Gospel Story Finder

It was Friday night and football season at my high school. As drum major of the marching band, I was having a great time cheering with the band and directing stand tunes. Then things changed drastically when I heard a desperate cry: “Get help! Jeff has stopped breathing!”
I found Jeff, a tuba player, lying across a bleacher, slipping in and out of consciousness and gasping for breath. Suddenly the all-important football game faded from significance. My number-one priority was to get help for Jeff. Paramedics arrived, and it wasn’t until after Jeff was safely on his way to the hospital that I even thought about checking the scoreboard.
After the game I realized that too many times in my own life I have allowed myself to get so involved in a fun yet unimportant event of life that I failed to recognize someone’s spiritual cry for help. During the football game it bothered me to watch Jeff struggle for breath and hear the cheers and laughter of fans that had no idea that anything was wrong.

The youth and adults of the Farmington Utah Stake presented an original musical production about the exasperation leading to the organization of the Primary. Entitled “Oh, Those Boys!”, the musical showed boys killing bats during Sunday School in the attic of the Church. A chorus of young girls sang the pleasures and responsibilities of being “at the end of the row.” (In early Primaries, older, well-behaved children were placed at the end of the row to set an example and control the other children.)

“Oh, Those Boys!” played two nights, and most of the audience went away informed, entertained, and amazed at the job the young people had done.

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland told of a young man who was the brunt of his peers’ teasing during his school years. Some years later he moved away, joined the military, received an education, and became active in the Church. This period of his life was marked with wonderfully successful experiences.
After several years he returned to his hometown. However, the people refused to acknowledge his growth and improvement. To them, he was still just old “so-and-so,” and they treated him that way. Eventually, this good man faded away to a shadow of his former successful self without being able to use his marvelously developed talents to bless those who derided and rejected him once again. What a loss, both for him and the community!

A mother was busily preparing dinner when her little boy burst into the kitchen. “Mother, will you play darts with me?” “Just-a-minutes” didn’t seem to satisfy the little boy, so the mother followed him down the basement stairs. As they came into the playroom, she said, “I don’t know the rules or how to play.” “Oh, it’s not hard at all,” he beamed confidently. “I just stand right here and throw the darts, and you stand over there and say, ‘Wonderful! Wonderful!’” Pretty easy rules to remember, aren’t they?

