Gospel Story Finder

Said President Marion G. Romney, “It is an easy thing to believe in the dead prophets, but it is a greater thing to believe in the living prophets.” And then he gives this illustration:
“One day when President Grant was living, I sat in my office across the street following a general conference. A man came over to see me, an elderly man. He was very upset about what had been said in this conference by some of the Brethren, including myself. I could tell from his speech that he came from a foreign land. After I had quieted him enough so he would listen, I said, ‘Why did you come to America?’ ‘I am here because a prophet of God told me to come.’ ‘Who was the prophet?’ I continued. ‘Wilford Woodruff.’ ‘Do you believe Wilford Woodruff was a prophet of God?’ ‘Yes, sir.’
“Then came the sixty-four dollar question, ‘Do you believe that Heber J. Grant is a prophet of God?’ His answer, ‘I think he ought to keep his mouth shut about old-age assistance.’
“Now I tell you that a man in his position is on the way to apostasy. He is forfeiting his chances for eternal life. So is everyone who cannot follow the living prophet of God.” (Conference Report, April 1953, p. 125.)

Being a member of the Church for the past 13 years, I love visiting less-active members to see how they are doing and to share with them the love of Jesus Christ for His children. I remember one Saturday, kneeling down and praying to Heavenly Father to help me to reach those who need my comfort and to understand Christ’s love for them. When I finished my prayer, I felt a prompting of the Spirit to visit one of the less-active sisters. She hadn’t been to church for a long time. When I gave her a call, she told me she was in the hospital and was diagnosed with a serious illness. Although I am blind, I decided to go by myself to visit the sister, even though I didn’t get anyone to go with me to the hospital.
When she saw me, she was filled with joy and said, “You are the first person who visited me”. I shared with her the story of Lazarus, and how, because of his faith, Christ raised him from the dead (see John 11:1–44).
A few weeks later, this sister came to church and gave her testimony about her first visit by a member of the Church. She shared how it strengthened her testimony and gave her a new hope in life to understand our Heavenly Father’s plan for His children.

A long time ago in a faraway village lived a man who everyone did their very best to avoid. He was the type of person who believed that there was only one competent person in the world, and that one person was himself. Consequently he was never satisfied with anything. His shoes never fit right. His shirt never felt comfortable. When his food wasn’t too cold, it was too salty, and when it wasn’t too hot, it was too bland.

If a field wasn’t sowed by himself, it was not sowed well. If he didn’t close the door, the door was not closed properly.

In short, he made a career of frowning, lecturing, criticizing, and mumbling about the incompetencies of every other person in the rest of the world.

Unfortunately, the man was married, which made matters all the worse. No matter what his wife did, in his eyes it was wrong. No matter what the unfortunate woman cooked, sewed, or cleaned, or even when she milked the cow, it was never satisfactory, and he let her know it.

She tried very hard to be a good wife, but it seemed the harder she tried the less she pleased him. Finally, one evening she could take no more.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” she told him. “Tomorrow I will do your chores and you will do mine.”

“But you can’t do my chores,” the man replied. “You don’t know the first thing about sowing, hoeing, and irrigating.”

But the woman was adamant. And on top of that, she was filled with a righteous anger that frankly astonished and frightened the man to the point where he didn’t dare disagree.

So the next morning the wife went off to the fields and the man began the domestic chores. After thinking about it, he had actually convinced himself he was looking forward to it. Once and for all, he would demonstrate to his wife how things should be done.

Unfortunately, not everything went according to plan. In fact, nearly everything the man touched turned into disaster. He spilled the milk, let the pig get into the house, lost the cow, burned the dinner, and ultimately set the house on fire, narrowly escaping with his own life.

When his wife returned, she discovered her husband sitting on a pile of ashes, smoke still rising from his clothes. But the woman wasn’t the type to rub things in. She helped him up, wiped the soot from his beard, fixed him a little something to eat, and then prepared a bed of straw for them to sleep on.

From that day forward, the man never complained about anyone or anything else for as long as he lived.

