Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, Sister Joyce Audrey Evans, a young mother in Belfast, Northern Ireland, was having trouble with a pregnancy. She went to the hospital, where one of the nurses told her she would probably lose the baby. Sister Evans replied: “But I can’t give up. … You have to give me hope.” Sister Evans later recalled: “I couldn’t give up hope until all reason for hope was gone. It was something I owed to my unborn child.”

Three days later she had a miscarriage. She wrote: “For one long moment, I felt nothing. Then a profound feeling of peace flowed through me. With the peace came understanding. I knew now why I couldn’t give up hope in spite of all the circumstances: you either live in hope or you live in despair. Without hope, you cannot endure to the end. I had looked for an answer to prayers and was not disappointed; I was healed in body and rewarded with a spirit of peace. Never before had I felt so close to my Heavenly Father; never before had I felt such peace. …

“The miracle of peace was not the only blessing to come from this experience. Some weeks later, I fell to thinking about the child I had lost. The Spirit brought to my mind the words from Genesis 4:25 [Gen. 4:25]: ‘And she bare a son, and called his name Seth: For God, said she, hath appointed me another seed. …’

“A few months later, I became pregnant again. When my son was born, he was declared to be ‘perfect.’” He was named Evan Seth.

My first Sunday in church was in early 1995. All my life I had spent weekends in stadiums and gymnasiums. I love sports! I was even studying sports. But in January 1995 I came in contact with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The sister missionaries invited me to attend church, and I went.
It was a fast and testimony meeting. I sat on a massive wooden pew, one sister missionary to my right, the other to my left. But I encountered only unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar music, unfamiliar proceedings, and unfamiliar words. I had never partaken of the sacrament before and was preoccupied with finding out the appropriate conduct. I felt very uncomfortable. I said to myself, “It will be over at some point, and then I will get out of here and never come back.” But the meeting concluded with the announcement that all should remain in the chapel for a lesson by the mission president, President Charles W. Dahlquist II, who now serves as Young Men general president. So most people, including the sister missionaries, remained seated, and I could not simply sneak out inconspicuously, as I had planned. Since I did not have the courage to tell the missionaries how awful I was feeling, I decided to endure.
President Dahlquist stood in front. He began by asking what we would do with a good book we had just read. My answer was, “Read it again, recommend it to others, or give it as a gift.”
He spoke about the Book of Mormon, then about a few other subjects. But something peculiar happened. I suddenly knew that everything he said was true. I knew that he knew more things that were true as well. I knew that I wanted to know what he knew. I knew that I wanted to have in my life what he had as an anchor in his life. It is hard to find words to describe this experience. I simply knew that he knew.
I looked around stealthily to see if anybody had noticed anything unusual, for I had the impression that something wonderful had happened.
Because of his lesson I attended church again—and again. My baptism was on March 2, 1996, approximately one year after this experience. Today I have five wonderful children and a wonderful, eternal husband.
I recall often and with gratitude this lesson.
Barbara Hopf, Stade Branch, Hamburg Germany Stake

One of the most beautiful modern-day examples of meekness that I am aware of is that of Brother Moses Mahlangu. His conversion began in 1964, when he received a copy of the Book of Mormon. He was fascinated as he read this book, but it was not until the early ’70s that he saw an LDS Church sign on a building in Johannesburg, South Africa, as he was walking down a street. Brother Mahlangu was intrigued and entered the building to learn more about the Church. He was kindly told that he could not attend the services or be baptized because the country’s laws did not allow it at that time.

Brother Mahlangu accepted that decision with meekness, humility, and without resentment, but he continued to have a strong desire to learn more about the Church. He asked the Church leaders if they could leave one of the meetinghouse windows open during the Sunday meetings so he could sit outside and listen to the services. For several years, Brother Mahlangu’s family and friends attended church regularly “through the window.” One day in 1980 they were told that they could attend church and also be baptized. What a glorious day it was for Brother Mahlangu.

Later the Church organized a branch in his neighborhood in Soweto. This was possible only because of the determination, courage, and faithfulness of people like Brother Mahlangu who remained faithful for so many years under difficult circumstances.