On February 4 of 1990, our third son and sixth child was born. We named him Tyson. He was a beautiful little boy, and the family greeted him with open hearts and open arms. His brothers and sisters were so proud of him. We all thought he was the most perfect little boy who had ever been born.
When Tyson was eight months old, he aspirated a piece of chalk that he had found on the carpet. The chalk lodged in Tyson’s throat, and he quit breathing. His older brother brought Tyson upstairs, frantically calling, “The baby won’t breathe. The baby won’t breathe.” We began to administer CPR and called 911.
The paramedics arrived and rushed Tyson to the hospital. In the waiting room we continued in fervent prayer as we pled to God for a miracle. After what seemed a lifetime, the doctor came into the room and said, “I am so sorry. There is nothing more we can do. Take all the time you need.” She then left.
As we entered the room where Tyson lay, we saw our lifeless little bundle of joy. It seemed as though he had a celestial glow around his little body. He was so radiant and pure.
At that moment it felt as if our world had come to an end. How could we return to the other children and somehow try to explain that Tyson wasn’t coming home?
I will speak in the singular as I relate the rest of this experience. My angel wife and I experienced this trial together, but I am inadequate in expressing the feelings of a mother and would not even try to do so.
It is impossible to describe the mixture of feelings that I had at that point in my life. Most of the time I felt as if I were in a bad dream and that I would soon wake up and this terrible nightmare would be over. For many nights I didn’t sleep. I often wandered in the night from one room to the other, making sure that our other children were all safe.
Feelings of guilt racked my soul. I felt so guilty. I felt dirty. I was his father; I should have done more to protect him. If only I would have done this or that. Sometimes even today, 22 years later, those feelings begin to creep into my heart, and I need to get rid of them quickly because they can be destructive.
About a month after Tyson died, I had an interview with Elder Dean L. Larsen. He took the time to listen to me, and I will always be grateful for his counsel and love. He said, “I don’t think the Lord would want you to punish yourself for the death of your little boy.” I felt the love of my Heavenly Father through one of his chosen vessels.
However, tormenting thoughts continued to plague me, and I soon began to feel anger. “This isn’t fair! How could God do this to me? Why me? What did I do to deserve this?” I even felt myself get angry with people who were just trying to comfort us. I remember friends saying, “I know how you feel.” I would think to myself, “You have no idea how I feel. Just leave me alone.” I soon found that self-pity can also be very debilitating. I was ashamed of myself for having unkind thoughts about dear friends who were only trying to help.
As I felt the guilt, anger, and self-pity trying to consume me, I prayed that my heart could change. Through very personal sacred experiences, the Lord gave me a new heart, and even though it was still lonely and painful, my whole outlook changed. I was given to know that I had not been robbed but rather that there was a great blessing awaiting me if I would prove faithful.
My life started to change, and I was able to look forward with hope, rather than look backward with despair. I testify that this life is not the end. The spirit world is real. The teachings of the prophets regarding life after death are true. This life is but a transitory step forward on our journey back to our Heavenly Father.
Tyson has remained a very integral part of our family. Through the years it has been wonderful to see the mercy and kindness of a loving Father in Heaven, who has allowed our family to feel in very tangible ways the influence of Tyson. I testify that the veil is thin. The same feelings of loyalty, love, and family unity don’t end as our loved ones pass to the other side; instead, those feelings are intensified.
Sometimes people will ask, “How long did it take you to get over it?” The truth is, you will never completely get over it until you are together once again with your departed loved ones. I will never have a fulness of joy until we are reunited in the morning of the First Resurrection.

As young missionaries in the missionary training center in Brazil, we had a day assigned to go, as companionships, into the streets of São Paulo to invite people to hear the missionary lessons. After a few hours we came back to the MTC and held a testimony meeting.
Many spoke of promptings they received to go to a specific street or approach a certain person. These experiences sounded marvelous to me. However, because I had no similar experience, I felt that perhaps I was not good enough, or prepared enough, to be a missionary.
Feeling discouraged, I sought help from MTC leadership. They helped me understand that God is willing to give us instructions through the Holy Ghost, and while my experience may not be the same as those of others, I still needed to qualify for the Spirit’s direction. Just like a radio that needs to be tuned to a specific station, or a smartphone that needs to be connected to the internet, we must be both in tune and connected in order to receive what the Holy Ghost communicates to us.
At the MTC, I learned that I needed to be ready to receive whatever the Lord wanted to send me, in His time and His way. I learned that interference can cause us to be so distracted that we will not be able to identify when the Lord is talking to us or to listen carefully to the message He would have us hear.

It takes time and patience to find solutions. When I reflect on my time as a caseworker with resettled refugees, the stories I remember most are those that were not neatly resolved. I worked with a brilliant mother who failed to qualify for a liver transplant. Before her death, she focused on finding support for her sons. In another case, a family moved into a great new apartment, only to be forced to move out two days later due to unclear requirements.

Many issues in people’s lives and on a larger, global scale will not be resolved quickly or in the way we want. Giving service does not guarantee we will fix things or reach a particular outcome. Service also won’t necessarily provide a sense of worth. Seeking personal value in service is a recipe for taking on too much and becoming angry when people don’t appreciate you. Your value is independent of any service you can give. Service is ultimately about sharing the fruits of God’s love that we have so generously received. God will amplify our limited efforts and inspire trans­formation. Our great opportunity is to choose to share and to become a conduit through which love and grace can come.