Early one morning, without warning, the violent shaking of an earthquake woke us up. After making sure no one was injured, our family went out on the patio of our home to stay away from danger. There was fear that other violent earthquakes, aftershocks, would take place later on. How could we know when they would happen?
My wife came up with the simple idea of detecting tremors by hanging an old pair of scissors from a column in our home. Each time another tremor was near, the scissors would softly rattle, which made them ring like a small bell. This way, we could prepare for the violent shaking of the earth which soon followed.
This same phenomenon will occur on a spiritual level, if you listen. Anything that is contrary to your standards, that goes against correct principles, will trigger a warning, just as the soft ringing of the scissors let us know an earthquake was on the way. When you feel these warnings, get immediately away from danger. The best help you can have during critical moments will be the Holy Ghost. You have the right to his companionship. He will reveal to you what is right and what is wrong, and help you make correct decisions (see D&C 9:8–9 and D&C 45:57). But you must live worthily in order to receive his help. And you must learn to receive this spiritual help through personal revelation.

It was twilight on a cold and rainy October day in 1968, and I was riding my bicycle home from work in Copenhagen, Denmark. My husband was in Canada on an assignment at that time, and I was alone with two children, a boy ten and a girl seven years old.
On my way home I had to cross a very busy four-lane road with a bicycle lane. For safety, I had made it a habit to get off my bike and walk it across the intersection. On this particular day I got halfway across the street and stopped in the middle to let the cars go by. A small car stopped in the lane to my right, and the driver signaled for me to cross. A big truck stopped in the lane beside the small car, and the truck driver also signaled to me, so I continued across the street. Just as I passed the truck I saw a Volkswagen coming toward me, illegally in the bicycle lane, at full speed. There was no time for me to escape, either backward or forward.
In that split second, countless thoughts of my children, my husband, my widowed mother, and my job flashed through my mind, and I prayed more fervently than ever before: “Please, dear Lord, whatever happens—spare my life.”
The car hit the bicycle, slamming the handlebars into the left side of my body. As I lay helpless in the road, I could barely breathe because of the pain, but I didn’t lose consciousness. When I turned my head, I saw the Volkswagen’s tire only an inch away. I looked at my bicycle, which had been thrown several feet by the collision. It now looked half its original size.
I was certain that I had experienced a miracle. The tire couldn’t have been any closer, yet it had not crushed my head. I felt that an invisible hand had stopped it right there. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I thanked Heavenly Father for saving my life.
I lay in the road waiting for the ambulance. What would the children think when I didn’t come for them? Would I be in time to call the day-care center from the emergency room before it closed? Who could I contact? I hardly knew my neighbors because of a busy schedule, and members of my ward were some distance away.
At the busy emergency room, the staff wouldn’t let me use the telephone before they had taken an X-ray. The nurses were too busy to make the call for me. It was four hours before the police officers came to make a written report of the accident.
For the five longest hours of my life I was kept in the hospital with a number of people helping me. Still, I felt that only Heavenly Father was able to give me the help I really needed. For the first time in my life I found myself unceasingly praying about my only concern—two small and lonely children.
“Please tell them I’m all right,” I prayed. “Let them have peace of mind so that they won’t panic, and give them patience. Please tell them what to do.” I felt the presence of the Holy Ghost, and an all-embracing peace filled my mind—the same feeling I prayed my children would receive.
Finally, the doctor told me that except for my painfully bruised ribs, I was as good as new, and he let me go. The two policemen offered me a ride home, and we arrived at my apartment building at 10:15 that night.
Two small, tired children walked hand in hand in the dark toward the police car. “Mom, where have you been? What happened to you? How come it’s so late? Why did the police drive you home?” they asked, as soon as we were safely in the apartment.
I explained, and asked, “How did you get home?”
My son said, “We couldn’t understand why you didn’t come to pick us up, but we thought you might be late from work, so we walked home. It started to get dark, but we couldn’t get in because we haven’t got a key.
“I didn’t know what to do, but all of a sudden I thought we should pray about it. So we knelt on the doormat while I said a prayer. We sat without talking for a little while after the prayer, as you taught us to do, and then a nice thing happened to me.
“I felt a big, warm hand touching the top of my head, and I heard a friendly voice saying, ‘Your mother is well, she has been taken care of. It will be a while before she comes home, and it will be all dark outside, but just stay calm. Take your little sister by the hand and stay near the apartment and play peacefully. If you do, the time will go by quickly until your mother is with you again.’
“When I looked up to see who was talking to me, I couldn’t see anybody, and no more was said. I felt calm.”
Over the years I have seen my son have occasional struggles as he has grown into adulthood. It’s sometimes easy during difficult times to doubt there is a living God.
Each time he was struggling, I would ask, “Do you remember what happened to you the night of my accident?”
His features would clear, and he would say, “Mother, it’s true, and I will never be able to deny it.”
I am grateful that my son is able to carry an experience like this with him. I have also learned how important it is for us to teach our children to pray and to remember the words in Psalms 94:9 [Ps. 94:9]: “He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? he that formed the eye, shall he not see ?”