One summer afternoon when I was 12 years old, my brother Jason and I began snooping around the garage looking for something to do. Jason got the brilliant idea of tying our old red wagon behind his bike so he could pull me up the street. I, being foolish, thought it was a good idea.
As we tied the two ends of a rope to the bike seat and the wagon handle, Dad saw us from the kitchen window and came out to stop us. “I don’t want you kids doing that. Somebody will fall and get hurt.” We made a show of slowly untying the knots, but as soon as he was back inside, we cinched them tight again.
As I thought of my dad’s warning, I said to Jason, “I’ll get in the wagon, but you have to swear that you won’t go fast.”
“I won’t go fast,” he said.
“Promise you won’t go fast.” He did, and I, being foolish, believed him.
As soon as I lay down on my stomach in the wagon, Jason took off like a rocket. I called out for him to slow down, but apparently he didn’t hear me. He rounded a corner to go down the alley, and my wagon went up on two wheels, dumping me onto the pavement amidst a mixture of gravel, dirt, crushed glass, and who-knows-what-else. I slid to a stop and lay for a moment to get my breath back. I winced as I picked myself up. The pavement had left a big scrape the size of a bacon strip on my left forearm.
My brother hadn’t noticed what happened, so I was left alone. I sniffled to myself as I walked carefully home, trying not to jostle my burning arm while I picked bits of gravel out of my wound. I knew I was going to have to clean it because it was so big and dirty. But my greatest fear was what my dad would say when he saw me because he had specifically told us not to do what we had just done.
When I got home, I quietly slipped past the kitchen where Dad was reading the paper. He called out to me and asked if everything was okay. He must have sensed my hesitancy. I said I was fine as I headed down the hall to the bathroom. There I ran some warm water over my arm, which felt good. I hoped a bandage would keep infection out so it could heal. However, there was no gauze or tape in the bathroom. I would have to go upstairs.
To do so, I quickly walked past the kitchen again, keeping my arm hidden from view. Upstairs in the fully equipped mom-and-dad bathroom, I tried to cut some gauze and tape it on my arm, but I couldn’t do it one-handed. I began to get frustrated because I was so helpless. I was on the verge of crying as I placed two very inadequate Band-Aids over my scrape.
About that time my dad came in. I’m sure he decided to investigate because he had that instinct and usually knew when something was up. I braced myself for a scolding, but instead he saw my arm and said, “Oh my gosh, that’s not going to do it. We need to put something on that.” I told him what happened. I remember feeling ashamed that I was in the very predicament he’d warned me of, and vaguely wondering why he didn’t bring up that fact.
Dad opened the cabinet to get out his arsenal. Out came the hydrogen peroxide. He squirted it all over my cut and I could see it foam up, fizzling like soda. Next he lathered on the ointment, which now felt nice and cool. Then he cut a strip of gauze the right size and taped it over my cut, leaving no loose edge to catch on things. I was silent the whole time because I was trying not to cry—but not because of my pain. When he was done, I gave him a hug that lingered longer than usual.

When I was in junior high school, I took a shop class where we would leave our written assignments in a box on the teacher’s desk. He would then grade and return them to that box the next day. One day, I turned in a major assignment, but the next day, my paper was not in the box with the other papers. When I asked the teacher about it, he said that maybe I had not turned it in. I assured him that I had, so he suggested that we look carefully at the papers still in the box. We discovered that another student had taken my paper (which was done in pencil), erased my name, and put his own name on it.

While I doubt that any of you would contemplate such a theft on this campus, what about other forms of cheating? Any time a student seeks gain or credit without having done the work or at the expense of other students who have done the work, he or she is failing to meet this first standard of being honest and fair in all of our dealings. Given recent articles reporting widespread cheating on campuses around the world, it is clear that many are falling prey to Satan’s temptation to “lie a little, cheat a little, and dig a pit for thy neighbor,” thus falling short of the Lord’s basic standard for honest interactions with others.

A few years ago, our second son was accepted into Pharmacy school pending completion of a couple of classes that he was taking on line. Pharmacy school is a competitive doctorate program and he was concerned about being accepted from the beginning. He was incredibly relieved and delighted to get in. He worked to complete his online classes but it was summer and the teachers were often on vacation and slow to correct and return his homework. To be proactive, he talked to the admissions department at the Pharmacy school to let them know that he was cutting it close on the deadline to finish the classes. He was told that as long as the classes were completed before school started he would be fine. You can appreciate how discouraged he was when a different person contacted him later and told him he had been given the wrong information. If he couldn’t submit his grades the next day he would miss the deadline, would not be admitted for that year and would have to reapply to the program again. Getting the grades submitted in twenty-four hours was impossible. There was nothing he could do to make it happen. He was devastated. His first impulse was to give up completely. Playing video games in our basement for the rest of his life may have been his fall back plan. He was terribly discouraged, it took some time to bounce back, but he didn’t quit. He finished his classes, reapplied to school and was accepted for the following year. He graduated last June and is working as a pharmacist in a Utah hospital.

Britta and Peter go to the Hyde Park Ward in Chicago. The building where they meet is very crowded because many people have been joining the Church. The ward is trying to raise money to help pay for a new building. At a yard sale for the building fund, Britta sold a pot holder that she made. “Every penny counts!” Britta says. Peter is always proud to pay his tithing on the money that he earns doing special projects, such as folding clothes for his family.

