Gospel Story Finder

An aged figure wearing an Irish cap peered through a wild hedge of bramble close to a fire-ravaged dwelling. Through the drifting smoke he saw a gnarled-faced man in a scraggly beard and a tattered shirt. His eyes widened at his recognition of the marauder. “Sully Pike,” he whispered.
The scraggly bearded man poked around the popping, red leavings with the muzzle of his big shotgun. He turned over an ashy board, then picked up what appeared to be a small, scorched music box. He opened the lid, and a simple melody tinkled from the little box and a tiny dancing lady turned in circles to the music. He sneered, then smashed the box with his boot heel and laughed spitefully. His horse, tethered to the limb of some underwood, whinnied uneasily.
“Them Mormons are to a barn raisin’ on the flats, Sugarfoot,” he assured his bay. “They won’t be back till late this evening, and it’s only really getting dark now.” His attention turned back to the smoldering ruins, and he smirked, “From the looks of things, it appears a Mormon’s homestead takes to a torch as easily as the next man’s.”
His dark humor was interrupted by the rattle of wood on the little bridge down by the creek beyond the big grove of cottonwoods. He growled a curse, hurried to his mount, and with a final scowl in the direction of the burnt dwelling, jabbed the bay’s flanks with his boots and bolted off into the black of the night.
The Donohue family’s flatbed wagon trundled into the smoky yard and stopped. For a long moment, all that was heard was the occasional popping of still smoldering timbers and the snorting of tired horses as shock at what the people seated in the wagon beheld took its grim toll.
Ethan Donohue slipped down from the wagon, numbly gazing at the black, glowing ruins. He had arrived in the valley with his family four years before and carved out of the raw elements a home and a hope that at long last they could live in peace and worship their God without fear. Tears stumbled out of the dark recesses below his brows.
Twelve-year-old Chase sat silent in the wagon and watched his father’s shoulders bunch in pain. Then he noticed their neighbor Clancey O’Hara standing nearby in the shadows.
Mr. O‘Hara slowly advanced to where Chase’s father was standing and rested a comforting hand on his arm. “It was Sully Pike, Ethan. Saw him with my own eyes, I did. He was drunk and looking as mean as a grizzly bear!”
Chase’s mother held Baby Thankful and sobbed quietly, her body shaking with emotion. His seven-year-old sister, MacKinzee, seated beside him in the back of the wagon, was clutching her rag doll and darting frightened looks about at the shadows. Chase placed a protective arm around her and listened to Mr. O’Hara and his father.
“What do you plan on doing about it?” the neighbor asked.
“About Sully Pike?”
“Aye.”
“Nothing much I can do about him, or what he did here,” Ethan admitted, kicking at a hot coal. “The law’s not in favor of our people. Besides, Sully Pike is first cousin to the sheriff.”
Chase’s arm tightened about his sister’s shoulders, and his eyes clouded over with hate. This wasn’t the first time that he and his family had felt the raw sting of persecution, and the dark hurt of it settled over him once again like a vulture’s wing.
Early the next morning the Donohues began sifting through the rubble in an effort to salvage any belongings worth retrieving. Chase, deadened by a sleepless night and a deep, festering spite, sat on a charred chest in the yard and wondered why the small yellow bird in the brushwood was singing so joyfully when everything that belonged to his family had been maliciously destroyed.
He watched his mother pick up a small, badly burned diary. It crumbled in her hands and fell away like a thousand lost memories. She sat on an ashen hearth and began to cry, rocking back and forth. When Ethan stepped up beside Chase and regarded his wife a long, sad moment, the boy asked, “What are we gonna do, Papa?”
“Well, Son, first let’s see if we can. comfort your mama.”
“How can we make her feel better after what Mr. Pike did to us? We have nothing left, Papa.”
“You can’t say we have nothing, Son. We have each other, don’t we? And there’s the team and wagon to carry us on to Mosiah Twigg’s place. He’ll probably let us stay with him until we can get a new place started. And we have a Heavenly Father who’s no farther than a prayer away.”
“What can we ask of Him, Papa? To give us our house back? To put a curse on Sully Pike so lightning strikes him for what he did?”
Ethan gazed at his son a moment, “Maybe we could ask Heavenly Father to help us to not harden our hearts against Mr. Pike so that we can pray for him. Anyone who carries that much hate and spite around from sunup to sunset has to be awfully miserable, don’t you think?”
Chase didn’t answer. He was still too taken aback by the notion of praying for the likes of Sully Pike!
“Bitterness can be a poison worse than a rattler’s bite, Son. If you let it get the best of you, it can rob you of a lot more than Mr. Pike ever could.”
Chase squinted up at the gentle man who stood dark against the amber light, “What could it take that Mr. Pike already didn’t?”
“The chance you might have for any real happiness,” his father replied. “It would be a lot harder to get away from yourself than from the likes of Sully Pike. Once you tie bitterness to your wagon, it follows you everywhere you go. There would be no peace in your life—You’d be just like Mr. Pike.” Ethan patted his son on the shoulder. “I best go see if I can comfort your mother.”
“Papa?” Chase hesitated, wrestling with his thoughts. “Papa, could I take one of the horses and go for a ride?”
Papa’s eyes scanned the wild forest of brushwood beyond the yard as he considered his son’s request. A day earlier he would have said yes. Now, after everything that had happened, it might be too dangerous. A prompting, as still and as deep as the morning light that glowed through the shadows, interrupted his concerns. “Yes,” he answered softly, “but come back soon. We need to be on our way.”
“I will, Papa.” Chase crossed to where the horses were tethered, quickly untied one, slipped onto its back, and galloped off into the haze.
He soon alit, secured the horse to a lightning-split tree limb, crept to the side of a dilapidated outbuilding, and hunkered down behind a clump of tall yellow weeds. The whine of an old screen door opening, then banging closed made him duck lower and peer cautiously between the stems. He could see Sully Pike stagger to a chair on the warped-wood porch, sit heavily, and gaze numbly around the dirt yard.
Suddenly, to Chase, Mr. Pike looked like the very farmhouse he had put to the torch—empty, hollow, vanquished. The man leaned forward in his chair and placed his head in his hands. He remained in that position for as long as Chase watched. As the boy said a silent prayer for the figure on the porch, a peace distilled across his soul.
Chase climbed onto his horse and slipped away into the brush. He reined up to glance back at the shack in the tall yellow weeds. “Papa was right,” he said softly to the horse. “Papa was right!” A warm breeze wafted gently across his brow and seemed to touch his very soul with peace. After a moment, he reined his horse about and galloped home.

