troubles, honey.” He looked at her intently, but his voice was gentle and matter-of-fact. Seeing Carrie’s rope-burned hands, he dampened his handkerchief in some clean water and gently patted them while she told her story.
“So you wanted the sheep to take the shorter path across the bridge?” her father said when she had finished.
“It would have been much faster.”
“Do you think that all those sheep could have safely crossed that narrow bridge together?”
“Well,” Carrie hesitated. “I—I guess not. But they would have had plenty of room to cross the hayfield.”
“But, Carrie, do you remember how sick the sheep get when they eat too much hay? Do you know that most sheep can’t stop eating fresh hay once they get started?”
“Oh, Dad, I’m sorry,” Carrie sobbed.
“You’re lucky, Carrie, that Tim Buck wouldn’t allow the sheep to take a dangerous path.”
“Yeah, he’s really stubborn,” Carrie said.
“Perhaps he’s not as stubborn as he is committed to doing what he knows is right. Remember, Carrie, that he’s the lead sheep. He guides the others in the paths that will get them safely to where they want to go, just as Mom and I try to lead you along the right pathways so that you can return to live with Heavenly Father.”
Dad and Carrie got into the truck and he looked at her hands again to make sure that they weren’t seriously hurt. Then he drove toward the south pasture and stopped. Carrie was surprised when he got out of the truck and lifted her out too.
“All right, Carrie Helen. Now that you know why Tim Buck behaves as he does, do you think that you can take him back to get another bunch of sheep?”
“Yes, Dad. And this time I’ll let him lead the way.”

I was raised a member of the Church in a branch in México. But as a teenager, I rebelled, like Alma the Younger. When many of my friends left on missions at age 19, I never asked for a missionary interview with my branch president. I always justified myself, since my mother was a widow and we had a lot of financial problems. I became less active. The next two years filled me with anger; they were the worst time of my life.
During this time, I dated a young woman in my branch. I was amazed at her closeness to God. Something inside me began to stir. I wanted to come back to the Church, but I had a lot of pride. That was the beginning of my fight against the Lord. I went with my friend to church sometimes, but I always said something against Church teachings to spoil the spirit of the meetings for her. Time passed, and my girlfriend, who had become my fiancée, finally left me, thinking I would never change. I began to feel desperately lonely.
A few months later, I felt encouraged when I opened a Church magazine and found a Mormon Message: “No matter what your past has been, you have a spotless future” (Tambuli, September 1989, 47). But still I was so depressed and full of anger that one day I decided to try to be happy by living my life the world’s way. That very day I had an experience that changed my life. I felt as if something or somebody touched me on the shoulder. I looked back, and nobody was there. I felt a little bit afraid. A little while later, I felt the same thing again, but this time the force on my shoulder was so powerful that I fell to my knees. I began to cry. For the first time in years, I prayed. I don’t know how much time I spent on my knees, but I eventually fell asleep. When I woke up, my mother asked what had happened. I told her I felt as though I had been asleep all my life and had only now opened my eyes.
I found the Book of Mormon and began to read. When I finished reading, I prayed with all my heart. I felt a warmth in my heart and a burning in my chest.
My life turned around. I began to pray, fast, bear my testimony, preach the gospel to my coworkers, pay tithing, and read and study the holy scriptures. I felt happy and close to my Heavenly Father. One day I talked to my branch president about serving a mission, and he eventually sent in my mission papers.
The members of my district were happy when they learned I had received a call to the México Chihuahua Mission. Some people were amazed.
The last Sunday before leaving on my mission, I bore my testimony. I said that everybody can change. Alma the Younger changed; the sons of King Mosiah changed; Zeezrom changed; Paul changed; and I changed.

A year ago, a man in our ward was diagnosed with cancer. By the time the cancer was detected, the tumor had grown around the bone and nerves in a way that made it inoperable. Randy was given 10 months to live. He began chemotherapy treatments, and his family and the ward began fasting and praying for him and others in the ward with serious health problems. At nine months, on Randy’s last visit to his doctor, the doctor sat at the desk and shook his head. Nine months before, Randy was given no chance of survival; that day, the tests showed no signs of a tumor.