When Saia Paongo served a mission in 1964, he was in charge of six missionaries living on the remote island of Niua Toputapu. Often, they didn’t know where their next meal would come from. On one particular day, they visited and preached in the homes in Falehau while fasting, but then they had no food to break their fast with. As the missionaries walked out of their hut, Elder Paongo felt a distinct impression:
It was as if someone said to me, “Take your missionaries to the beach on the back side of the island.” I told my companion to bring a fishing spear, and we all headed for the rocky coast of Niua Toputapu.
Unfortunately, the ocean was already at full tide when we arrived. There was no way we could do any spear fishing on the reef. Disappointed, we sat down to rest, except for Elder Fonua, who wandered off along the beach.
Suddenly Elder Fonua yelled for us to come and look. We scrambled over to him, and there we saw a wonderful sight: a large, fat menenga, or deep ocean parrot fish, which had almost beached itself. Incredibly, it had swum right up to the sand. Nearly three feet long and a foot thick, it made a wonderful feast for us.
I know that this fish was prepared for us and that Heavenly Father loves hungry young missionaries, even in tiny remote islands.

I raced down the highway, keeping pace with the cars surrounding me. I was on my way back from watching a high school basketball tournament, and my heart still thumped from the excitement of the games.
Because of the tournament, the traffic was heavy and full of erratic teenage drivers. To my right, a car full of teenage boys sped past me trying to find space ahead of me in my lane. I put on a burst of speed, leaving no room for my opponent to slide in ahead of me.
This tactic made the boys in the car mad, and they yelled at me through the window.
I pretended to ignore them, but secretly I enjoyed goading them. I slowed down just long enough to let them almost get ahead of me, but then I sped up at the last moment to keep them from changing lanes.
As we jockeyed back and forth, pride overcame us as the battle continued. We drove aggressively only to try to upset each other.
Finally the driver of the other car darted into a small space ahead of me, cutting me off. This time it was my turn to be infuriated. I laid on the car horn for a solid 10 seconds and sped up to the point of nearly rear-ending the car.
But my honking and tailgating didn’t have a calming effect on me. My anger had built to the point where I would do anything to get back at them. I looked around in my car for something to throw out my window at the other car. I found a small green rubber ball in my cup holder. It would be the perfect thing to throw at them.
I rolled my window down, again speeding up until my bumper was close to the other car. I hurled the ball with all my might, but because I had only an elementary knowledge of kinetic motion, I didn’t understand that the ball would not have enough force to catch up to the car in front of me.
Instead the ball hit the asphalt of the road in front of me and bounced up, smacking right into my windshield. I jumped back in fright. As I regained control of my car I noticed a small chip in the windshield where the ball had hit so violently.
I pulled over to the side of the road and inspected the window. Other than the chip, everything was all right. I was not hurt, and the chip was small enough that there was no danger my windshield would crack. But I felt foolish and ashamed at what I had done. Why had I been so angry? I was the one at fault. I had put myself and others in danger just to get even with someone I had goaded into cutting me off. What was I thinking?
My anger didn’t do anything to the kids in front of me. Instead it bounced back and hit me square in the face—or windshield, in this case. In that moment I decided to try and let a cool, calm temperament rule my actions, not a hot and angry one.
Since then, I have had opportunities to have the windshield fixed. I declined each time, however, deciding to keep the chip as a reminder that being angry won’t solve my problems. Anger only bounces back.