Not long ago, I had an experience with cheating. Like you, I felt unable to compete, and so I gave in little by little until I rationalized myself into thinking I wasn’t really cheating at all. I have never been more embarrassed than when my teacher informed me that she wasn’t counting my test. But that was just the beginning. I then had to admit to myself and to my parents that what I had been doing was cheating. It took me the rest of the year to regain that teacher’s trust as well as my parents’.
Don’t take that first step because it gets easier every time. Remember my experience. No amount of success is worth the heartache of not liking yourself.
Name withheld

In the latter part of the 1990s the prompting to study Russian arose yet again. This time I hired a tutor to speak with me once a week over several months. Then, on Sunday, March 19, 2000, while reading a front-page feature article in the Deseret News entitled “The Orphans of Vladivostok,” I was overcome by the desire to adopt a Russian orphan. I shared my thoughts with my husband, positive he would say, “We’re too old.” We were almost empty nesters. To my surprise he replied, “Why not?” As we discussed it further, we decided that it would be best for us to adopt two children rather than one and that we would like them to be sisters between the ages of six and 10.

We had never before talked about adoption of any kind; we did not even know where to begin. We decided to start by contacting our adult children to seek their approval. That obtained, we were led, through a series of timely events, to an agency specializing in Russian adoptions. Interestingly, one of the directors of the agency told us that on the very weekend that I was reading the article in the Deseret News, they had e-mailed their contact in Russia to ask if they could get two or three more children, whom they felt certain they could place. They were told that two sisters, ages seven and eight, had just been approved for adoption.

We were able to afford this adoption because of an inheritance left to us following my father’s passing. The first piece of physical documentation we received concerning the children was a photograph. One of the little girls bore a striking resemblance to my mother’s youngest sister. The photograph was followed by written information about the girls. In it we discovered that the one who looked so much like my mother’s sister also had the same birthday as my father. When we discovered the girls’ surname, it turned out that it was the very name that my parents had planned to give my sister had she been a boy. These, and other similar “coincidences”—some too personal to share—made it clear to my husband and me beyond a shadow of a doubt that these two beautiful children were meant to be part of our family.

Although the process was anything but smooth, miracles continued to happen, and in late October 2000 the judge in Russia pounded her gavel and those two little Russian sisters became legally ours. It was wonderful to have basic Russian language skills to be able to help ease the girls into their new environment. As they have become fluent in English, my promptings to learn Russian have stilled, and I am at peace in knowing what the ultimate purpose was for which I needed to know the language.

For over twenty years we lived next door to Jan, a sister who is filled with the love of God and others. She not only blessed her doctor husband and nine children, but went about blessing everyone around her. One day when I backed out of our driveway and started driving down the street, I hit and killed our family dog right in front of her house. I don't know how she knew I needed an angel of mercy right then, but there she was to comfort and console me. She told me to go on my way and continue to take our two daughters to their piano lessons. When I returned home she had cleaned up the mess and had prepared our dog for burial. She always seemed to know when I or someone in our family needed her help. Most recently, in May of this year, she attended the funeral of President Peterson's father, which we were unable to attend. While there, she comforted his mother and siblings and our children and took many pictures to send to us so that we could feel like we had been a part of the celebration of his father's life. Over the years, our family has been on the receiving end of one charitable act after another from this remarkable friend.

Many of you know this man, Tevita Toafa, in his capacity as associate director of BYU–Hawaii Food Services and manager of our cafeteria, a.k.a. "The Club".

When our family arrived here in 1993, Tevita assisted me with the BYUH–PCC Brass Band, and because of that association his family hosted our family soon after our arrival by preparing a dinner in our honor. I was amazed how the long table was so heavily laden with delicious food that it seemed to sag in the middle from the sheer weight of those culinary delights. Just before blessing the meal, Tevita apologized to our family that he could not provide a richer feast for us, even as my children's eyes nearly bugged out of their heads at the sight of so much food prepared for roughly a dozen people. Since that time, I have been to literally hundreds of ward luaus, baby luaus, wedding receptions, graduation parties, and other social gatherings like the Tongan feast depicted here.