God answers prayers and performs miracles today. But why did God perform a miracle by sparing Randy’s life when another man in our ward died from cancer just a few weeks later? The other man’s family and the ward prayed and fasted for him as well. In both cases, there were lessons to be learned—for the individuals involved, for their families, and for the ward. Faith was tested, people became stronger, and a ward grew closer together.

Once upon a time in the long, long ago, there lived a wee woman in a wee house. The house was old and the wee woman was old, but her garden was as young and lovely as the springtime.
The little old woman had one flower in particular that she loved more than all the others. In those long-ago days it was called ladies’ cushion. All summer long it colored her garden with thousands of rosy blooms.
One day the wee woman’s wealthy grandson came to visit her in the wee house. Grandmother has many flowers, he thought, but no damask roses. I will have my gardener dig up all these homely and worthless flowers scattered about the garden and plant damask roses in their place.
The gardener followed his master’s instructions. He dug up the old woman’s flowers and loaded them onto a cart. Then he took the wilted flowers over a great gray mountain and down to the barren seacoast, where he dumped them.
“Huh!” sniffed most of the flowers. “This water is too salty for us. We shall surely die.” And many did.
But the ladies’ cushion said, “Let’s see. Here is green seaweed that has grown in the salt water. If it thrives, perhaps we can also.” They drank deeply of the salt water. And they began to grow. Soon they were healthier and lovelier than ever.
One day the rich grandson’s children came to play on the beach. There, blooming on the yellow sand, were masses of small pink flowers.
“Look!” the children shouted. “Great-Grandmother’s ladies’ cushions are growing where no flowers bloomed before. How wonderful!”
The little flowers had covered the beach and the nearby cliffs. They looked lovelier than ever on the yellow sand beside the blue and green ocean. So the flowers came to be called sea pinks.
Above the seacoast was a great gray mountain. Nothing grew on its barren sides but a few thorn bushes. The sea pinks said, “If we could find food on those old gray rocks, perhaps we could brighten such a dreary landscape.”
When autumn came and their rosy petals had fallen, the sea pinks sent forth many small parachutes, each bearing a tiny seed. The south wind blew the seeds up onto the mountainside.
All winter long the seeds lay under the snow. When spring came, they sprouted and sent their tiny rootlets down into the crevices between the gray stones. There they absorbed nourishment from the rain-washed rocks and thrived. In time the mountainside was covered with lovely blooms.
Many hearts were gladdened when they saw the mountain covered with rosy blooms. The flowers were now called mountain pinks. And because each tiny flowerlet carried in its heart a drop of honey, many beautiful butterflies, hummingbirds, moths, and bees came to live there.
On summer nights, fireflies lighted the old mountain as though thousands of stars had come to earth. The mountain seemed touched by magic so that all who came there were happy. Those who grieved came to the mountain and were comforted. Those who were greedy came to the mountain and went away satisfied with what they had. When children came to the mountain, they laughed and sang and danced for joy. They called it Happy Mountain.
And the old gray mountain was glad, for it had been lonely.
The mountain pinks spread over the sunny side of the mountain onto the shaded side. There a banker came to see them. “Mountain pinks is not a proper name for this flower,” he declared, “because it uses everything it has so carefully. See, even when all its flowers are gone, the hearts are saved in tiny parachutes to carry the seeds away. Because it is so frugal, let us call it the thrift flower.”
One autumn day some of the tiny seed-bearing parachutes landed softly in the wee woman’s garden. There they waited secretly through the time of falling leaves and the cold deep snows of winter.
In the springtime the seeds burst their withered gray shells and began to grow among the beautiful damask roses. “What are you small, useless things doing in our garden?” asked one proud rose.
“We are not as lovely as you nor do we grow as tall, but we are not useless,” said the little thrifts to the stately rose. “We have covered a sandy shore and on old gray mountain with beauty. Hungry butterflies, moths, birds, and bees gather our nectar. We have taken the salt and the bitter soil and turned it into good earth. And the hearts of many people have been gladdened at the sight of us.”
One soft spring day the wee old woman walked out into her garden. There she found the thrift flowers blooming in the shadow of the great roses. Seeing them there made her feel as young and lovely as springtime again.

