Gospel Story Finder

Many years ago, my ministering brothers invited me to seriously study the Book of Mormon. When they gave me this invitation, I realized that, although I read a little from the Book of Mormon each day, I wasn’t seriously studying it.
They shared a promise with me that was based on words from President Ezra Taft Benson: “There is a power in the [Book of Mormon] which will begin to flow into your lives the moment you begin a serious study of the book. You will find greater power to resist temptation … to avoid deception … to stay on the strait and narrow path” (Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Ezra Taft Benson [2014], 141).
I accepted their invitation, and in the following months I saw that their promise was fulfilled. It has changed my life.

As soon as she got home, Kaela couldn’t wait to check her mom’s phone. Her friends always posted pictures of cool clothes, fun vacations, and cute animals.
Click. Scroll. Click. She clicked on heart after heart to show she liked everything her friends were doing: skating at the park, baking a chocolate cake, burying their toes in the sand. One picture made Kaela giggle when she saw it. She couldn’t help it! It was a picture of her friend Chandry. She looked like a squirrel, with her cheeks full of cereal, and milk spilling onto her shirt. Chandry was so fun and goofy. Kaela scrolled down to add a laughing emoji. But then she saw the comments.
As she read them, Kaela felt sick. “Fat,” one said. “Ugly,” said another. “Chandry needs to go on a diet.” “A new walrus for the zoo.” One comment was even full of swear words.
Poor Chandry! Kaela thought. How could anyone write these things? She had heard of people being bullied online, but she never thought it would happen to her friend.
She shut off the phone and put it on the table. Then she went to her room and knelt down.
She told Heavenly Father everything she felt and how she wished those words weren’t there. But there was no way to undo what others had said. Heavenly Father, she said. Please help me know how to help Chandry.
Soon a song filled her mind. Jesus said love everyone, treat them kindly too. Peace warmed her heart. Even though the mean words had already been written, Kaela could still be kind.
She borrowed the phone again and sent a direct message to Chandry.
Chandry, I saw the posts online today. I hope you know I don’t agree with anything they said. You are a great friend to me, and you are beautiful. God loves you. Don’t believe what those bullies say.
Love, Kaela
Later, Kaela was helping Mom with the dishes. “Can we talk?” Kaela asked.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Some people are being mean to Chandry online,” Kaela said. She dried her hands and pulled up the picture on the phone.
Mom frowned. “That’s so sad! Do Chandry’s parents know?”
“I don’t know.” Kaela pulled up her message to Chandry. “I sent her this, though.”
Mom read the message and hugged Kaela tightly. “She’s lucky to have a friend like you. Thanks for telling me about this. I’m going to call Chandry’s parents. It’s hard to deal with bullying by yourself.”
Kaela smiled, feeling very grateful for prayer and the song she had remembered. She knew Jesus wants everyone to be kind. That means online too.
What else could Kaela do to help her friend? Send your ideas to us at friend@ldschurch.org.

During one of Joseph F.'s visits to Hawaii, his friend Charles Nibley saw an elderly woman emerge from the crowd calling, "Iosepa, Iosepa." Joseph F. immediately embraced her and, with tears streaming down his face, he explained, "Charley, she nursed me when I was a boy, sick and without anyone to care for me. She took me in and was a mother to me!"

That saintly woman, Ma Manuhii, outlived President Smith and attended the dedication of the Laie Temple in 1919. Blind and crippled, she had to be carried into the temple but, while there, she was moved to tears when she heard Iosepa's familiar voice say, "Aloha."