“Personal Progress helped me. Every completed assignment gave me growth; it added knowledge and courage,” Ivana says. “It was especially good for me because most members of my family aren’t active members of the Church.”
The changes Ivana made through Personal Progress helped her be an example to her family. “All this time my parents have seen how I’ve changed. They were very happy that I was going to church,” Ivana says. She attended church and activities alone until one day her mother decided to come with her to sacrament meeting. Now they attend church together.

Eugene Till, our mission president in Seoul, Korea, and Brent Anderson, one of our Latter-day Saint chaplains, were my companions as we traveled from the demilitarized zone to Pusan to visit our military bases. Meeting after meeting we talked to our servicemen, looked into their faces, shook their hands, and listened to their comments about their homes, their loved ones, and their home wards. Increasingly I began to feel some of the loneliness in their hearts. As I asked, “Are you hearing from your elders quorum? Does your family write often and encourage you to live the principles of the gospel?” the disappointment on their faces—and sometimes a cynical smile—gave me my answer. To the question “Does your bishop know you are here?” the reply was, “I don’t even think he cares. He is too busy to be concerned about me.” Of all those who attended our meetings—can you imagine—only one said he knew his ward leaders did care.
As we drove from base to base, a kaleidoscope of these disappointed faces kept crossing my mind. “Feed the flock of God which is among you,” Peter admonished. (1 Pet. 5:2.) A clear impression came to me that I was witnessing a needless neglect and that I must tell this story. This lack of interest at home for these young men is not the Lord’s plan, not the way he has taught us. Many of us are not responding to the Church direction, not responding to our charge to “[teach] them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you.” (Matt. 28:20.) This responsibility to teach and to encourage does not cease because they are out of sight; in fact, our interest must be intensified. Our concern is not for the career military Church member who, with his family, adds great strength to local Church units, but for the young men—mostly single, lonely, exposed to the evil enticements and temptations that can be part of military life.
There is a growing number without benefit of a mission or college disappearing into the military. The Selective Service has been discontinued. However, the armed forces are successful in recruiting. Your stake reports indicate we now have more in the military than in the mission field. Nearly 20,000 of your sons—and some daughters—are in the military service. President Kimball is asking for more full-time missionaries. Why shouldn’t parents, bishops, and elders presidents treat these 20,000 in the military as missionaries? You know they are—whether for good or not. You are their Church leaders and should be continually encouraging them. What a glorious opportunity. But you might say, “Oh, there is a difference!” Do you recall a modern prophet saying, “Every member a missionary”? Shouldn’t you give your son in the military this same attention? You have the obligation. Many thrilling missionary stories have involved our men in the military. At a base in Thailand, out of 18 members at our meeting, 11 had recently joined the Church, and two had converted their wives back home. These stories go on and on. Unfortunately, there are two sides.
A chaplain reported: “There is a universal absence of mail from home—from parents, from priesthood leaders. Parents, particularly of inactive young people, do not keep in touch with their sons or daughters.” The chaplain continued, “Nobody seems to care but the Latter-day Saint chaplains and the prostitutes, and, sir, that makes competition pretty tough.”
A number of Latter-day Saint girls are joining the military. Bishops, counsel our young women concerning the grave dangers and pitfalls because of the lack of moral guidance. A Latter-day Saint chaplain responsible for women on a large base said: “They are painfully alone, many struggling with repentance versus the world and desperately needing to feel support from parents and the Church. Otherwise, they find understanding elsewhere.”
Many of the single men are floundering on the cutting edge of sin. They are saying, “Please help me.” There is no hometown moral support that goes unappreciated.
How important is a letter? At a testimony meeting far from home, a young man said: “The devil had me convinced that I was a forgotten soul. Why not sin a little? Then a letter from Mom, one from my bishop, and a letter from our ward’s executive secretary finally caught up with me—one, two, three. I’d prayed for reassurance, but never had I felt such a sense of being important! Three letters to prove it. All in one mail call! I thank God for those few who care.”
Just to know that someone cares is sometimes enough to turn the tide. All too often young people enter military service because they feel unwanted or unloved, and they can become completely demoralized in this new environment when there is little or no encouragement to hold high the standards and goals of their lives. One bishop writing to a young man admitted, “While praying for our servicemen, I suddenly realized my prayers were useless without some action.” Then, in a letter, he expressed his love for this boy and asked, “How can I help you?” The young serviceman, with tears, said, “My bishop cares.”
A Latter-day Saint chaplain, whose office was near the mailroom, reported, “Daily, brokenhearted men and boys poured out their sorrow to me after they had looked again and again in their empty mailboxes. Some, in the depths of their hurt, swore they would never write another letter, and some of them, I’m sad to report, kept that unwise threat and watched their family ties disintegrate. Others would say that ‘no mail’ was proof of ‘no love or concern’ and that they were therefore justified in seeking affection from professional lovers. The old saying ‘We live or die at the mailroom’ never was truer than in the military.”
Another serviceman said, “During my 13 months in Southeast Asia, I heard from my sweetheart every day. During her busy days caring for our five children and attending school, she completed every day by writing me a letter. Think of it! Almost 400 days without a single miss!”
One of your sons, who had received a tape from home, wrote, “I was holding my one-man sacrament meeting as usual—out under a tree—listening to Church tapes. Bruce R. McConkie’s voice was never this interesting back home. I’ve played him 50 times.”
We challenge parents, home teachers, elders quorum presidents, and bishops that from today you show your concern for these young people. Flood them with affection, letters, tapes, cards, packages, birthday and holiday greetings of all types. Give your Young Adults, teenagers, and others in your ward a stimulating project. Sixteen-year-old Debbie Trujillo wrote a serviceman, “Hi. My name is Debbie Trujillo, and I’ve just been baptized in the Church. I don’t know much about you, but our class is doing this project, and I think it’s neat.” The serviceman said, “I hope my reply can be as sweet and uplifting as her letter.”
The Church can be proud of our chaplains, who bring hope and goodness to men of all faiths. After one of our chaplains had helped a member change his life, the man brought to the chaplain’s office a hand-sculptured model of a sheep and said that he felt as if he had been the one sheep for which we had left the ninety-and-nine. The chaplain writes, “I keep this little sheep on my desk as a reminder that in the military when we leave the 99, we always find more than one.”
The Savior’s analogy of the lost sheep vividly portrays the concern he has for all, but especially those that might stray. The Savior’s mission is to try to save all. The shepherd leaves the ninety-and-nine pastured safely and goes into the mountains to seek that one that has strayed. “When he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.” (Luke 15:5–6.) Can’t you somehow feel the Savior’s concern to account for everyone.
He follows this parable with a similar one, “the Lost Coin.” Whereas the sheep had strayed—wandered away—the coin, as the result of carelessness on the part of the woman, is dropped and lost. She sweeps previously unswept corners, even lights a candle. By her diligence it is recovered. “And when she hath found it, she calleth her friends and her neighbours together, saying, Rejoice with me; for I have found the piece which I had lost. Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one … that repenteth.” (Luke 15:9–10.)
Members of your family can be part of a real “lost battalion” in urgent need of our help. They hunger for what only you can give them. When you don’t supply it, they accept some devastating substitutes.
I pray that as you close the drapes on each day, you will rest peacefully knowing, “The wind still whips the leaves, but the roots are down.” In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