“Next week,” said Dad at the end of family home evening, “the lesson will be about why family members shouldn’t say unkind things to each other when they’re angry.”
“Yippee!” shouted nine-year-old Alan. He was glad the lesson was on family members not getting angry with each other. Alan’s brothers and sister always seemed to be angry with him.
He remembered borrowing Ryan’s electric shaver to practice shaving and Ryan had yelled at him. At Christmastime he tied red bows on Alice’s geranium to surprise her and she became really upset.
Even Dad and Mom had become irritated with him—like the time when he taped the two halves of the dining room table together underneath so that they couldn’t be pulled apart to put extra leaves in. Alan thought it was funny. Dad and Mother didn’t.
I can’t wait for next Monday to come, Alan thought.
Then Father continued, “And I’m going to assign Alan to give the lesson.”
“Uh-oh,” Alan said.
“You can do it,” encouraged Mother. “You were so enthusiastic a moment ago.”
Alan thought for a minute. “I guess since I’m an expert on making people angry, I probably could give a lesson on how to keep all of you from being cross with me.”
Everybody laughed. But Alan really meant what he said.
He had never given a lesson in family home evening before—at least not all by himself—and he wanted to do a good job. And so he thought about it all week.
Every now and then Mom would say, “Alan, how’s the family home evening lesson coming? Want any help?”
“It’s coming great, Mom,” Alan would say. “I’ve decided to do it all by myself, but thanks anyway.”
On the Sunday night before family home evening, Alan spent a lot of the evening downstairs in his room, writing.
“What are you writing?” Dad asked.
“Things,” Alan answered, “for the family home evening lesson.”
As soon as he got home from school on Monday afternoon, Alan put a sign on the basement door. It said, PLEASE DO NOT ENTER! FAMILY HOME EVENING LESSON UNDER CONSTRUCTION.
His second oldest brother Harry knocked on the basement door. “Alan,” he said. “I want to watch television.”
“Sorry,” Alan called. “You can’t come down right now.”
Harry became upset. “I’m warning you, Alan, this better be a mighty good family home evening!”
“Don’t worry,” Alan said.
After a while his sister Alice knocked on the door. “Alan,” she said, “all my sewing stuff is in the basement. Can I come down?”
“I’m sorry, sis, not now,” Alan replied. “Can’t you crochet for a while instead?”
“I want to sew, Alan,” she said, sounding cross.
“Sorry,” Alan repeated. “But if I let you come down it would ruin my family home evening lesson.”
“It better be good,” Alice threatened.
“It’ll be one of the most interesting family home evenings we’ve had,” Alan promised.
Finally it was dinnertime and Alan came upstairs, closing the basement door carefully behind him. When dinner was over, the family gathered together in the living room for family home evening.
After the song and the prayer, Alan stood up and said, “Tonight the lesson is on how family members shouldn’t yell or talk unkindly to each other even when they’re upset. When someone yells at another person it makes that person feel bad, and that isn’t the way we’re supposed to make people feel.”
Everyone agreed that Alan was right. Then he passed out pieces of paper to everyone. Dad read his first: “If you came home from work and you set down your briefcase and then some of us got into it and made paper airplanes out of the papers, what would you do?”
Dad thought for a minute. “I would probably get angry.”
“But what would you do about it?” Alan asked.
Dad smiled. “I’d call in the ones who made the paper airplanes and explain to them that these were important papers that other people were depending on, and I would ask them to unfold the paper airplanes and flatten out the pages as best they could.”
“You wouldn’t yell?” Alan asked.
“I wouldn’t yell,” Dad promised.
Mom read, “If you were making a cake and one of your children came in and jumped real hard in front of the oven and the cake fell, what would you do?”
“Well, I would feel just awful,” said Mom. “I’d explain to that child how his jumping made the cake fall and ruined the family’s dessert and that I felt really bad about it.”
“But you wouldn’t say anything mean?” Alan asked.
“Not if I were acting the way I should,” said Mom, smiling.
Soon all the family promised that they would not be cross or unkind to other family members anymore even when they had cause to be angry.
“Is that the whole lesson?” asked Ryan.
“No,” Alan said. “Now we’ll go downstairs to the family room.”
Everyone went downstairs, Alan first. He watched them very carefully as they saw what the family room looked like.
Everything was in the wrong place. All the books were out of the bookshelves. Alice’s sewing things were scattered everywhere. The boxes from the storage room were piled up around the bottom of the stairs. There were little pieces of wadded up newspaper on the floor. And facedown on the Ping-Pong table was what looked like an expensive picture that Mom was going to frame, ripped right in half. It was the worst sight any of them had ever seen.
“What a terrible mess!” said his mother, irritably.
“I know it, Mom,” said Alan. “But you can’t yell at me. All of you promised you wouldn’t be cross no matter how upset you got.”
Dad looked at Mom. Mom looked at Ryan. Ryan looked at Harry. Harry looked at Alice. Alice looked at Alan.
“Alan,” Alice said, “if we can’t yell, can we at least whisper that we want to knock somebody’s block off?”
“No,” Alan said.
Alan gave them all a little time to think. Then he asked, “Is anybody here going to be cross at anyone else, namely me?”
After a while they all said, “No, we won’t.”
Then Alan smiled. “All right, you passed the test. Now I’ll tell you about this mess. Actually I didn’t just scatter these things around even though it looks that way. I set them all very carefully where they are so that nothing would be damaged. And see, Mom, I cut out some paper the same size as your picture and you just thought I’d ripped up the original one. I’ll have everything back in place in a couple of hours.”
Then everybody laughed, because Alan had really made them realize how they had been behaving toward each other. They decided that Alan shouldn’t have to put everything back alone, so they all worked together, and soon everything was back in place.
When it was all cleaned up, Alan said, “Well, I guess my lesson’s over. Thanks for helping.”
“It was a good lesson, son,” Dad said. “And if we could keep from yelling about the way this family room looked a few minutes ago, I think we can keep from being upset about anything.”
“It was a good lesson,” Ryan said, “but I hope you never make the family room look like that again.”
“You must be kidding!” Alan replied. “I’ll never make a mess like that again in my whole life. It took hours! You guys may think being a messy kid is easy, but I can tell you it is really hard work!”