I feel ashamed whenever I see Earl. I didn’t like him when we first met. He was overweight and wore a plaid, polyester leisure suit that I thought looked tacky. His plump hand was moist when I shook it, and he chuckled senselessly after every sentence he spoke: “Hi, Sharon.” Chuckle. “I’m Earl.” Chuckle. “It’s good to know you.” Chuckle, chuckle.
Earl and I had been assigned to organize and execute a branch service project for the college branch we attended. Upon receiving the assignment, I’d immediately put my creativity to work. Perhaps, I thought, we could take a group of under-privileged children on a weekend camping trip in the mountains. What could be better for them than exercise, camaraderie, and clean air, I reasoned, overlooking the facts that it had snowed there last weekend, most of the branch members owned little, if any, camping equipment, and the children would surely possess none at all. It irritated me when Earl, chuckling good-naturedly, brought these details to my attention and suggested a Halloween party at the local rest home instead. How unoriginal, I thought, as I smiled and nodded approvingly at his plan.
We met several nights in succession to form our plans. The meetings were unpleasant to me, his ideas so dull that even compromises sounded boring. I wanted horror melodramas for entertainment, complete with shrieks of terror and handsome heroes with their ladies. He wanted ghost stories, all of which would surely begin, “It was a dark and stormy night …”
For refreshments I’d dreamed up whole-wheat pumpkin cakes and apples on a stick dipped in hot, cinnamoned honey and cooled. “What about their dentures?” he’d asked, again chuckling. In turn, he suggested sugar cookies and cider.
As our plans progressed, however, I began to become excited about the prospect of aiding the elderly. I recalled the verse in James 1:27, which reads: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction.” The previous year at Christmastime my Laurel class had baked cookies for all the widows in the ward. Sister Kirkham, a 90-year-old woman who walked with two canes, had wept when we came to her door and, when we were leaving, thanked us again and again for our visit. We all felt good afterwards. That’s what the gospel is all about, I thought as I anticipated the upcoming service project. The only thorn in my plans was Earl. He irritated me.
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t lose weight, or find a shampoo that would help control his problem with dandruff. If he’d exercise and eat nutritious foods he’d be in a lot better shape, I’d thought critically, proudly reviewing the personal health program I followed.
Too, his intellect was lacking and his wit was dull, a fact manifested by his love of simple puns and riddles. At one of our meetings when we were relaxing for a moment, he’d asked me jovially, “What’s black and white and read all over?” “A newspaper,” I answered quickly. He chuckled, “Ah, you already heard the joke.” I wondered who hadn’t heard the joke.
I also had serious doubts about the genuineness of his charity. His voice didn’t seem to contain a proper amount of pity when he spoke of the bedridden and ways to include them in the festivities. Nor did he seem to feel much sorrow for the plight of the elderly in general. “Old folks are a real kick,” he’d say. “My grandma can spin a yarn that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat. Course she’s in a rest home now, but that don’t get her down none.”
“He just drives me nuts!” I complained to my roommate, Carol. “Everything about him just drives me nuts.” But despite my irritation with Earl, preparation for the party progressed. Halloween came.
We arrived at Sunshine Terrace nursing home early to begin decorating and set up the refreshments.
“Hello, Earl,” the receptionist smiled as we walked through the door. I briefly wondered how she knew him. We proceeded to the big gathering room. Ancient-looking people sat along the walls in the hallway. One man with a walker had warts that covered half of his face. Another woman sat in a wheelchair which had been tied to the handrailing on the wall. Her head flopped and she drooled continually, wetting a large portion of her dress bodice. As I stepped by she clawed my skirt. I pulled away and muttered a hasty hello. Earl, his smile as usual planted on his face, walked beside me. Old eyes crinkled at him and toothless mouths grimaced his way. Some extended greetings to him and he chuckled out, “Howdy, Doris” and “Lo there, Howard” in return.
I felt tense and faintly nauseated, my charitable zeal overshadowed by fear and revulsion. Earl remained his same chortling self. I soon realized that he knew these people. He was friends with them. I hung close to his shadow, letting his greetings and handclasps compensate for my own silence and lack of response.
But despite my mere surface participation, the party was a success. The elderly people seemed delighted with the drooping orange and black crepe paper (one of Earl’s ideas), and one woman said that the cider and sugar cookies reminded her of the autumn baking days of her youth. They chilled at the ghost stories and retold the eerie tales recalled from their own childhoods.
I began to realize that these were real people with real thoughts and feelings. Nevertheless, my own self-consciousness and discomfort kept me from becoming an active participant and enjoying their company. I had never seen a man without arms or a woman with spastic palsy. I didn’t want to see them, so I focused my eyes on the floor or ceiling or I watched some of the other students in the branch or Earl.
Earl remained, well—Earl. He was still overweight. His hands were still moist, his dandruff unchecked. His remarks and jokes still displayed an amazing lack of originality, and his chuckling remained incessant. I looked at him with those people. His damp hand comfortably clasped a withered, dry one. That was when I first began to feel ashamed. Earl was naturally what I was only pretending to be. I’d come to Sunshine Terrace full of self-righteous charity, artificial smiles, and condescending words of tenderness. Earl had simply come.