For more than forty years I travelled the world. After I was called as a General Authority, I began to be concerned about our three younger children. There were times when I was not home much and I knew they needed to spend more time with their father. So one family home evening I announced a new grand bargain. If they would keep the rules, help their mother when I was gone, get to bed on time, and do their home work, once a year I would take each of them individually with me on assignment. At my own expense--anywhere in the world I was going, they could each come with me.
Oh my! Were they excited? Did I really mean it? Anywhere? They wanted my schedule and began to plan their trips. And they knew where they wanted to go. They began alphabetically: Alaska, the headwaters of the Amazon, Anaheim, California, etc.
At the time our son Paul was twelve years old. He was gifted athletically but not spiritually. He had never born his testimony. I wondered if he ever would. But he decided that he wanted to go with me to Mexico. I told him he could but that he would have to bear his testimony there. He said, "Then I won't go."
I had a scheduled conference in Mexico City. As the date drew near my son again asked if he could go with me. I said, "Sure. But you will have to bear your testimony." He was adamant, "Then I won't go."
The time came to order the tickets; again he asked if he had to talk. I said yes. He said, "Does it have to be in Spanish?" I said, "Yes." He sighed and reluctantly said, "O.K." I called the mission president. He also had a twelve-year-old son. He agreed to pick us up at the airport and drive us to the conference. The boys could keep each other company.
One of the meetings was in Celaya. The road we took was narrow and wound through the mountains. As we started down the steep incline into town, the president suddenly braked the car. The road was blocked with a huge pile of logs and branches that had fallen from a rickety cart ahead of us. A woodcutter and his two sons were frantically trying to clear the road and reload their cart. My son said, "Good! Now I don't have to talk."
We shut off the car. We chatted a bit. The logjam didn't seem to be moving. Someone suggested that maybe we should help, so we did. And a kind of camaraderie developed on that mountain road between our sons, dressed in white shirts and ties, and the two barefoot wood gatherers. It just happened as bark filled their hair and sawdust covered their clothes. It took us about thirty minutes to pick up and restack the wood.
When we finished, we said goodbye to our new friends, cleaned up as well as we could, and drove to Celaya. At a convenient moment in the conference I called on my son to bear his testimony. He stood behind the little pulpit and in gringo Spanish haltingly said, "Yo se que el Libro de Mormón es verdadero, porque lo he leído."
It was true. He knew the Book of Mormon was true because he had read it--in Spanish! In painful, two verse at a time, early morning scripture study that our family had conducted for years, in English, and Spanish, and Portuguese, he had read it and he knew it was true. And to me what happened to my son Paul on that road to Celaya was just as important as what happened to his namesake Paul on the road to Damascus. And his testimony was just as valid.