In my enthusiasm and excitement on my first day of service as a mission president, I asked the zone leaders I had invited to my home, “How much of a typical day in missionary service are you normally under the vibrating, powerful influence of the Spirit?”
They obviously did not know what to say. They acted like I had caught them by surprise. Having been converted to the Church as an adult and not having served as a young, full-time missionary, I assumed it was natural that a missionary would be always under the influence of the Spirit. How surprised I was when no missionary was saying anything.
Finally, one of them spoke up. “Last Thursday night, while we were teaching the Lehman family, we were feeling the Spirit.”
I remember my immediate response was, “That was it? How about the rest of the day?”
As soon as I asked my zone leaders what they experience when they are under the influence of the Spirit, they were all participating, describing the different effects the Spirit has in our lives. They agreed that being under the influence of the Spirit fills us with satisfying joy. It enhances our ability to make necessary adjustments, even in the most difficult circumstances. This Spirit helps us develop our intellectual capabilities and even delivers the motivation to use them. The zone leaders agreed that under the influence of the Spirit, some things that can seem uncomfortable, like hard work, getting up on time, going the extra mile, overcoming homesickness, overcoming flaws of character, and other personal sacrifices, become easier.
It became clear that, under the influence of the Spirit, we are empowered to act in wisdom. We see the complexity of a problem in its simple parts and see possible solutions unfolding in front of our eyes, to our own surprise. In other words, our creativity is developed and multiplied. That which is a burden without it becomes a privilege when we are under the influence of the Holy Spirit.
Many times in our lives it happens that the gifts of the Spirit rest dormant in us. We are not even aware of the full extent of their existence, as it was with my missionaries. Did they not have the Spirit? Of course they did. They had even passed the test of forsaking their own self-centered plans to become sacred witnesses for the Lord Jesus Christ. Still they had not fully understood the workings of the Spirit.
Why did the one elder feel the Spirit as he was teaching the Lehman family? Because at that time he and his companion were completely focused in their search for divine guidance. Too often we are not aware of the powerful gift which rests dormant in us. We cannot be grateful for that of which we are not aware, nor can we activate its power.

When the initial quarantine began in March of 2020, I had just met with my stake president to finalize my return to finish the remaining year of my mission to Kansas. This was after a multiple month absence due to a couple of shoulder surgeries.

When I returned to my mission, I reluctantly adapted to virtual finding, teaching, and serving. However, my mission president would always remind us that “we would never go back to the way things were before.”

So, I ultimately decided to humble myself and accept these changes. As I began this process, I quickly began to see the truth in Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf’s words when he said, “That the recent pandemic may have been a ‘divine reset’ that could help us recalibrate our efforts to reach more people.”[3]

Even as I prepared to return home from my mission, we still had strict COVID-19 guidelines to follow. I was excited to return home and not have to worry about them anymore. But I quickly realized that BYU–Idaho’s policies were no less strict.

I had followed the mission guidelines religiously because I trusted the direction of my mission president and the leaders of the Church. However, I found myself irritated with these same guidelines after I arrived here, and I spent a lot of time thinking about them. After a while, I came to the following conclusion.

Wearing a mask and following the other guidelines was no worse than a minor inconvenience. Even if I didn’t think it would do any good, others did. If wearing a mask and social distancing was all it took to help others feel more comfortable coming to campus, then that was the least I could do. I also reasoned that I had committed to BYU–Idaho, and the Lord, that I would keep all the standards set by this institution, the same way I had when I committed to serving a mission.

Part of being human is not understanding why everything happens the way it does. Oftentimes our role is to simply trust that God has a plan and that He is lovingly invested in our lives. It is not our job to know everything right now. Our only responsibility is to do the best we can to follow the Savior and learn from what we experience.

Then a Brother Vance rose from his seat in the congregation. A large, strong, grandfatherly man who worked well with his hands, he related his thankfulness to the Lord for the growth of some lilac bushes that were most precious to his wife.
The bushes had grown so tall they blocked the sunlight to the Vances’ tiny home. Brother Vance told his wife he had to cut the bushes back to ground level and move the roots to a new location. She vigorously protested his decision, afraid the bushes would not survive. But he felt it was necessary.
He told of the painful but loving task of pruning the bushes, preparing the soil in the new location, and, finally, digging up the roots and planting them.
He described how every day he weeded, watered, and looked for signs of new life. The lack of new growth, he said, made him worried and concerned that he had destroyed his wife’s lovely bushes. The more he thought of his love for his eternal companion, the more feeling he developed for the roots he had nurtured in the earth.
Finally, early one morning, he was relieved to find green evidence that the roots were alive and growing. He brought his wife to see her lilacs and offered a prayer of thankfulness for the growing results of his work.