I have learned that the great spirit of generosity in these islands is profoundly expressed through such feasting. Due to these experiences, I now know more perfectly the deep implications of the phrase "feasting upon the word of Christ." One of those implications, sometimes overlooked, is that our Savior made a great effort to provide sustenance for our journey, just as my Polynesian brothers and sisters consistently make a great effort to prepare sumptuous feasts to share with their friends and loved ones.

Elder James E. Talmage, a man who is remembered for his doctrinal teachings, showed great kindness to a neighbor family in distress. They were complete strangers to him. Before he was an Apostle, as a young father, he became aware of great suffering at a neighbor’s home whose large family was stricken with the dreaded diphtheria. He did not care that they were not members of the Church; his kindness and charity moved him to act. The Relief Society was desperately trying to find people to help, but no one would because of the contagious nature of the disease.
When he arrived, James found one toddler already dead and two others who were in agony from the disease. He immediately went to work, cleaning the untidy house, preparing the young body for burial, cleaning and providing for the other sick children, spending the entire day doing so. He came back the next morning to find that one more of the children had died during the night. A third child was still suffering terribly. He wrote in his journal: “She clung to my neck, ofttimes coughing [germs] on my face and clothing, … yet I could not put her from me. During the half hour immediately preceding her death, I walked the floor with the little creature in my arms. She died in agony at 10 A.M.” The three children had all departed within the space of 24 hours. He then assisted the family with the burial arrangements and spoke at their graveside services. This he did all for a family of strangers. What a great example of Christlike kindness!

For Prince Henry Omondi’s family, learning to keep the Word of Wisdom did not only mean learning to live without tea, coffee, alcohol and tobacco. It also meant an extra monthly expense for the family’s already tight budget.
“We really suffered temporally after my mother’s death,” says Prince. His father had to support nine children, ranging between 16 years and two months of age, on one income. During these tough times, “I had questions in my mind and I sometimes would doubt if God loved me,” he says. But when his family met the missionaries, the teachings they shared went “deep into my heart.
“As the missionaries taught us, I felt God’s love for me and felt God had a purpose for me,” he says.
Many of his family members felt the same. Except for two of Prince’s older brothers, the entire family was baptized.
Prince says that one way to know his purpose was to keep the commandments with exactness.
“One of the commandments which was new to me was the Word of Wisdom,” he said.
“Not taking alcohol, tobacco or any harmful drugs was not an issue, but tea and coffee was a challenge. I remember my Father telling the missionaries that drinking chocolate was too expensive, and we could not afford it. But the missionaries encouraged us, and my dad had the faith and courage to squeeze money to be able to buy drinking chocolate instead of tea or coffee.”
A year later, Prince was ready to serve as a full-time missionary in the Kenya Nairobi mission.
“I can say missions change lives,” he says. During the time he served, there was a lot of persecution of the Church in Kenya, with anti-Church sentiments frequently being printed as newspaper headlines.
“As I walked the streets of Nairobi, I was many times accused of joining the Church for the sake of money”. A particularly difficult confrontation with a detractor became his turning point. That evening, he says, “I realized I had to pack my bag and go home or know for myself.”
Prince received his answer.
“For the first time, like the Prophet Joseph Smith, I could say I knew it, the Lord knew it and I could not deny that I was in the true Church.”
After the completion of his mission, “life was not easy,” says Prince.
“We were still struggling as a family to put meals on the table, but that did not affect my faith in Jesus Christ.”
A former mission friend suggested that he try to move to America to study.
But in order to do that, he needed to secure a study visa. “When I went to apply for my visa the first time it was rejected because I did not have strong enough family ties to prove I would come back to Kenya after my schooling,” he says. “I was determined. I felt this was my opportunity to excel in life and somehow improve life for my family. So, I tried a second time. Again, my application was rejected.”
Undeterred, Prince decided to give it one more go.
On the way to the embassy to submit a third application, he stopped in at his older brother’s office, who had agreed to provide a bank statement to bolster his case.
His older brother asked someone to prepare a drink for Prince, and after a few minutes he was presented with a cup of tea.
“I told my brother, who was not a member, ‘you know I do not take tea.’
“He apologized and laughed and asked the lady to prepare drinking chocolate for me. I responded, ‘Do not worry, just give me the documents and I will rush to the embassy.’
“But,” says Prince, “he insisted.”
Prince waited while the hot chocolate was prepared, drank it, got the document, and left.
He was walking past the Kenya Cinema—only a few meters away from the American embassy—when he heard a blast.
That blast was the sound of gunshots.
“If I had left only three minutes earlier, I would have been caught in the middle of the August 1998 terrorist attack on the US embassy,” says Prince.
“Those extra three minutes waiting for the hot chocolate to be prepared saved my life.”
More than 200 people died in terrorist attacks in East Africa that day, “but I feel I was protected personally because I lived the Word of Wisdom,” says Prince.
“I can testify that if I had thought that drinking tea was a small commandment, I am not sure I would be alive today.”
Prince saw the very real promises contained in section 89 of the Doctrine and Covenants come into play: “And I, the Lord, give unto them a promise, that the destroying angels shall pass by them . . . and not slay them” (verse 21).
In the end, Prince never went to America. He discovered that “the Lord had great plans for me here in Kenya,” he says.
“The gospel changes lives,” Prince testifies. As the Lord’s children, all we need to do is “hear Him and do what is right.”
Prince Henry Omondi is the first counsellor in the Kenya Nairobi West Stake. He is the faculty leader in Seminaries and Institutes for the Nairobi Kenya and Kampala Uganda missions.