Lisa watched as her 16-year-old sister, Michelle, sat on her bed and read the Book of Mormon.
“Aren’t you going to the dance?” Lisa asked. Lisa was 11. It would be three more years before she could go to a stake dance. “I wish I was old enough to go,” she said as she sat down on Michelle’s bed.
Michelle smiled at her. “You bet I’m going! But I want to finish reading before I go,” she said. “I just have a couple of pages left.”
Lisa sat quietly while Michelle read. She knew her sister had looked forward to the stake New Year’s Eve dance for weeks. Michelle had saved her money from her job at the mall and had bought a new dress to wear that night.
Lisa also knew that Michelle had set a goal to finish reading the Book of Mormon by the end of the year. Lisa was reading too, but she wasn’t finished yet.
Michelle looked up and grinned as she closed her scriptures. “Done!” she said. “I finished the whole Book of Mormon! Lisa, do you want to pray with me?” she asked.
Surprised, Lisa nodded. She and Michelle had prayed together for family home evening and family prayer, but never just the two of them.
Lisa listened as her sister prayed. Michelle told Heavenly Father how much she loved the scriptures, the prophet, and Jesus Christ. After the prayer both girls were silent for a long moment.
Lisa finally looked up to see tears on Michelle’s cheeks. “Why are you crying?” she asked.
“I’ve read the Book of Mormon before,” Michelle explained with a smile as she brushed the tears away. “But I never really understood the words on the cover until now—‘Another Testament of Jesus Christ.’ This time I learned that the Book of Mormon really does testify of Jesus Christ.”
Lisa suddenly felt a rush of love for Michelle. “I’m glad you’re my big sister,” she said.
Michelle brushed a hand over Lisa’s hair. “I’m glad you’re my sister too,” she said. “Want to help me do my hair?”
“Sure!” Lisa said. They both brushed Michelle’s long brown hair until it was shiny and smooth.
Michelle kissed Lisa’s cheek, then hurried to get ready for the dance. Lisa picked up the scriptures. She had just set a goal for the year. She was going to finish the Book of Mormon too.

After graduating from the University of Iowa we ventured out of the United States to Bogota, Colombia, where I had accepted a position in La Orquesta Sinfonica de Colombia as principle clarinetist. After being there one week we left our apartment to visit the Sears store. While returning to the apartment, we saw two Americans on the opposite side of the street wearing white shirts and ties. (What a good example). We approached them and asked about the church. Elders Bob Mellor and Stanford Vaterlaus were glad to see us and speak some English. This was in the fall of 1974.
If I am to speak about “The Tremendous Power of Example,” our conversion must be part of this devotional. Allow me to read this entry from Elder Mellor’s journal:
December 8, 1974. Yesterday was a little bit slow and for a while, discouraging. We’re running out of references and investigators. One of our good families out in Esmeralda kind of told us good-bye. He said he knows (his church) isn’t right and the Mormons have a lot more going for them but, at his age, why change. He said he’d keep reading the Book of Mormon so all wasn’t lost. So yesterday afternoon as I was feeling a little low – we were making member visits – not finding a soul home. Then, here comes the most Mormon-looking young couple with their boy walking toward us. He said, “You wouldn’t happen to speak English, would you?”
“Are you Mormon missionaries?” I was quite shocked at first and after I got my cool we found out they were from Iowa and will here for two years with the symphony, don’t speak Spanish, were looking for the Mormon Church – aren’t members. I was so excited I felt like a kid. We’re going to take them to Branch 5 this morning and let them meet some of the gringo members – Oh, they look ‘golden!’ The Lord sure works in mysterious ways, what a great blessing for Elder Vaterlaus and I.
Monday – We took the Holmans to church Sunday and they really enjoyed it. The Elders at Branch 5 couldn’t believe how ‘golden’ they were. I really wanted to teach them but I think one of the Branch 5 office pairs would be better, working with the members and all, since they’ll be going to that branch. I guess it’s not really important who teaches them but that they hear the Gospel and I feel the most effective way to do it would be with Branch 5 Elders. We asked them about the ‘charlas’ Sunday and they said they wanted to wait a week to get settled. I can’t blame them. So, I’ll call the office this week and tell them to start the ‘charlas’ with them, that’ll hurt.