Not long ago, Josh received his mission call to serve in the Washington D.C. South Mission, speaking Persian.
“Persian?!” he says. “I had no idea that language was even taught at the MTC.”
As it happens, there are only three elders in his mission who currently speak Persian. And very few other missions include that language at all.
He started buckling down to learn as much Persian as possible before entering the missionary training center, but then everything missionary-wise got thrown into uncertainty as the pandemic took hold.
It’d be understandable for anybody in Luke’s situation to feel discouraged, but he says he finds heavenly help every day. “I see a lot of blessings in disguise.”
One of his favorite blessings in disguise was only possible because seminary was held virtually. Due to different start times, he was actually able to attend his current seminary class in Alabama as well as his old one back in Mississippi! “That’s been kind of cool because I can stay in touch with my friends!”
That’s only one blessing, though. “I also have more time for prayer and scriptures,” he points out. “And more time to study my language before entering the MTC.”
On that note, Luke was fortunate enough to connect, through a social media group, with the mother of one of the Persian-speaking missionaries in his mission. She was thrilled to hear from Luke and offered to send him some language-training tools her son used before his mission.
Luke has been using those tools ever since.
“I love the extra time to study,” he says again. “Especially family study in the morning. Now we have more time to do that than we normally did.”
The biggest question on Luke’s mind has been about what to decide regarding his mission. Like so many others in his situation, Luke has to choose whether to defer his mission call for a year or more, or wait and see if he can go as soon as possible with the original date.
Nothing is certain yet.
For Luke, direction came after watching general conference. “President Nelson and the other leaders were so optimistic,” Luke said. “It makes me optimistic too. So, at least for now, I’m going to plan on serving during my normal time.”
Luke knows that nothing is certain where COVID-19 is concerned. Even so, he’s absolutely certain about something else. “God is at the wheel,” Luke says. “He isn’t going to let us fail.”