During the next seven years, I would marry my husband, here with me today, and we would have two more children together. This would now give us six children, and we had been praying on a regular basis for the blessing to have our first four sealed into our family. This seemed like a blessing that would never happen, but the Lord works in mysterious ways and works other people's bad choices for the good of others. My ex had committed a felony, and his probation officer had contacted me to state some stipulations that I would like put on his probation decree. I requested that he pay his child support and medical obligations that were to the amount of about $6,000, or give up his rights as their father. It came as a great blessing to our family that he chose to give up his rights, and our family was sealed on February 18, 1995.

That was a great blessing that turned out to be even more amazing than we would have any idea, for later that year, on September 12, at about 4:05 in the afternoon, the Lord would call our oldest son home.

This is a picture of Tyler with his buddies the day before he was taken home. He was seven years old when this happened. Remember I had said that we were sealed as a family on February 18, 1995. That just happened to be his birthday. He was so excited that we were finally being sealed, and to have it happen on his birthday was an amazing, tender mercy from the Lord.

He was on his way to join his siblings over at the elementary school we lived across the street from. The kids had gone over there many times to play after school on the playground equipment they had there. The neighbor boy was driving back to his house with a propane container his dad had sent him to the store to fill. They had eye contact with each other, and so the boy thought he was safe to continue on his way when my son bolted across the road. I had been resting on the couch when I heard the noise and went to the door to see what had happened.

I stepped out on the porch to see the neighbor boy running my direction down the road. My first thought was he had just wrecked his dad's pickup into the telephone pole, but soon realized he was running to our house. He cried out, "I just hit your son. Call an ambulance." At that very moment, I knew what it was like to have the Holy Ghost with me. He immediately strengthened me in a way I knew was not my own. I had complete clarity of thought and made the call to 911 to get the ambulance on its way. Then I called my husband at work to get him on his way home. I proceeded out the door to where a crowd had now gathered around my son.

The principal of the school was there and asked me if I would like for him to give our son a priesthood blessing. I just remember feeling so relieved that he would offer, and quickly agreed. The words that were pronounced upon Tyler, I know for me, made the outcome something I could accept. He said he would live until proper medical help arrived; at that time, the Lord would decide whether he was to live or die. In that moment, there was absolutely no doubt in my mind the Lord was in control. I needed this peace in my life, especially now, because I was seven months pregnant with our seventh child.

I had found the boy that had hit him, and all I wanted to do at that moment was to help him. I knew in that moment the pain and fear he must be going through was one test I would never want to experience. I held him and told him I did not blame him. Somehow the Holy Ghost worked a miracle in us that day, and my heart, through the Spirit, was filled with forgiveness and compassion for him.

I returned to Tyler, and as I knelt beside him, I knew that he was gone. It was at that moment I came to realize what we feel when we are around others is their spirit, for at that moment, my father, whom I was very close to but who had died a few years prior, was behind me. I felt his presence so strong there was no doubt in my mind he had come to take Tyler home.

For me, this loss was full of many tender mercies and spiritual experiences. Some are too sacred to share, but I will tell you this: I came to know the Comforter personally, and I know there is life after death and that our Heavenly Father is in all the workings of our lives.

The young boy that hit him went on to serve a mission and, while out in the mission field, wrote a story about this experience. It was published in the March 2000 issue of the New Era. The talk is titled "Can I Be Forgiven?" He and his family are dear friends of ours to this day, and I know that, for me, this part of my testimony has been deeply rooted, for it would need to be, because in February of 2009, our second son was called home.