Meet Dorcas Asamoah Danso, a determined young single adult from the Ofankor Stake Gathering Place whose journey from student to entrepreneur is as inspiring as it is beautiful.
It began when she enrolled in a beauty class at the Gathering Place—a decision that would change her life. At first, it was anything but easy. “Shaping eyebrows was the hardest part,” she recalled. “It didn’t feel natural, but my instructor’s encouragement and consistent practice helped me push through.”
Determined to make the most of what she was learning, Dorcas began setting aside money to invest in her own beauty supplies. She didn’t wait for perfection—she got to work. After sharing a simple video on Facebook with before-and-after photos of her makeup transformation, Dorcas caught the attention of her peers. To build her client base, she boldly offered a free trial—and the results spoke for themselves. Her friends not only loved their makeovers but also became her biggest advocates, helping her turn her passion into a growing business.
Dorcas continues to visit the Gathering Place to sharpen her skills and stay connected to a supportive community. “My journey required humility,” she said. “I had to accept correction, stay open-minded, and be willing to sacrifice to reach my goals.”
Today, Dorcas is grateful—for the Lord’s guidance, for her leaders and fellow YSAs, and for the path that helped her discover her potential. Her experience has brought her not just success but confidence, joy, and a deeper sense of self-worth.

On that frozen morning, I heard shouting and distressed moos in the distance behind me as I ran to get an axe and some rope.
OK, hold on—let’s back up for some context.
Two years before that snowy morning, my family had moved from suburbia to a tiny little plot of farmland in Missouri. Our new property had some forested land to explore and a small pond, which was nice, but I wasn’t a fan of all the animals that I was now expected to help take care of.
Now, back to that cold winter morning. We could tell there was a problem when one of our poor little cows didn’t come to his food dish at the regular time, even after we shook the food in a metal tin. They were trained to come running when we shook the tin. It seemed to be some sort of angelic summons to them, but the tactic didn’t work that morning.
We kept waiting and soon heard distressed moos off in the distance. We went to investigate and discovered that the cow had walked out into the middle of the frozen pond and had fallen in. The pond was only about five feet deep, but the cow was quite small and had to bounce on his hind legs to keep his head above the frigid water.
And that’s when the yelling started.
My parents directed me to run to our toolshed a quarter of a mile away and bring back an axe that we could use to break up the ice, as well as some rope. The moment I got back to the pond, we tried to use the rope to pull the cow out but quickly discovered a couple of things: one, none of us actually knew how to tie a lasso, and two, the only rope available was closer in strength and size to twine. It seemed to me that our little cow was a goner.
My dad and mom really cared about that cow, so my dad led the charge, axe in hand, and they started to literally chop their way through the ice towards the cow, clearing a 20-foot-long path for the cow to walk out of the pond. Everyone was worried that either the cow would kick my dad or that my dad would accidentally hit the cow with the axe, but somehow the crazy plan worked. The cow didn’t drown!
But the worry wasn’t over. As soon as the cow got out of the water, he started shivering like an old washing machine on spin cycle. My parents were freezing too, but they were more worried about the cow. My dad ran to get a campfire started in the middle of the field while my mom ran to get some quilts. Us kids corralled the cow close to the fire so that he wouldn’t run away. Soon, he warmed up enough to stop shivering and eat some of his hard-won breakfast.

When I was younger, my family was not active in the Church. I remember very few instances when I went to Primary. I attended church on special occasions such as Christmas, Easter, baptisms, or blessings. Then, when I was about 13, my family moved from one end of town to the other. I attended the same school and had the same friends. The only difference now was our new ward. Because of this move, everything changed.
One girl in my new ward called me faithfully every week to invite me to church and Mutual. The meetinghouse was just through my backyard. Although I could have walked, she would offer me a ride. She fulfilled her calling as Beehive class president, and I started coming to church. At first, I came because I felt bad saying no. But it wasn’t long before I was coming on my own. I loved being in church, I loved the scriptures, and I loved the girls in our ward.
My freshman year in high school, however, I chose not to take seminary. I thought I didn’t have room in my schedule. I didn’t understand how important seminary was. My friends could say nothing but good about seminary, so I decided to adjust my schedule so that I could take it.
Seminary gave me a fresh outlook on the gospel. Through seminary my testimony of the scriptures developed. I read the entire New Testament and learned about the Atonement of Jesus Christ. My testimony grew at an overwhelming speed. Once again I felt the peace and love the gospel provided me, and I wanted my family to feel it as well.
I began to urge my family to come with me to sacrament meeting. I told them I wanted us to be an eternal family. To encourage them, I would wash everyone’s church clothes on Saturday night so that the excuse “I don’t have anything to wear” was no longer an option. I told them that I had a testimony of the gospel and that I wanted to share it with them. Most important, I prayed. I prayed that my family could know the Spirit the way I did. I wanted them to go to church so that we could someday be sealed in the temple.
It started slowly and took some time, but one warm August morning, my prayers were answered as we were sealed in the Portland Oregon Temple. I felt the Spirit stronger at that moment than ever before. I knew my family could be together forever. To this day I cannot thank my Heavenly Father enough for this wonderful blessing.
Now I am trying my best to be a good example and friend to everyone around me so that perhaps I can do for them what was done for me.