Dear Mom, Jane wrote.
She paused and tapped her pen against the table. She looked at the fridge, where the newest picture of her and Mom hung. They both had the same chin, the same dark hair, and the same wide smile.
What could she say? Jane wanted to sound happy and strong for Mom, but nothing came to mind. Her heart hurt so much that it was hard to write anything at all.
Jane, Dad, and her siblings had come back from visiting Mom two weeks ago. Mom was in prison, and they had to drive for almost a whole day to see her. Because of the long drive, they didn’t get to see her very often. Mom had been in prison for over a year, and they had only seen her twice.
This time, when Jane had visited, Mom had suggested that they become pen pals. But Jane didn’t want to be pen pals. She just wanted Mom to come home.
Mom’s first letter to Jane had arrived yesterday, written in neat pencil. At the bottom, she had drawn a picture of the two of them having a party together when she got home.
Jane wrote a few lines, then scrunched up the paper. She put her head on the table and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back tears.
Dad came in with the groceries. “Jane, are you OK?”
Jane shrugged.
Dad sat down and put his arms around her. Jane leaned into his chest.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Until what?”
“How much longer until Mom can come home?”
Dad was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “It’ll probably be at least three more years, Jane.”
Jane thought her heart would explode. Three years! The last year had been so long and hard. How could she live for three more years without Mom?
“Every single day, I wish your mom was here,” Dad said. “It’s really hard with her gone, isn’t it?”
Jane nodded.
“It’s OK to feel sad,” Dad said. “Sometimes it helps me to remind myself of what I’m grateful for.”
Jane sniffed a little. “Like what?”
Dad smiled. “Like how we get to call Mom every week. And we’re able to send her supplies she needs—and letters.” Dad patted the paper pad on the table. “And … ?”
“And …” Jane thought about it. “I have lots of teachers and friends I can talk to. And Ashley’s mom took me to a Mother’s Day activity. And I’ve been learning to be a better friend and help others.”
“Yes, you have,” Dad said. “How about if we say a prayer, and then you can keep thinking about what you want to write?”
Jane folded her arms. She thanked Heavenly Father that she had been able to see Mom and that they had driven home safely. Then she asked Him to help her know what to write.
She sat at the table, thinking and thinking. Then she started writing something she didn’t expect: a list of things she was grateful for. She listed all the things she had talked about with Dad, plus a few more, like her siblings and her neighborhood.
When she finished, Jane drew a picture of herself and Mom playing board games together. Her heart still hurt a little, but she had one thing to look forward to—for the next three years, she would be the best pen pal ever!

When my father was about three years old, he was diagnosed as deaf. From that point on, his parents did all they could to learn American Sign Language (ASL), and my grandmother fought for rights for her children and deaf children especially. She knew that mothers and fathers have the responsibility to provide for their children’s needs. Because of her efforts, my dad and his siblings had successful schooling experiences, and all communicate in ASL. When the family gets together, almost everyone signs and feels accepted and understood. Though this unique family unity certainly required a lot of effort and was not easy to achieve, my dad and his siblings have been blessed by their parents’ efforts.
My father (pictured with his sister when they were young) was about three when he was diagnosed as deaf.
Photograph courtesy of the author