Another provider of brilliant sunshine is the Howard Family. Carol and Lee have established a remarkable legacy in their neighborhood. Each month, they host a wonderful dinner for all of the widows and newcomers in their ward and related neighborhood. A carefully crafted invitation is sent to each individual, inviting him or her to come to dinner. When these sisters and others come to their home, they enjoy a wonderful social and a scrumptious meal--gifts cheerfully given by Lee and Carol and gifts gladly received by the sweet widowed sisters and newcomers.

My mother, Marcia Egan, now 91, loves attending this social each month in the company of her contemporaries and newcomers. She believes Carol and Lee are well on their way to sainthood now. They have been doing this for 10 years. They do this out of the best kind of motivation, love. They, like the Savior, are going about doing good. In doing so, they are becoming like Him.

I was born into a family of all boys, I married into a family of all boys-I even have a twin brother-and I am the mother of all boys! That is a lot of boys! When our sons were 7, 4 and 1, our family planned a trip to Palmyra, New York. For months prior, we spent almost every family home evening studying about the Prophet Joseph Smith and the significance of the historic sites that we had planned to visit.
We found plane tickets that were too good to be true. Well, they were true, but not necessarily good. It took us two layovers and almost 18 hours of travel time for our young family to safely arrive from Salt Lake City, Utah to our hotel room in Rochester, New York.
After baths, brushing teeth, bedtime prayers, and pure exhaustion-from mom and dad, our three little boys giggled excitedly as they climbed into a shared hotel bed. We then kissed them and said, “Now go to sleep, because the first thing we are going to do when we wake up tomorrow morning is visit the Sacred Grove.”
Young Eli, only 4 years old, enthusiastically sat straight up in bed and declared to his older brother, “Did you hear that Briton! Tomorrow we are going to see Heavenly Father and Jesus!” My dear husband and I looked at each other with tears slowly running down our cheeks. Oh, the faith and purity of little children!
Later the following day while visiting the Grandin Building, where the first five thousand copies of the Book Mormon were printed, a missionary was sharing her testimony of Jesus Christ. I then overheard little Eli tell his older brother, “Even though I didn’t see Heavenly Father and Jesus in the Secret [Sacred] Grove, I sure felt Them there.” To which Briton responded, “Eli, you can feel Them anywhere.”

Before sunrise I knew it was going to be one of those days. I hadn’t yet eaten breakfast when I messed up my shoes on some really fresh—and really fragrant—cow manure in Grandpa’s barn. Then one of the oversized eager eaters in the hog pen gave me a pretty good shove causing slop to slop onto my shoes and pants.
After breakfast things went steadily from bad to worse to awful. This was the day Grandpa had selected to have us put “soil sweeteners” on a newly cleared piece of land. I didn’t realize it yet, but Grandpa had just sentenced the four of us—Uncle Lynn, the new hired man, my little brother, and me—to a slow death by asphyxiation.
As we pitched several million tons of really ripe cow manure into the spreader, my brother managed to miss the spreader and “accidentally” hit me with a pitchforkful of the stuff. After slipping and falling several times while shoveling, all I could say to no one in particular was “No 13-year-old boy has ever been this dirty.” I didn’t hear anyone disagree.
Things didn’t get any better as the day went along. After the manure had been shoveled, we had to take the spreader to the sawdust pile and load enough sawdust to cover all of North America. Not so bad, I thought.
Boy, was I wrong. First, my brother nailed me in the back of the neck with a shovelful of sawdust. I nailed him back. He tackled me. I stuffed a handful of sawdust down his shirt. He returned the favor. Over and over we rolled, wrestling like a couple of overgrown kittens.
Cow, pig, and chicken manure on my shoes. Cow manure in the center of my back. Hog slop on my pants and shoes. Chicken manure all down my left side. Sawdust inside my shirt, and enough sweat to give me a nice shine.
Now I’m as dirty as I can get, right? I wish. While we were catching our breath, the hired man decided to tell a really dirty, offensive story.
When he finished, there was this long silence. Nobody laughed. Uncle Lynn was the ward clerk and an innocent, virtuous man. I was a newly ordained deacon who wanted to be like Uncle Lynn. My 11-year-old brother hadn’t even understood. Finally, the hired man said something about guessing his story hadn’t been very funny. He had that part right.
By the end of the day, I was dirtier than I had ever been. Eventually, I took a long shower with lots of soap and shampoo. It felt so good to be clean again. My skin was clean. My hair was clean. Even my fingernails were clean.
But no amount of soap, water, or shampoo would wash the hired man’s lewd story out of my memory. Like an unwanted and unwelcome guest, it had arrived and now it wouldn’t leave.
It’s been decades since I heard that dirty story. I’ve never repeated it. I’ve tried hard to forget it. I know the Lord considers me blameless regarding that story. But every once in a while, it pops into my mind for just an instant, and I discover the uninvited guest still hasn’t gone home.
You see, there are some kinds of dirt which soap can’t reach.