As Melissa turned her attention back to the ward council meeting, she thought, “If only everyone could be surrounded by such loving friends and leaders as they progress toward the temple.”
Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard the Relief Society president comment on a sister in need: “She wasn’t at church last Sunday. I’ll make sure her visiting teachers let her know about the upcoming temple trip.”
“They’ve got some hard things going on right now,” added the elders quorum president. “I’ll follow up with their home teachers and see if there’s anything we can do.”
“The young women could help with babysitting,” said the Young Women president.
As Melissa looked at the faces of the members of the ward council, she saw genuine affection and concern. A smile spread across her face. “The Lord has prepared ways for His children to be protected and loved,” she thought. “The ward council!”

6 In May, Sidney Rigdon, Newel K. Whitney, and the Prophet Joseph started back to Kirtland, Ohio. Near New Albany, Indiana, the horses pulling their wagon became frightened and bolted.
7 Joseph jumped out of the wagon unhurt, but Bishop Whitney caught his foot in a wheel and broke his leg and foot in several places.
8 Sidney Rigdon went on to Kirtland, but the Prophet stayed with Bishop Whitney for four weeks while he recuperated.
9 One day during that time, Joseph Smith ate something poisonous. When Bishop Whitney gave him a blessing of health, the Prophet was instantly healed. Soon they, too, continued on to Kirtland.