I was walking with my missionary companion down a shaded residential street near the University of Antioquia in Medellín, Colombia. Having had my fair share of challenges in that city, I braced for the worst when a young man stepped away from a group of college students and called out to us. We stood motionless as he ran up to us.
“Let me see that book!” he demanded, pointing to the Book of Mormon in my hand.
I held it up, showing him the cover, which featured a golden statue of the angel Moroni against a blue background. “It’s yours if you want it,” I said nervously.
He took it.
His next question unnerved us entirely: “I know you guys. Where did you get this book?”
My companion had been in the mission field only three days, so I gathered courage and answered the young man’s question as forthrightly as I could. When I finished he was in tears.
“I’ve seen this book before,” he said. “I’ve seen you guys before. But it was seven years ago in a dream.”
He began to tell us about his dream. “I saw a simple blue book, paperback, with a golden figure on the cover. The man was wearing a robe and blowing what appeared to be some sort of trumpet.”
But it was the feeling that he remembered best. He’d had an overpowering impression that the book was important, essential, and true. He had never seen the book again until he saw it in my hands there on the street.
We soon began to teach Juan Guillermo Mejía the discussions. To each principle, he responded that he “already knew that” and that we were just confirming what he had learned long ago. He finished reading the Book of Mormon that week and was baptized on Saturday.
When I completed my mission months later, he was the elders quorum president in his branch. After seven years, the book of his dreams had changed his life.

Let me share with you some things I have discovered over the years, especially while I was involved in football. I didn’t have much confidence, but I wanted to play almost more than anything else. The coach told us to eat a lot of beans and drink lots of milk. I didn’t like milk, but I drank it. I really wasn’t all that hot on beans, but I persuaded Mom to make a pot as often as I could. The coach said to be in bed by 9:30, and I was in bed by 9:30. It wasn’t hard to do because the desire to play overshadowed all these little things. One thing the coach asked me to do that I couldn’t do was work out on Sunday. He had asked each player to do calisthenics on an individual basis on Sunday. In this thing I followed the teachings of the Church.

At regular football practice I would do every calisthenic exercise the best I possibly could. I felt like I needed to do more than the other guy because he had more talent than I did. I only remember missing one football practice in three years, with the exception of when I broke my leg. The one practice I missed was for my grandmother’s funeral. And even at that age I hoped the funeral would be at a time other than practice. For four weeks after I broke my leg I would go out and watch the team play. After four weeks I persuaded the doctor to take the cast off, and six weeks after my leg had been broken I had the privilege of playing in another game.

We become the hands of our Savior as we do His work. In a missionary zone conference we discussed being the answer to someone’s prayers. One pair of missionaries went home and prayed that evening and the next morning that they would be the answer to someone’s prayers. The next morning they walked down the high street, and a man came running out of a hotel. He asked if they had a copy of the Book of Mormon—and they did! He explained he was a member attending a business conference. He was worried about some personal problems, and, as he prayed, he received the impression that his answer was in the Book of Mormon. But he did not have one with him. That morning he was sitting in the hotel restaurant. He suddenly had the impression to go immediately to the front of the hotel, where he saw the missionaries, who provided him with the answer to his prayer.

In still another case, a young woman from Hamburg, Germany, was struggling to find spiritual meaning to her life. She began to pray and ask God what she should do. One morning, after three days of some fasting and much prayer, she walked from her home to the bus stop. As she arrived, she realized she had left some keys at home that she needed that day. She returned home, picked up the keys, and walked again to the bus stop. She was quite distraught as she realized she had missed the bus she would have normally taken.
Meanwhile, two missionaries were traveling on a bus near the city of Hamburg. As they were traveling, they suddenly had an impression that they should talk to the first person they met after exiting the bus. The two elders got out of the bus and instantly saw this young woman. They spoke to her briefly about the Church and set up an appointment to teach her. She had an immediate feeling that somehow the elders were sent to her as an answer to her prayers. The good members of the Church joined with the missionaries in teaching her and helping her feel a special part of their ward. She accepted the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and was baptized. Now she is working in the ward Young Women program.

The Prophet Joseph Smith petitioned the Lord on two occasions, asking if a prominent friend, Martin Harris, could take the first 116 handwritten pages of translated material from the book of Lehi from Harmony, Pennsylvania, back to Palmyra. Each time, the Lord counseled Joseph to avoid entrusting the manuscript to Mr. Harris.
Martin was seeking to use the translated material as evidence to stop his associates from spreading rumors about his friendship with Joseph Smith. On the third request the Lord granted Joseph’s appeal.
Martin lost the manuscript, and as a result the plates were taken from the Prophet Joseph Smith for an extended period. This was a painful lesson for the Prophet Joseph, who said, “I made this my rule: When the Lord commands, do it.” This should and can be our rule as well.