When Joseph Fielding Smith was ten years old, his mother woke him in the middle of the night.
Mother: Sister Thomas is having her baby, Joseph. I need you to take me to her quickly!
Joseph readied their mare and hitched her to the buggy.
Joseph: Come on, Old Meg.
Joseph: Too many babies are born on cold winter nights, Mother.
Mother: Try to make Old Meg go faster, son!
When they arrived, Joseph waited for hours while his mother helped Sister Thomas.
But when the baby came, the midnight journey and long wait seemed worthwhile.
Mother: Isn’t she beautiful, Joseph?
Sister Thomas: Thank you, Joseph. Thank you for bringing your mother.
Mother: Joseph, I still remember when you were born. I’m so proud of the hard-working boy you’ve become.
Joseph: Thanks, Mother. I’m proud, too … proud that I wasn’t born on a cold winter night!

Brother Turner’s faith has always been at the heart of his artistic endeavors. His spiritual journey began in 1956 when missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints returned to the Penrith area for the first time in over a century. That year his mother—a devout Christian who had always sought gospel truths—met the missionaries, accepted their teachings and became the first person in the Penrith area to accept the gospel. She later shared that she had long believed key elements of the restored gospel and had even had a vision confirming its truthfulness.
In 1957, when Jim was eight years old, his mother began taking him to Church meetings in the CWA Hall in Blacktown, NSW. These early experiences nurtured his understanding of God and the gospel of Jesus Christ, laying a foundation that would influence his life and work. “As a Christian, I know that God created all things and that He knows each one of us individually,” Brother Turner reflects.

Brandon stretched his legs. He could feel how strong they were.
“Vroom, vroom!” Brandon said. He leaned forward on his tricycle. He just knew he could win the preschool tricycle race.
Brandon’s teacher waved a flag. “Ready! Set! Go!” she shouted.
Brandon took off. He felt the wind rushing through his hair. Whoosh! He felt his legs pedaling so fast. He was ahead of everyone.
Brandon sped across the finish line. He won!
Brandon’s teacher pinned a blue ribbon to his shirt. Brandon smiled. It felt good to win.
Brandon climbed onto his tricycle for the next race. He stretched his legs. He leaned forward. He was excited to race again.
“Go!” Brandon’s teacher shouted, waving her flag.
Brandon took off. He was in the lead again!
Then Brandon looked behind him. His friends were racing as fast as they could. But they couldn’t catch up to him.
Brandon was almost at the finish line. He could see his teacher holding another blue ribbon. He could win two blue ribbons today!
But then Brandon started pedaling slower. He watched Spencer and Luis race past him and cross the finish line.
The crowd cheered. Brandon watched his teacher pin a blue ribbon to Spencer’s shirt. He was smiling.
“Why did you slow down?” Brandon’s teacher asked.
Brandon smiled up at his teacher. “Because I wanted someone else to know how great it feels to win.”

We sat huddled on the wet lawn in front of the Joseph Smith Monument in Sharon, Vermont—the birthplace of the Prophet. Draped in ponchos in a vain attempt to keep dry, we strained to hear our leader over the sound of the rain. Shortly, we would finish our final activity—a few moments alone in the woods, meditating and doing some self-evaluation.
The idea really excited me. Earlier, a speaker had related to us a story about President David O. McKay receiving his patriarchal blessing. Thirteen-year-old David was, at the time, a champion marble player. After the blessing, the patriarch told David that he had more important things to do than play marbles. I felt that now, too, was the time for me to “put away my marbles” and decide what to do with my life. A big part of that decision depended on knowing if the Church was true. I decided to ask our Heavenly Father.
The world seemed to fall silent as I entered the woods. With my poncho pulled around me to protect me from the rain, I found a secluded spot and sang some hymns to myself. Then I read the scriptures for a while. When I felt ready, I knelt to pray.
I was excited to pray, but I was also nervous. I had felt the Spirit before—in fast and testimony meetings and when I had received a testimony of the Book of Mormon—but I couldn’t honestly say that I knew the Church was true. What if I prayed and there was just nothing? What if, out here in the woods, kneeling and praying aloud got me nothing but wet?
But I decided that I had to try. So I knelt on the soggy leaves and bowed my head in prayer. I spoke in a whisper, fearful that someone might eavesdrop, and asked very simply to know if I really belonged to God’s true church. I finished my prayer and remained kneeling, awaiting an answer.
At first, I received an impression that I already knew the Church was true. But I figured that must have been my own thoughts, so I prayed again.
“You already know,” came the answer again, along with the warm and calm feeling of the Spirit enveloping me with peace and joy.
My heart quickened, and I couldn’t hold back the smile that covered my face. I realized that through seminary and my personal study, I had built my testimony step by step, precept upon precept, so slowly that I hadn’t even realized I had it.
I had a testimony of the Church, and I could now put aside the less important things in my life and get on with my spiritual growth. I felt so relieved, so content, and so grateful that I knew personally that the Church was true. Still kneeling, I bowed my head again and gave a prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for his witness that, although I hadn’t recognized it before, I already knew.