President Joseph F. Smith once told of an instance he remembered from his boyhood. He said that when he was very young he was attending a party in the Mansion House given by his uncle, the Prophet Joseph Smith. A large company was present, engaging in the festivities of the occasion. Suddenly the door opened and a man entered, dressed in ragged, shabby clothes. He was dirty, and his hair and beard were long and unkempt. He looked like a tramp. The Prophet at the time was on the other side of the room, opposite the door through which the man had come. President Smith said that Joseph, athletic man that he was, fairly sprang across the room, grabbed the shabby man in his arms, and hugged him as if he were a near and dear relative. This man was a brother in the priesthood. He had undergone a harrowing experience and made a tremendous sacrifice for his brother, the Prophet of God. (See Stephen L Richards, “The Priesthood Quorum: A Three-fold Definition,” Improvement Era, May 1939, p. 294.) The history of the Church is filled with accounts of quorum brother serving quorum brother with great love and understanding.

It was a spring day in Helsinki, Finland. The sun was shining brightly, and the snow was melting fast. For hours I had been working with my boys, Juha, eight, and Hannu, six, to keep melting snow from flooding our cellar. The nearby drain that should have handled the pooling water was still frozen solid.
As my husband left for work that morning, he told us to make sure we kept the water out of the cellar. We worked hard until the afternoon, when it was time to leave for Primary. (At that time Primary was held on a weekday.) I told my boys, however, that they would have to miss Primary in order to help stop the water from getting into the cellar. Besides, my husband wasn’t a member of the Church, and he would not understand how important Primary was to our sons.
In unison, Juha and Hannu assured me that if we went to Primary, Heavenly Father would see to it that the water wouldn’t reach the cellar. I looked back and forth from the pooling water to the faith-filled faces of my sons. Part of me said, “You cannot go because no power can stop the water from flooding the cellar.” I appealed to Heavenly Father with a prayer in my heart. Then I made a difficult decision.
“We are going to Primary now!” I declared as I threw down the buckets. No matter what happened, I was not going to injure my children’s faith.
The boys had a wonderful time at Primary. But as we drove home afterward, the closer we got to our house, the more my fears grew. Reaching the yard, the boys ran quickly to the cellar door. Looking down, they cried out, “Mother, what did we tell you?” I hurried over. I will never forget the sight that greeted my eyes. The area was completely dry, as if it had been mopped. There were no signs of water anywhere. Even now, 40 years later, it is hard for me to believe what I saw.
The glow in my boys’ eyes reflected joy and trust in Heavenly Father. Joy—and gratitude—filled my heart too!
No power in the world can beat childlike faith. The scriptures say that if we believe and doubt not, we can move a mountain (see Matthew 17:20). That day the power of my children’s faith stopped a flood.

All too soon the finale arrived. All of the performers rushed out onto the floor of the coliseum. A rainbow of talented youth whirled, and waved small green and gold flags, and danced their hearts out. They were answered with an ovation from those in attendance, but they were not quite through with the evening’s program. There was one more thing they wanted to do.
And there, standing before the capacity audience, the 2,000 colorfully costumed young dancers stood and sang from their hearts, “We thank thee, O God, for a prophet To guide us in these latter days.” As the hymn continued, the lights in the house were lowered, and a single spot shone on an elderly, white-haired gentleman in the audience. He rose to his feet and smiled his acknowledgment.
Then, with whoops and cheers, the dancers ran from the floor. The evening was over, and after several minutes of applause, the appreciative audience stood and started filing out. One nonmember remarked to his wife as they stepped out into the cool evening air, “I wonder who that gentleman in the spotlight was? Those young kids certainly seem to love him.” A festival participant who had hurried into the departing crowd to listen for comments and answer questions heard the statement and replied with quiet conviction, “He’s a prophet of God, sir.”