When I was a teenager, my Young Men president invited the young men in our ward to read the Book of Mormon by the end of the year.
I didn’t accept that invitation. I’ve usually been someone who is ready to take on any challenge, but I was at a really low point spiritually.
Interestingly, during this time, I was “preparing” to serve a mission, but I was only going through the motions. My testimony was weak, and I told myself I would serve just to make my parents happy. I had decided that after my mission, I would figure things out for myself. I would believe what I wanted to and do my own thing.
Although I was exerting myself in my schoolwork at the time, I had fallen into a pit of spiritual idleness. I felt so distant from God that I started questioning His existence. I had doubts concerning the authenticity of the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith’s call to be a prophet. I struggled with self-esteem and self-hate, and I had no strong conviction regarding the purpose of life.
“I was in the darkest abyss” (Mosiah 27:29), so I had little desire to read the Book of Mormon.
One night, I was reading a novel when an impression came to me that I believe and know with all my heart was from the Spirit. I found myself getting deeply wrapped up in the plot of this book, and then the thought came to me that I had never studied the Book of Mormon seriously—at least not as seriously as I was reading and pondering this particular book.
I had casually studied the Book of Mormon, taken notes, and prayed about it multiple times before, but I’d been missing a crucial part of Moroni’s admonition in the last chapter of the Book of Mormon: to ask “with a sincere heart, with real intent” (Moroni 10:4). I knew that it was the perfect time for me to ask my Father in Heaven again for answers. I felt spiritually hungry, and this time the answer actually mattered to me. Without realizing it, I had arrived at a spiritual crossroads, where my faith in the gospel hinged on knowing whether or not the Book of Mormon was true.
The same night I received that impression, I began to read the Book of Mormon—but this time with purpose.
Now eager to accept my Young Men leader’s invitation and finish reading by the end of the year, I read my pocket-size copy at every opportunity possible: on the train, during bus rides to school, in between classes, in between chores, before and after meals, and before bed. At every possible opportunity, I read. And every time I read, I kept praying: “I need to know. I need to know.”
One day my family and I went to the Manila Philippines Temple, but I forgot to bring my temple recommend. I did have my tiny copy of the Book of Mormon with me, though, so I sat in a waiting area and continued to read. Occasionally, I would stop to admire the beauty of the temple—the chandelier, the staircase, the stained-glass windows, and the people coming and going ever so reverently with great love for the Lord in their hearts.
At some point while I was reading, I received a very distinct impression from the Spirit in my mind. When it came, it spoke to me on many different levels. I was actually so shocked when it hit me that I sat up a little straighter. I felt such a powerful feeling that I could not dismiss it as a passing thought or a fleeting emotion.
“Totoo ‘to,” is what I heard in my mind.
A simple yet profound statement in my native tongue, Tagalog, that means, “This is true.”
I had received a confirmation that the Book of Mormon was true—that it was the word of God. I finally knew it with all my heart because I knew that impression had come from heaven.
But that’s not all that I learned.
Growing up, I had read the Book of Mormon and learned about the gospel in English. As a matter of fact, during the first few years of my life, I had a better grasp of English than Tagalog. But receiving this spiritual impression out of nowhere in Tagalog—the language native to my country—spoke truth to my heart.
I knew in that moment that God knows me in a very real and personal way.
I knew that He really is there. I knew that He speaks my language, that He loves me, and that He is aware of my struggles and weaknesses. I had that confirmation, but there was something else I needed to know for sure, so I sought out the answer immediately: “Heavenly Father, is Joseph Smith really a true prophet?” The feeling came again, this time more powerfully into my heart: “Totoo ‘to!”
I knew then that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. He saw both the Father and the Son. Through Joseph Smith, the gospel of Jesus Christ was restored in its fulness.
What peace and comfort and knowledge did I receive! At that moment, I wanted to rush out on the temple grounds, waving my small copy of the Book of Mormon in the air and exclaiming, “Totoo ‘to! Totoo ‘to!” I felt like Alma when he exclaimed, “Oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold” (Alma 36:20).
After this experience, my reason for going on a mission immediately changed. Soon my papers were in, and I got my call to serve in Colorado, USA. I was so excited. I knew that someone out there was experiencing what I had gone through—crying out for help and longing for happiness and truth. And I knew that through the gospel of Jesus Christ, they would find that help and happiness, just as I had.
I hope that we may all come to know: “Totoo ‘to!”

A true story from Belgium.
Lou felt excited as she tore open the blue envelope. Her best friend Alice was having a birthday party, and she was invited!
But as Lou read the invitation, her heart sank. Not another party on Sunday, she thought.
Lou’s family didn’t go to parties on Sundays. Instead, they spent time together, went to church, and did other things to remember the Savior.
But this party was harder to say no to. How could she miss her best friend’s birthday?
“Can’t I just go this once?” Lou asked her parents that night. “I know Sundays are important. But I don’t want to miss out.”
“It’s a hard choice,” Dad said. “Heavenly Father asks us to make Sunday a holy day. But it’s up to you to decide how you’ll do that.”
Mom gave Lou a hug. “General conference is this weekend. Maybe this can be the question you ask.”
Lou’s family had a tradition to write down a question they had before conference. Then during conference, they listened for answers.
Lou sighed. “OK.”
At bedtime, Lou wrote down her question. Then she prayed. “Heavenly Father, I really want to go to this party, and I don’t know what to do. Will you please help me find answers as I watch general conference?”
A few days later, Lou and her brothers piled onto the couch. It was time for conference! Lou drew in her notebook during the opening song. Then the first speaker began.
Lou looked up. The speaker was talking about the Sabbath day! He said that God blessed those who keep His commandments, even if the blessing didn’t come right away.
“I think Heavenly Father already answered my question,” Lou said. “That was fast!”
The next day at school, Lou found Alice at recess. “Thanks for inviting me to your party,” Lou said. She took a deep breath. “Sundays are a special day for me and my family. So I won’t be able to come.”
“OK,” Alice said. “I’m sad you’ll miss it.”
“Me too,” said Lou. “But on Saturday, would you like to go with me to the trampoline park? Then we can still play together and celebrate your birthday.”
“I’d love to!” Alice grinned.
Lou smiled back. Not going to the party was a hard choice to make. But she knew it was the right thing. And she was grateful that Heavenly Father answered her important question.