When 21-year-old Eric Ayala of Techiman, Ghana, was 3, he and his mother were at a street-side market when a car veered out of control and struck them.

“It hit my mother first and broke her leg,” Eric says. “Then it dragged me a long way before my body rolled into the gutter. I was pronounced dead and taken to a mortuary. The mortician was preparing my body when he discovered I was still alive. I was rushed to a hospital.”

Now paraplegic, Eric faced challenge after challenge as he grew up without the use of his legs. He eventually obtained leg braces that allowed him to stand, but he soon outgrew them and couldn’t afford replacements. He was given a small wheelchair, but outgrew that too. His legs withered, sometimes shaking with spasms, and his feet became deformed.

In Ghana, those with disabilities are often considered a burden. Eric’s family had little money, not enough to pay for medical treatment. When Eric was about 10, he developed pressure sores caused by lack of movement and by sitting on wood and concrete. The sores festered, oozing constantly, and they smelled terrible.

As a result, Eric lived outside, on a bench in an open-air shed. His mother, Lucy, and his sisters brought him food, washed his clothes, and helped him bathe. Eric was often drenched by rain and shivered from cold in the night. He learned to love morning sunshine because it brought warmth. Too poor to go to school and unable to work, he spent years in that shed, occasionally venturing into the neighborhood on his wheelchair.

Rather than becoming resentful, “I started to love and believe in God,” Eric says. “Nobody taught me about Him, but I could see His creations, and I could see the good and bad in people. Sometimes it is hard to believe in Him when life is hard. But then I would see something good come into my life, and I would say, ‘See, God is here, and it is wonderful.’”

Eric had not been formally taught how to pray, but he began calling upon God. He received answers—when he was sick, an unanticipated opportunity to see a doctor; when he asked for relief from his sores, they went away; when he outgrew his small wheelchair, a kind stranger brought him a larger one. “God did many good things in my life,” he says.

Still, sometimes Eric would get discouraged. He found himself crying when he was in pain and hungry. “I decided if I was going to be happy, it was up to me,” he recalls. “I forced myself to smile. If I didn’t, I was afraid I would turn to something bad.” In particular, he saw friends using alcohol and drugs, and, “my heart told me that was wrong.”

Then, in what seemed a miracle, at age 14, Eric was accepted for school. His mother, by cooking for others, had scraped together enough money to buy him a uniform and pay for books and tuition. At school, “I couldn’t go out and exercise with the others,” he explains, “so I stayed inside and studied all the time.” He amazed his headmaster by receiving top scores in math, reading, and writing.

A nun from the hospital donated a new tricycle that Eric could pedal with his hands, making it easier for him to go to school. But as Eric went back and forth, pressure sores opened again. Infection returned, along with the putrid smell as the wounds leaked. Students complained about flies constantly buzzing around Eric. He was 17 when the headmaster told him to go home and get well, or he could not return to school.

Eric’s father had a tiny farm out in the country. He had taken the family to work on the farm, but Eric remained at home in his shed, alone. Meanwhile, his sores enlarged to huge wounds and infection entered into his bones, a life-threatening condition called osteomyelitis.

When he was 18, Eric saw his friend Emmanuel Ofosu-hene speaking English with an obruni (white man). The obruni was a Mormon missionary, Elder Old. “I only spoke Twi, but Emmanuel interpreted for me: ‘I am so sick I think I will die. Can you help me know what to do so I can go to heaven?’

“Elder Old and his African companion sat with me and taught me. For some reason, they started with the Word of Wisdom. I knew they were speaking the truth because I already knew coffee and tobacco were bad.” They also gave Eric a brochure about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and invited him to church.

“When I went, I saw this Church was different,” he says. “It was reverent.” Even though it took him an hour to push himself to church in his wheelchair, Eric loved the meetings. “I wanted to go up front and be with people,” he says. “But I stayed at the back because I knew I smelled bad.”

Eric told the missionaries, “What I am learning is true.” He also told them he wanted to be baptized, but doctors had warned him not to get his wounds wet. “I will rely on God to provide answers,” he said. He attended church for about a year and then became too ill and weak to wheel himself there.

Eric’s mother, Lucy, met the missionaries, studied the gospel, and was baptized in 2015. But because her broken leg had never been properly set, it was painful for her to walk. Attending meetings was a challenge for her, as well.

Eventually, Eric was taken to the hospital again. In Ghana, patients have to provide their own water, food, bedding, medicine, and bandages. If they have no money, they are not treated. Eric’s mother and sisters did what they could. Eric received food and medical attention infrequently, so he grew weaker.

Then Eric received some unexpected visitors. Missionaries, Sister Peprah and Sister Nafuna, had seen his photograph at the church and came to see him in the hospital and brought him food. It had been a year since he had been to church, but he told them he still wanted to be baptized.

A few days later, Eric’s sister visited him and found him very ill. She ran home and told their mother. Though their mother had suffered permanent leg damage in the accident with Eric, she walked to the hospital, wincing with every step. “You must come home,” she told Eric. “If you’re going to die, I at least want you near.”