My brothers and sisters, since April’s general conference, some of our missionaries have found themselves in increasingly more difficult circumstances. As the adviser to the South America North Area Presidency, I was saddened, as I know you were, at the news that two faithful missionaries, Elder Todd Ray Wilson and Elder Jeffrey Brent Ball, lost their lives in Bolivia. The deaths of these two righteous young men while they were in the service of the Lord caused the entire Church membership to mourn. We grieve also for other missionaries who have died from illness or accident since the first of the year.
With the permission of President Steven B. Wright of the Bolivia La Paz Mission, I share this special experience that came to him in a dream: “I saw these two elders dressed in white, standing at the doors of a beautiful building. They were greeting numerous people, who also were dressed in white as they entered the building. It was obvious from their dress that those who entered were Bolivians. I envisioned the temple that will someday be built in Bolivia. Elders Wilson and Ball were ushering those they had prepared to receive the gospel in the spirit world into the temple to witness the vicarious ordinances being performed in their behalf. This dream has been a great comfort to me and has helped me to understand and accept their deaths.”

In the beautiful hills of Pennsylvania, a devout group of Christian people live a simple life without automobiles, electricity, or modern machinery. They work hard and live quiet, peaceful lives separate from the world. Most of their food comes from their own farms. The women sew and knit and weave their clothing, which is modest and plain. They are known as the Amish people.
A 32-year-old milk truck driver lived with his family in their Nickel Mines community. He was not Amish, but his pickup route took him to many Amish dairy farms, where he became known as the quiet milkman. Last October he suddenly lost all reason and control. In his tormented mind he blamed God for the death of his first child and some unsubstantiated memories. He stormed into the Amish school without any provocation, released the boys and adults, and tied up the 10 girls. He shot the girls, killing five and wounding five. Then he took his own life.
This shocking violence caused great anguish among the Amish but no anger. There was hurt but no hate. Their forgiveness was immediate. Collectively they began to reach out to the milkman’s suffering family. As the milkman’s family gathered in his home the day after the shootings, an Amish neighbor came over, wrapped his arms around the father of the dead gunman, and said, “We will forgive you.” Amish leaders visited the milkman’s wife and children to extend their sympathy, their forgiveness, their help, and their love. About half of the mourners at the milkman’s funeral were Amish. In turn, the Amish invited the milkman’s family to attend the funeral services of the girls who had been killed. A remarkable peace settled on the Amish as their faith sustained them during this crisis.
One local resident very eloquently summed up the aftermath of this tragedy when he said, “We were all speaking the same language, and not just English, but a language of caring, a language of community, [and] a language of service. And, yes, a language of forgiveness.” It was an amazing outpouring of their complete faith in the Lord’s teachings in the Sermon on the Mount: “Do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.”
The family of the milkman who killed the five girls released the following statement to the public:
“To our Amish friends, neighbors, and local community:
“Our family wants each of you to know that we are overwhelmed by the forgiveness, grace, and mercy that you’ve extended to us. Your love for our family has helped to provide the healing we so desperately need. The prayers, flowers, cards, and gifts you’ve given have touched our hearts in a way no words can describe. Your compassion has reached beyond our family, beyond our community, and is changing our world, and for this we sincerely thank you.
“Please know that our hearts have been broken by all that has happened. We are filled with sorrow for all of our Amish neighbors whom we have loved and continue to love. We know that there are many hard days ahead for all the families who lost loved ones, and so we will continue to put our hope and trust in the God of all comfort, as we all seek to rebuild our lives.”
How could the whole Amish group manifest such an expression of forgiveness? It was because of their faith in God and trust in His word, which is part of their inner beings. They see themselves as disciples of Christ and want to follow His example.
Hearing of this tragedy, many people sent money to the Amish to pay for the health care of the five surviving girls and for the burial expenses of the five who were killed. As a further demonstration of their discipleship, the Amish decided to share some of the money with the widow of the milkman and her three children because they too were victims of this terrible tragedy.

It is related of Spinola and Richardet, the ambassadors sent by the king of Spain to negotiate a treaty at the Hague in 1608, that one day they saw some eight or ten persons land from a little boat and, sitting down upon the grass, proceed to make a meal of bread, cheese, and drink.
“Who are those travelers?” asked the ambassadors of a peasant.
“These are our worshipped masters, the deputies from the state,” was his reply.
Spinola at once whispered, “These are not men to be conquered.” (From Happy Homes and the Hearts That Make Them by Samuel Smiles.)