“This is going to be great!” Sterling said as he looked out the truck window. The sun was just rising over the horizon. The range stretched as far as he could see, full of sagebrush, a few twisted cedar trees, and one lonely cabin.
“Yeah!” his friend Glen said back. “I can’t wait to ride the range with Marcus.”
“And eat his famous sourdough biscuits,” Sterling said.
Sterling’s dad drove up to the cabin and parked the truck. He was dropping them off to help Marcus with their families’ cattle. The boys ran to the cabin as the 70-year-old cowherder walked out, smiling big. A cowboy hat covered his head.
“Here are my cowhands!” Marcus said. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it. I’m sure glad to see you.” Marcus spoke a few minutes with Sterling’s dad, then waved as the dust settled behind the truck.
Marcus fed them breakfast—delicious sourdough biscuits, eggs, and bacon. Then they saddled their horses and began riding the range, looking for cattle who were wandering. They set out big blocks of salt for the cattle to lick so they would be healthy.
After lunch they rode under the cloudless sky to a far corner of the range. It was hot and dusty, so Marcus led them to a spring of water to have a drink and cool off. Soon they were ready to get back to work.
But as Marcus swung his leg over his horse, his sharp spurs accidentally hit the horse under the tail. The horse bucked and threw Marcus to the ground on top of a big rock. Marcus screamed in pain.
“Marcus!” yelled Glen.
“Are you OK?” said Sterling.
“I can’t move,” Marcus moaned. Then his eyes closed. He had passed out!
The boys looked at each other, eyes wide. “What should we do?” said Sterling.
“We need to find someone to help us,” said Glen. “He needs a doctor.”
Sterling and Glen were scared. They were miles away from other people and didn’t have phones to call for help. They didn’t even know exactly where they were.
“I’ll be right back,” Sterling said. He walked around a pile of rocks, knelt in the dirt, and bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, Marcus is really hurt, and we don’t know how to help. Please let me know what to do.”
Sterling heard a clear voice in his head. Ride north.
He hurried back to Glen and Marcus. “I’m going to find help,” he said to Glen. “You stay here with Marcus.” Glen looked relieved.
Sterling climbed on his horse and started riding north. After about an hour of nothing but sky and sagebrush, he saw a cloud of dust in the distance. A truck was coming slowly across the range. Sterling galloped to the truck and waved it down. It was two sheepherders looking for their lost sheep!
Sterling told them about Marcus. The sheepherders knew where the spring was and drove right to Marcus and Glen. They carefully lifted Marcus into the back of the truck and drove him to the hospital. Sterling and Glen took the horses back to Marcus’s cabin and waited for their parents to pick them up.
“Thank you, Heavenly Father,” Sterling prayed quietly. “Thank you for helping us help Marcus.”
A few months later, Sterling saw Marcus after his broken bones had healed. “There’s my brave, smart cowhand!” Marcus said. “Thanks for saving my life with your quick thinking.”
Sterling smiled. He was glad Marcus was OK. “It wasn’t me,” he said. “I was just following Heavenly Father’s directions.”

Walter and Ernestine Walser were called to Peru. Former Bishop Walser was soon called as a branch president in the remote interior mountains. With his limited Missionary Training Center Spanish, Elder Walser had to choose counselors, hold meetings, teach, train, reactivate, ordain, and so on. In fasting and prayer he received impressions from the Spirit and went about his work. Elder Walser wrote, “I learned that even with limited language, whenever it was needed, enough Spanish was given me to communicate, and I knew it was from the Lord.”

Like many adventures, there were hardships and sacrifices, but the Walsers said that the genuine love and affection of those wonderful Peruvian people and the feeling of being needed more than compensated. They are grateful for their spiritual adventure in serving the Lord.