The next morning, the sister missionaries came to the house. “You weren’t at the hospital,” Sister Peprah said. “So we came here.” With them were Elder and Sister Wood, senior missionaries from New Zealand. They took inventory of needs and promised to return.

A few days later, Eric’s father took the family back to the farm—except Eric, who found himself alone again and without food or water. When Elder and Sister Wood returned and discovered Eric alone and hungry, they brought him food and water. They returned the next day and noticed fluid running down his leg and found a huge open ulcer on his thigh. They immediately took Eric back to the hospital.

The Woods learned of a medical humanitarian team from the United States that would be coming to Ghana. The team would perform surgery for Eric without cost. The surgeon treated the ulcer on Eric’s leg. But when he saw the severity of Eric’s wounds, as well as the osteomyelitis, he determined he could not do all the necessary procedures in Ghana. Based on his recommendation, the humanitarian organization initiated a process that would eventually bring Eric to the United States to receive additional treatment and permanently close his wounds. In addition, a shelter in Winneba, Ghana, run by members of the Church, agreed to have Eric live there when he returned so that he could attend school and complete his education.

While in Utah for surgery, Eric visits the reflecting pool near the Salt Lake Temple. Eric says he loves the feeling of peace he finds at the Salt Lake Temple.

Elder Wood, an engineer by profession, rebuilt Eric’s hand-pedal tricycle. He performed a similar overhaul on his wheelchair. He also counseled with President Cosgrave of the Ghana Kumasi Mission, a medical doctor. They felt Eric could be baptized if proper precautions were taken.

Eric shows his tricycle to his mother and siblings after senior missionaries repaired it.

“Elder Wood wrapped my body in plastic, with tape around the plastic,” Eric explains. “Then he carried me into a font filled with water treated with disinfectant. I was baptized on June 26, 2016.” Eric had relied on the Lord, and the Lord had provided a way.

Today, Eric is studying to become a computer technician. But also feels he can influence others through music—he likes to rap in Twi. His upbeat message talks about how God rescued him. One of his favorite scriptures says, “Look to God and live” (Alma 37:47). And he still says, “I see God in everything.”

He adds, “I don’t want anyone to think the way Heavenly Father has blessed me is identical to how He will bless them. But He will bless those who trust Him. When you have to deal with hard things, pray and trust God.”

Eric looks forward to a bright future. He’s studying to be a computer technician and also feels he can inspire others with music.

Last year, my Primary teacher asked us to pray for a girl in our class who hadn’t come to church. I decided to remember her in my personal prayers too. I prayed for her all year, even though I didn’t know her. I reminded my family to include her during family prayer too. I was so happy because that friend came to Primary on Christmas Sunday! She is now my friend and comes to church sometimes. I know Heavenly Father heard those prayers.
Campbell D., age 5, California, USA