“Mom,” Nancy asked, as she carefully put her toothbrush back into the holder and started for her bedroom, “who can I invite to my baptism Saturday?”
“Well, your dad and I will be there and the rest of your Primary class, so just about anybody else, I suppose.”
“But my teacher said that I should invite a ‘special friend,’ and all my special friends are already going to be there.”
“Why don’t we ask Heavenly Father for some help?” her mother suggested, and they knelt beside the bed.
The next day was Friday, and it was a busy one for Nancy. She came in from school and immediately started her weekend homework. She would be too busy to do it Saturday, and tonight Sister Johnson, her Primary teacher, had invited her to dinner. Nancy had never been to Sister Johnson’s home before, so she was quite excited about the evening, and it was hard to keep her mind on her homework.
At last she was through, and it was time to go. “Have you thought of a special friend to ask to your baptism tomorrow?” Nancy’s mother asked as they drove to her teacher’s house.
“No, I haven’t,” Nancy slowly replied, “but I know that Heavenly Father will help me think of someone before it’s too late.”
The Johnsons lived in a small home with a pretty yard. Their children were grown, but the house had the warmth and friendliness that people who love children bring to any place they live.
When Sister Johnson introduced her husband to Nancy, Nancy asked, “Are you coming to my baptism tomorrow?”
“No.”
Mr. Johnson’s reply was short but not angry, so Nancy then asked, “Why don’t you come to church with your wife?”
Mr. Johnson looked a bit uncomfortable as he explained to his young guest that since he wasn’t a member, he didn’t go to church.
Nancy thought for a minute. Then she asked, “Mr. Johnson, do you believe that Jesus is Heavenly Father’s Son?”
He looked startled as he answered, “Certainly.”
“Well, do you have something that you have to repent of—” Suddenly realizing that what she’d asked was none of her business, Nancy turned very red and started to apologize.
But Mr. Johnson was really nice about it. “Nancy,” he said thoughtfully, “I suppose everybody has some sin or wrongdoing that they should get squared away on, but I doubt that I have anything terrible to repent of.”
“Then why don’t you get baptized too?”
Mr. Johnson smiled patiently at her. “It’s just not that simple, young lady,” he said. “Your church asks you to believe a lot more than the fact that Jesus is the Son of God.”
“Oh,” Nancy said. “But the things that we learn in Primary are all things that Jesus wants us to know, aren’t they?”
“From what I know about what my wife teaches in Primary, they are,” Mr. Johnson acknowledged cautiously.
“Then all you have to do is pray about it, and the Holy Ghost will tell you that it’s right. Then you can be baptized!”
“Nancy, I’ve had the missionary discussions, and I simply don’t know for sure.”
The call to supper came just then, and the subject was dropped. Sister Johnson had fixed Nancy’s favorite foods, and Mr. Johnson told many interesting stories about his childhood while they ate.
Soon it was time for the Johnsons to drive Nancy home. As they pulled into her driveway, Nancy remembered her prayer. She turned to Mr. Johnson and said, “Your wife said that I should invite a special friend to my baptism tomorrow. Will you be my special friend and come?”
As Nancy waited anxiously for his answer, he was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled at her and said, “I’d be honored to.”
That evening as she prepared for bed, Nancy knelt and thanked Heavenly Father for helping her find a special friend to invite to her baptism.
Saturday afternoon Nancy and her family went to the meetinghouse. She and her father sat in their white clothes in the front row by the baptismal font, ready for the big event. As Nancy looked for the Johnsons, she saw the bishop come in and, to her surprise, he was dressed in white also. As he shook her hand, she asked, “Bishop, why are you dressed that way? Isn’t Dad going to baptize me?”
“Oh yes,” smiled Bishop Guthridge. “I’m going to baptize someone else.”
“Who?” Nancy asked. “I thought that I was the only one getting baptized today.”
“A special friend,” responded the bishop, with a twinkle in his eye. He nodded toward the doorway, where the Johnsons were coming in. Mr. Johnson was wearing white pants and a white shirt!
As they sat down next to Nancy, the bishop went to the front of the room to start the services. “We’d like to welcome you to our baptisms today,” he said. “You all know that this is Nancy’s big day, but you probably didn’t know that I got a call early this morning from Brother Johnson. It seems that he is a ‘special friend’ to someone who taught him last night how to know that the gospel is true, and he wants to be baptized too. So today will be extra special for two people, their families, and for all of us.”

A friend of mine told me that he and another young man had been asked to visit President Grant to see if he would come to their ward and speak at the commemoration of the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood they were planning. He said they walked through the front door of the Church Administration Building, walked to the back of the building where President Grant’s secretary sat, and said, “Is the President in?”

She replied, “Yes, would you like to see him?”

They answered in the affirmative and were shown into that beautiful boardroom. President Grant welcomed them and said, “What can I do for you two young men today?” They made their request, and President Grant responded, “Of course I’d be happy to come and speak to the young men. Give me the date and time, and I’ll be there.” He stood, and they thanked him and left. President Grant visited their ward on the appointed date.

This scenario probably took place in the early 1930s, and I can assure you that everything is handled much differently today.

In early 1965, I was assigned to attend stake conferences and to hold other meetings throughout the South Pacific area. This was my first visit to that part of the world, and it was a time never to be forgotten. Much that was spiritual in nature occurred during this assignment as I met with leaders, members, and missionaries.
On the weekend of Saturday and Sunday, February 20 and 21, we were in Brisbane, Australia, to hold regular conference sessions of the Brisbane Stake. During meetings on Saturday, I was introduced to the district president from an adjoining area. As I shook his hand, I had a strong impression that I needed to speak with him and to provide counsel, and so I asked him if he would accompany me to the Sunday morning session the following day so that this could be accomplished.
Following the Sunday session, we had an opportunity to visit together. We talked of his many responsibilities as district president. As we did so, I felt impressed to offer him specific suggestions concerning missionary work and how he and his members could help the full-time missionaries in their labors in his area. I later learned that this man had been praying for guidance in this regard. To him our visit was a special witness that his prayers were heard and answered. This was a seemingly unremarkable meeting but one which I am convinced was guided by the Spirit and which made a difference in that district president’s life and administration, in the lives of his members, and in the success of the missionaries there.