In 1991 we moved into a small branch. Several months before our youngest son’s eighth birthday, my wife, the Primary president, asked him who he wanted to perform his baptism. Of course he wanted his father to perform the ordinance. My wife told him that probably was not going to happen. He did not accept that answer and set about the task of activating his father. He was quite relentless, and in short order I found myself serving as the Scoutmaster, and I later baptized and confirmed my son.

This story took place in the USA.
“Magnolia! Lily!” Dad called. “Time for scriptures and prayer!”
Magnolia flopped on the floor next to their dog, Raindrop. Lily snuggled in her favorite blanket.
Family scripture time was fun. Sometimes they acted out the scripture stories together. It helped Magnolia picture the stories. Plus, Raindrop always helped when there were animals in the stories!
Dad opened his scriptures and read a verse. Then he passed the big, heavy Bible to Magnolia. They each took turns reading.
“And be ye kind one to another,” Magnolia read.*
She frowned. People weren’t always kind to her at church.
“Mom, Dad, can I talk to you about something?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Mom. “What is it?”
“At Primary yesterday, some kids told me we aren’t a good family because Dad isn’t a member of our church.”
Magnolia’s dad belonged to a different church. He went to sacrament meeting with their family on Sundays. He gave talks about the Holy Ghost at Lily’s and Magnolia’s baptisms. Everyone said he did a great job. He was an amazing dad.
“What they said made me want to cry.” Magnolia sniffed. “Why do people have to be so mean?”
Mom and Dad looked at each other.
“I’m glad you told us what happened,” Dad said. “Mom and I love each other very much. And our family is very important to us.”
Mom nodded. “And our family is important to Heavenly Father too. He loves all His children.”
Raindrop snuggled up to Magnolia. She scratched his ears.
“Heavenly Father knows us, and He knows we love each other,” Dad said. “No family is perfect, but we can keep trying our best.”
“But it still hurts when people say mean things about our family,” Magnolia said. “Jesus taught us to be kind to everyone. Saying mean things doesn’t seem like following Jesus.”
“You’re right,” said Dad. “Maybe when you feel like saying something mean, you can remember how you felt when others were unkind to you. Then you can say something kind instead.”
Magnolia took a big breath. “OK.” She was glad she could talk to Mom and Dad.
“Time for a family sandwich!” Dad pulled Lily and Magnolia into a big hug and squeezed them tight. Mom wrapped her arms around all three of them. Raindrop ran circles around everyone.
“I can’t breathe!” joked Lily. Magnolia laughed.
“Now remind me—whose turn is it to read?” Dad asked. He let go of the girls and picked up his scriptures.
“My turn!” said Lily. “And it’s Dad’s turn for prayer.”
When they finished reading, everyone knelt to pray. Magnolia felt peaceful as she listened to Dad say the prayer. She knew Heavenly Father loved her family.
Illustrations by Constanza Basaluzzo

Five years ago, Sister Amy A. Wright was diagnosed with stage 4 ovarian cancer. The only way her family made it through her aggressive treatments, she said, was by focusing on the Savior Jesus Christ.
“When it was all about me, the world became a really dark place,” she recalled. “But when my focus turned outward, when I would strive to serve others and walk the way Christ walked, there was light and joy, even during the greatest pain and suffering.”
Sister Wright described her battle with cancer as a “polishing and refining experience”—one that was “uniquely tailored” to help her come to know the Savior in a deeply personal way. It also taught her that additional strength comes in seeking to learn and understand others’ diverse challenges.