Through the long hours of the night, I kept a lonely vigil by the nursery window. Inside the nursery, a tiny boy struggled for breath. The day before, we had rushed nearly 160 kilometers from our ranch to the hospital. The baby was born shortly after our arrival, six weeks premature. He looked like a fine, healthy boy, but the doctor told us that his lungs had been slow in developing and that he was fighting a desperate battle for air.
A few hours before, I had given Matthew his name and a father’s blessing. As I had blessed him, the Spirit had assured me that he would someday be a part of our family.
Little Matthew continued to cling to life until his mother was able to come to the nursery to see him. He died before we left the room. It seemed to me that he had only waited for her to have one look before he returned to his heavenly home.
The shock of our son’s death left my wife in such a daze that she could not cry. It was only after the small graveside service, when we had returned home to the ranch, that she was finally able to release her grief. She wept for a long time.
The emptiness of losing a baby after those long months of expecting him was very hard on her. She wasn’t really happy again until the next baby, a fine healthy boy, arrived.
As the years passed, we were blessed with many children. They grew up feeling that Matthew was as much a part of our family as they were. One of our children, the oldest, has felt an unusual closeness to him and has at times sensed his presence. Once, while traveling to work through a storm, she felt him with her, watching over her. One night she awoke and saw a young man standing by her bed. He seemed to sense that she could see him, and appeared to “melt” in the air like a burning film. This experience frightened her, and she prayed to know who the young man was. A few years later, she again felt Matthew’s influence—when her sister-in-law lost a baby and needed comfort and understanding.
Not long ago, one of our sons was married in the Idaho Falls Temple. We had assembled in the sealing room for the ceremony when the sealer asked me and the bride’s mother to bear our testimonies before he performed the marriage ceremony. As I spoke, I noticed that my oldest daughter was sobbing. Later, outside the temple, she told us that as I stood to speak, Matthew had entered the room accompanied by so much spiritual power that she could not control her feelings. As she was about to leave the room, lingering behind all the others, she had felt something warm touch her shoulder. A still, small voice had whispered, “That was your brother Matthew. He is the one who stood by your bed one night.”
The peace and joy this beautiful experience brought to us is inexpressible. What comfort there is in knowing that we are important to Matthew and that he cares about what we are doing, and to know that God loves us and has let us feel Matthew’s presence so that we can have that assurance.

I would like to share an example of a brief but significant incident in which a positive cultural influence affected attitudes immediately as well as for decades to follow. This incident occurred at Johns Hopkins Hospital. The episode occurred in the emergency room. Three individuals were involved; I was just an observer. The three were a patient named Ben, a resident named Dr. Cohen, and a new intern, Dr. Jones. Ben was well known to the medical staff. He was an alcoholic and had been admitted numerous times for alcohol-related diseases. He was a kind, pleasant man. He was courteous and considerate of the medical staff. He was well liked. But once again Ben was in the emergency room, this time with alcohol-induced pancreatitis (or inflammation of the pancreas) severe enough to be admitted.

Dr. Cohen was the resident taking care of Ben in the emergency room. Dr. Cohen was a resident who the other interns and residents admired and looked up to. He was brilliant, hardworking, and exemplary in every way. He had made the determination that Ben needed to be admitted.

The intern next up in rotation was Dr. Jones, the new intern. Dr. Jones had gone to a prestigious medical school, was brilliant in her own right, and was just beginning her own postgraduate education. The training for interns was brutally hard, high pressured, and associated with constant sleep deprivation. That probably led to the response Dr. Jones had to this, her fifth admission of the night. She vocally and loudly bemoaned the fact that she would have to take several hours now to care for Ben, who had in fact brought on his own plight. She made her feelings clear to Dr. Cohen.