Jared carefully recorded the last bit of information for his sixth-grade science project—comparing the differences between plants watered with tap water and those watered with distilled water.
“There,” he said in satisfaction. “All done.”
He ran into the laundry room. “Mom, I finished the experiment. Do you want to see it?”
Mom finished folding a towel and smiled. “Of course.”
Jared led her into the kitchen, where the two sets of plants occupied a shelf by the big glass door. When he saw the plants, he stopped in his tracks. “Oh, no!” he cried.
Kaitlyn, Jared’s three-year-old sister, looked up and smiled, her hands covered with dirt. Potting soil and crushed plants were strewn across the floor.
“You ruined my project!” Jared wiped angry tears from his eyes. “You wreck everything I have.”
“Jared, your sister didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” Mom said quietly.
“Sure,” Jared said bitterly. “Just like she didn’t mean to write all over my geography homework last week. Just like she didn’t mean to spill milk on my book report. Just like she—”
“That’s enough,” Mom said.
Jared recognized the tone in his mother’s voice and knew he’d said too much.
“Tell Jared you’re sorry,” Mom said to Kaitlyn.
Kaitlyn’s bottom lip trembled. “I’m sorry.”
Normally, Jared couldn’t stay angry at his little sister for very long, but this was different. He had spent a whole month caring for the plants and recording the differences between the two sets for the sixth-grade science fair. Now they were destroyed. He wouldn’t have anything to show in the fair next week.
He cleaned up the mess as well as he could, but he couldn’t save the plants. He dumped them into the big trash can in the garage. In his room, he slammed his fist into his baseball mitt. All his work had been for nothing.
A few minutes later, he heard a knock at his door.
“Jared, can I come in?” Mom called.
Reluctantly, he got up and opened the door.
Mom wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “I know you’re disappointed. Is there anything I can do?”
He shook his head.
“I’m sorry about the experiment.” she said.
“Me, too,” he said, still slamming the ball into his mitt.
“Kaitlyn made a mistake. Can you forgive her?” When Jared didn’t answer, his mother turned and quietly left the room.
When another knock sounded at his door, Jared ignored it. The door inched open, and Kaitlyn stood there. “I’m sorry.”
Jared looked at his sister’s red eyes. For a moment, his heart softened. Then he remembered how hard he’d worked on the experiment. He had hoped to win a prize with it. “Go away.”
Kaitlyn sniffled and rubbed her eyes before closing the door behind her.
Jared asked to be excused from dinner. He knew his parents were disappointed in him, but he didn’t care. He tried to do his homework but couldn’t concentrate. After staring at the same page of his history book for five minutes, he gave up. He got ready for bed, then knelt down, intending to say his prayers as he did every night. The words refused to come.
He didn’t sleep very well. He kept tossing and turning, remembering the hurt in Kaitlyn’s eyes when he’d refused to speak to her. He tried to push away the image. Kaitlyn had wrecked his experiment. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive her.
He thought about the word forgive and recalled part of the blessing his father had given him after his baptism and confirmation. “There will be times in your life when you need to seek forgiveness. I bless you with the meekness of heart to do so. There will also be times when you must forgive others. Remember the example of the Savior when you are faced with such times. Forgiveness is a gift. Use it and you will be blessed.”
The following morning, Jared trudged to school, his heart heavy. But it wasn’t the ruined experiment that filled his thoughts—it was Kaitlyn. He told himself he had nothing to feel guilty about, but he couldn’t erase the picture of Kaitlyn’s unhappy face from his mind.
At school, he explained to his science teacher what had happened. Mr. MacKade laid a hand on Jared’s shoulder. “I know you’re disappointed. You put a lot of work into your experiment.” His teacher tapped a finger against the notebook he always carried. “Did you take photos of it?”
Jared nodded. He’d asked his father if he could use his camera to take photos of the plants at different stages.
“We’ll show the photos instead,” Mr. MacKade said. “It won’t be the same as displaying the plants themselves, but it’ll be the next best thing.”
“Thanks, Mr. MacKade. I’ll do that.”
Jared slipped into his seat. He should have felt better, but the ache in his heart remained. He couldn’t concentrate on his math problems or his spelling test. He could not even choke down the sandwich and cupcake his mother had packed in his lunch. All he could see was Kaitlyn’s face, her quivering lips and tear-reddened eyes. No science experiment was worth the pain he’d caused his little sister.
By the end of school, Jared knew what he had to do. Kaitlyn had been wrong to ruin his plants, but that did not excuse how he had treated her. He hurried home from school.
“Mom, I’m home. Where’s Kaitlyn?” he called, slamming the door behind him.
Mom looked up from the Primary manual she was studying. “She’s in her room.” His mother looked like she wanted to say something else.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Jared said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Jared raced up the stairs and knocked on Kaitlyn’s door. “Kaitlyn, it’s me.” He heard a muffled “Come in.” He pushed open the door.
Kaitlyn was sitting on her bed, her arms looped around her knees. “Are you still mad at me?” she asked in a small voice.
Jared crossed the room to sit beside her. “No, Kaitlyn. I’m not angry anymore. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I know you only wanted to help.” He hugged her and asked, “How would you like to go to the park with me?”
Kaitlyn nodded and gave him a big smile.
That evening Jared labeled the pictures he had taken of the plants. Kaitlyn played with her dolls beside him. A quiet feeling of peace enveloped him. And when he knelt by his bed that night to say his prayers, he didn’t have any trouble finding the words.

A story is told of an encounter between the Prophet Joseph Smith and Brigham Young. In the presence of a rather large group of brethren, the Prophet severely chastised Brother Brigham for some failing in his duty. Everyone, I suppose, somewhat stunned, waited to see what Brigham's response would be. After all, Brigham, who later became known as the Lion of the Lord, was no shrinking violet by any means. Brigham slowly rose to his feet, and in words that truly reflected his character and his humility, he simply bowed his head and said, "Joseph, what do you want me to do?" The story goes that, sobbing, Joseph ran from the podium, threw his arms around Brigham, and said in effect, "You passed, Brother Brigham, you passed." [11] Brigham, one of the greatest leaders of the 20th century, the "Lion of the Lord," displayed his greatness through his humility.

Do you have a favorite thing you like to collect, like beads or baseball cards? Finlay T., age eight, likes to collect something too. But he doesn’t keep what he collects—he gives it away. And what he gives away would usually be dumped in the trash! Can you guess what it is?
I collect used postage stamps from letters that have traveled all over the world. Then I give them to charities that sell stamps to raise money to help children in different countries. Whenever I hear the mail plop onto the doormat of our home, I can’t wait to carefully tear off the postage stamps to add to the collection.
I live with my mum and dad and my sisters, Emily and Georgia. Sometimes we trim and sort stamps together. It’s hard work, and sometimes my hands ache from cutting and counting. But then I remember why I’m doing it. I enjoy helping because I know that each stamp I collect helps someone in need.

My mother has been an example to me of hearing the word of the Lord and then putting her faith into action. At the age of 20, she was a young German woman living in Vienna, Austria, with her mother, who had previously joined the Church. It was near the end of World War II. During that time, she prayed, “Please, Heavenly Father, tell me if this is your Church.” [7] In answer to her sincere prayer she recorded, “Suddenly a wonderful feeling came over me. I felt like light was surrounding me. . . . It was a marvelous feeling, hard to describe. At that very moment I knew the Church was true and I knew I wanted to be baptized. The Holy Ghost had testified the truth unto me. I will be eternally grateful for this blessing!” [8] She acted and was baptized.