After college I finally found my first job as a music therapist at a large institution for the mentally handicapped. My first day on the job was memorable. After a quick tour, my supervisor handed me a long list of patients I was assigned to work with. First on that list was a 12-year-old girl named Bonnie.
When I walked into her room for the first time, I saw Bonnie staring back at me from her hospital bed with bright eyes. Her smile set off an explosion of warmth in sharp contrast to the collection of plastic tubes, blinking lights, and gray machines surrounding her. It seemed odd that Bonnie would be placed in an institution for the mentally handicapped. She seemed so bright and full of life. I was puzzled.
Bonnie’s story was sad but eventful. Born with a rare terminal illness involving her lungs, she needed life-support machines in order to breathe. Even though her intelligence appeared normal, the doctors encouraged her family to have Bonnie institutionalized so that she might receive the best medical care possible. A short time later, her family was forced to move across the country due to a work transfer. Then, much to the surprise of everyone, she survived her first year. She also pulled through a second; then 5, 10, and now a full 12 years. Bonnie’s will to live was extraordinary.
Over the weeks, we became best friends. I learned of her affection for turtles, calico kittens, mysteries, stuffed animals, and strawberry ice cream. Above all, Bonnie liked to sing. Her voice was like a bell, ringing a message of joy to all who heard it. She learned to read music, play the autoharp, and harmonize when we sang together.
Bonnie had spent her entire life inside the hospital. She longed to find out what wind and rain might feel like on her face. She dreamed of walking barefoot and picking pretty flowers. Her greatest wish was to be free from the noisy, sterile machines that kept her alive.
About Thanksgiving time, Bonnie took a turn for the worse. Her breathing became labored. Now she was only able to sing for short periods of time or not at all. I tried to cheer her up by asking her to choose a favorite song. Her answer that day, however, had nothing at all to do with singing.
“I’m going to die soon,” Bonnie said, “and I’m afraid. What do you think death will be like?”
I tried to explain the plan of salvation. I told her that she had been sent to earth for a special purpose—to obtain a body, to experience the joys and pains of life, to learn about keeping the commandments, and to learn about God’s plan for her.
I also explained that she didn’t need to fear death. When it was her appointed time, our Heavenly Father would send for her. Peacefully, her spirit would leave her body and be ready to return to his presence. When she arrived, there would be loved ones to welcome her. In her new heavenly home, she would be strong and healthy, with no pain, tubes, or machines.
Bonnie looked at me with piercing eyes, thinking. A feeling of peace filled the room. She heard and believed. It reminded me of the Primary song “I Am a Child of God.” I sang it to her. She was so touched by the words that she refused to let me leave until I taught it to her.
Over the next few weeks, this song became her own special anthem. When the pain was terrible, she sang this song to herself. She said she could feel Heavenly Father’s arms around her whenever she sang it.
One chilly morning in December, I entered her room and suddenly knew that Bonnie had died. I saw an empty bed with clean folded sheets and blankets stacked on top of it. The machines had been turned off. Bonnie’s journey to her heavenly home had finally come.
I was stunned. Then sadness began to consume me. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was afraid. What if there was no life after death? If there truly was a God, then why did children like Bonnie have to suffer and die? My soul hurt.
Then I remembered Bonnie and her sweet voice, pure and true. I saw a young face racked with pain, clinging to hope with eyes full of faith. She was singing to me with all her heart, pushing away all doubts and fears. She knew of God’s plan for her.
Peace then came, replacing my doubts and fears with truth. I knew then that Bonnie had not only found the way but also helped me find it again.
Bonnie’s funeral was two days later. I was asked to sing. When I walked into the room, one of the nurses whispered that Bonnie’s family was sitting on the front row, having just flown in. The funeral service was simple. Some doctors, nurses, and therapists spoke of the special times they had shared with Bonnie.
When it was my turn to sing, I walked to the front with a prayer in my heart that the words to the song, Bonnie’s anthem, would be a source of comfort to her family.
Lead me, guide me, walk beside me.
Help me find the way.
Teach me all that I must do
To live with him someday.
(Hymns, no. 307).
I could almost hear Bonnie singing along with me. Then the meeting closed. I stood in line to pay my respects to the family. As I stretched forth my hand, Bonnie’s mother took me aside. With emotion in her voice, she asked, “How did you know?”
I answered softly, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
She spoke again, “How did you know we were members of the Church?”
I was left speechless as she explained that their family had been taught the gospel during the past few months. They had been baptized only the month before.
I told Bonnie’s mother of her daughter’s questions regarding the plan of salvation. I told them how the song had comforted her in difficult times and how she had felt the Spirit of the Lord bear witness to her of the truth. While her family had been studying and praying to know if they should join the Church, Heavenly Father had provided a way for Bonnie to learn those same principles. The Lord had begun to prepare them to become an eternal family.
We hugged one another and cried as we realized the magnitude of what had just happened. They talked of plans to go to the temple and have Bonnie’s work done. Then their entire family could be sealed in the temple.
I know that Heavenly Father loved Bonnie, his precious daughter, whose simple short life had brought so much joy to those she knew. He knew her as an individual. He was aware of her suffering, trials, even her innermost fears. In her time of need, she heard the peaceful voice of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost bearing witness of God’s glorious plan of salvation, along with her own family, even across an entire continent.