Dr. Cohen’s reprimand to her was concise, spoken in almost a whisper: “Dr. Jones, you became a physician to care for people and work to heal them. You didn’t become a physician to judge them. If you don’t understand the difference, you have no right to train at this institution.”

Chagrined, Dr. Jones provided Ben great care on that and subsequent hospitalizations. Ben has since passed, and both Dr. Jones and Dr. Cohen went on to exemplary, compassionate, and successful careers, but the lesson lingered.

The training culture at Johns Hopkins was that physicians would provide great care in a nonjudgmental way. Those new to the institution needed to learn this culture because it was not “natural” or inherent in trainees right out of medical school. Dr. Cohen had already internalized this culture and in this brief but significant moment taught Dr. Jones a proper attitude toward those who were to be helped and healed. Having overheard the conversation, the point was not lost on me. It had taken years for this culture to become ingrained. But it also needed to be conveyed. That is what Dr. Cohen did.

by Jeffery A. Lee and Paul Scott Embley
What do you get when you combine 39 Hollanders, eight missionaries, and five eight-foot sandwiches? The young members of the Groningen Branch, Netherlands Amsterdam Mission, found out when they joined their nonmember friends, the missionaries, and fellow branch members in the park. The combination means you’re having an American picnic, Dutch style.
Actually, the fun began the night before when the Aaronic Priesthood and the Young Women gathered to fill the lengthy loaves. Armed with spoons, knives, ham, bologna, cheese, lettuce, pickles, and condiments, they soon stuffed the “submarines” amply enough to satisfy any appetite.
The next morning, an unexpected problem arose: how do you transport five eight-foot sandwiches to the park when the major means of transportation is bicycles? The answer was easy—recruit a Volkswagen! Such a car may already seem small to some people, but it seemed even smaller stuffed with super sandwiches!
But the sandwiches arrived and so did the crowd, with young and old enjoying each other’s company. The picnic started with contests: tossing raw eggs between partners, three-legged races, wheelbarrow racing, Frisbee throwing, volleyball, and soccer.
The games were followed by a testimony meeting, during which the picnickers discussed their love for their Savior, Jesus Christ. Then, finally, it was time to eat. Even though everyone’s hunger was great, they found it small compared to the size of the sandwiches—a total of 40 feet of bread and fillings.

After opening her brownie shop in the fall of 2018, Molly quickly discovered that running a business takes more time than she had imagined. But a principle she remembers from her self-reliance class continues to bless her.
“We discussed how we’re going to have extreme demands on our time, but it will make a difference if we set aside time for the Spirit,” she says. “I have found that to be true. If I am suddenly feeling overwhelmed and stressed, I listen to the scriptures or a general conference talk while I’m working alone in the morning, and it eases my mind and gives me peace.”
That sense of peace, coupled with excited, happy, satisfied customers, keeps Molly going—even after long workdays.

Gordon B. Hinckley had begun to mature, but his growing-up years weren’t without normal childhood mischief. One day, he and several of his schoolmates decided to skip a day of class. The boys knew they couldn’t stay home because their mothers would ask questions. They couldn’t go to a movie because they had no money, and they didn’t want to go to the park for fear the school’s truant officer would catch them. After much deliberation it was decided they would just wander around and waste the day.
The following morning, the boys’ principal, Mr. Stearns, met them at the school’s front door. “His demeanor matched his name. He said some pretty straightforward things and then told us that we could not come back to school until we brought a note from our parents,” President Hinckley recalls. “I remember walking sheepishly into the house. My mother asked what was wrong. … I said that I needed a note. She wrote a note. It was very brief. … It read as follows:
“‘Dear Mr. Stearns,
“‘Please excuse Gordon’s absence yesterday. His action was simply an impulse to follow the crowd.’
“… I have never forgotten my mother’s note. Though I had been an active party to the action we had taken, I resolved then and there that I would never do anything on the basis of simply following the crowd” (Ensign, May 1993, p. 53).