My wife and I had been serving as full-time missionaries in the Caribbean Area for a few months and enjoyed the opportunity to labor there. We loved the Latter-day Saints we had met and were lifted by their faith and friendliness. Neither one of us knew Spanish before our assignment and had worked hard to understand and communicate in this new language. Despite these efforts, we continued to struggle to with Spanish.
As I was asking myself why I was assigned to an area where I could not communicate with others, I remembered something about the temple we served at near our home. In this temple there is a small chapel next to the baptismal font and at the front of it are several large glass panes that extend from the floor to the ceiling, allowing people to watch as ordinances are being performed. One day I noticed an imperfection in one of the panes of glass and wondered why this imperfect pane of glass was still there. I could not detect any flaws in the other panes and wondered why this one was allowed to remain.
As I reflected on this, the thought came to my mind that even though it had an imperfection, the pane of glass was still performing the function it was asked to do, allow people to view ordinances. People in the chapel would look past the imperfection and be grateful that the pane of glass was doing what it had been asked to do, even though it was not perfect.
In 1995, President Russell M. Nelson taught us about being perfect. While he confirmed the Lord’s commandment to be perfect 1 , he reminded us that to become perfect as Christ is perfect is not something that will come easily, quickly, or even in this life. He encouraged us to “do the best we can and try to improve each day. When our imperfections appear, we can keep trying to correct them. We can be more forgiving of flaws in ourselves and among those we love.” 2
These thoughts encourage me to keep trying, despite the inability to communicate. Perhaps, like the pane of glass, people that I serve will see past my imperfections and be helped by the service provided.

As you recognize, the story of Job happened centuries ago. Let me tell you of one that happened just a few years ago. I was attending a stake conference; and on Saturday afternoon between meetings, when we normally have a bite to eat, the stake president asked if he might be excused to visit his wife in the hospital. This was the first I knew that she was ill. Upon further inquiry I found that she was critically ill. As a matter of fact, the doctors indicated that she had just a few more hours to live. I, of course, told the stake president that he was excused from any further responsibilities for the conference, whereupon he said his wife had told him that his responsibility at that time was to carry out his priesthood obligation and that she preferred that he attend to his stake conference responsibilities.
He went to the hospital and then returned to our seven o’clock meeting. At the conclusion of this meeting, he went back to the hospital and stayed all night by her bedside. He arrived promptly at our meeting Sunday morning and delivered an unusually fine address to the members of the stake. The only time his emotions broke—and then just slightly—was when I suggested that for the intermediate song we sing “I Need Thee Every Hour.”
After the conference was over, I went alone to the hospital to meet a woman who so loved the Lord and her husband as to encourage him to honor his priesthood even under the most trying of circumstances. As I came to her room, I was greeted by her returned missionary son who was by her side. She seemed to be sleeping, so I left. As I returned to my car, her son hurried after me and said that she had roused and asked if I would come back to give her a blessing.
As I walked into her room, I saw lying on the bed a lovely, beautiful young mother. I do not think she had any gray hair. She had a lovely smile on her face, even though she was so sick. When I expressed my admiration for her faith and reminded her of the blessings she had in store in heaven, she smiled and said, “Bishop Brown, it isn’t always easy, but the Lord truly blesses us.”
This good woman had gone through all of the anguish and difficulties of a long siege of cancer, including many operations. Her life was ebbing very rapidly; and yet under these circumstances, realizing full well that it would not be very long before she would face the sorrow of leaving a lovely family, she had the faith and the strength to encourage her husband to do his duty—which really means that she was influencing him in an unusual way to order his life so that he, too, would achieve eternal life.
The next morning early she quietly passed away. As a righteous wife and mother, she had qualified herself to enjoy the blessings of eternal life. She truly loved the Lord and had proven her love after deep trial, as had Job.

I straightened up in my seat when I heard the topic of the next speaker: why the Mormon Church is wrong and why Mormons are hypocritical haters. During the speech, I felt my cheeks burn, and shock and betrayal settled within my chest. How could my very own friends, knowing I was a Latter-day Saint, choose to say slanderous remarks in front of my entire English class?
After the bell rang, I was approached by the speaker and some of my other friends. With the Spirit burning inside me, I told them what had been said was wrong and that the Church doesn’t hate people who don’t live our beliefs. In return, they bombarded me with false statements and accusations. I felt alone. I thought, “How is it fair that when I am living what I know to be true, I must be persecuted?”
When I got home from school that day, I saw an email from my grandmother. In it she told me to look up Matthew 5:11–14. With tears in my eyes, I read: “Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceedingly glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you. … Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid.”
The Holy Ghost filled my heart as I read those words. I know that persecution will strengthen our testimonies, and I know that the blessings in heaven will be well worth the pain we go through here on earth. The Savior made it possible for us to find peace when we are being persecuted for living His gospel, and for that I’m truly grateful.