I was a newly arrived full-time missionary in Connecticut, and my companion and I were serving in a small ward during the first round of holidays I spent on my mission. I hadn’t yet learned the dietary value of becoming friends with a few of the members, and my first Thanksgiving resulted in no invitation and no dinner. Our mission president took pity on us, and we ended up being the only missionaries to spend Thanksgiving at the mission home. We were grateful but a little embarrassed.
We started putting ourselves out there early for the coming Christmas. Our shameful solicitations landed three full meals at three different homes. Pancakes for breakfast, Lithuanian food for lunch, and a Jamaican feast for dinner. Our stomachs were bursting. I was still an inexperienced missionary and thought that was what Christmas on a mission was all about.

Amy and her family lived in an old log house at the foot of a pine tree covered mountain. She used to have to stand on a chair to look out the window, but now Amy stood on the floor and pressed her nose against the windowpane, watching the snowflakes float down.
“Mom! Mom!” she called. “Mother Goose is shaking her feather pillows again. Look at the snow coming down!” Amy danced happily around the room. “May I go outside?” Amy asked her mother. “I want to play in the snow.”
Amy’s mother looked outside at the snow-covered slope. Turning, she smiled at Amy and said, “Yes, but be careful. The snow looks soft and snuggly, but it covers hard rocks and holes.”
Giving her mother a quick little hug, Amy ran to the closet and put on her coat, stocking cap, mittens, and boots. Then she grinned at her mother and bounded out the door. There was a half-foot of snow on the ground. Amy laughed as she fell backward into the snow and moved her arms up and down and her legs back and forth to make a snow angel.
Quickly jumping up, Amy ran to the woodshed. I wish we had a sled, Amy thought as she opened the door. Maybe there’s something in here that I can use. Looking around, she saw an old deer hide stretched over a box. Maybe that will make a good sled, she thought, grabbing at the corner of the hide and dragging it up the hill. But the hide didn’t slide well at all, so Amy dragged it back to the woodshed. This time she found a large piece of cardboard.
After carrying the cardboard up the slope and checking for rocks and holes, Amy sat down on the cardboard and slid down the hill. “Whee! That was fun!” she shouted when she reached the bottom. But it wasn’t long until the cardboard was too soggy and ragged to slide.
Amy was soon back in the woodshed to find something else. She searched in all the corners and behind the woodpile. Just as she was about to give up, she spotted a big metal dishpan hanging on the wall. “Oh!” Amy squealed happily at her discovery. “I bet that would make a wonderful sled!”
Picking up a broom, Amy knocked the dishpan off the wall. She grabbed the pan, stepped outside, and ran back up the slope.
SWISH! Round and round Amy went down the hill, sitting in the dishpan. Tumbling out at the bottom into the soft, deepening snow, she lay there, breathless and dizzy.
“What’s the matter?” a voice asked.
Turning over, Amy looked up into the face of her older brother Roy. “Just the greatest ride ever,” Amy replied. “You should take a ride. It goes round and round!”
“You want me to ride in a dishpan?” Roy asked. “I’m too big. How do you steer it anyway?”
“You don’t steer it,” Amy said excitedly. “You just ride in it! C’mon, I’ll give you a push.”
Not wanting to be outdone by his little sister, Roy walked up the hill with her. With a push from Amy, he was off.
“Yippee!” Roy shouted as round and round and down and down he went.
At the bottom Roy tumbled out and rolled over in the snow. Amy ran down to meet him. “I told you, didn’t I? Wasn’t it fun?” she asked.
“That’s really terrific,” Roy told her with a big grin.
Mom and Dad came running up. “What happened?” Mother gasped. “We heard someone hollering.”
Roy, getting up and looking at Amy, said, “Only the greatest ride ever. Amy found a ‘sled’ that really goes.”
“Let me show you,” said Amy as she grabbed the dishpan and ran up the hill. Mom and Dad watched Amy push off and come hurtling toward them. Faster and faster she came down the hill until she tumbled out at the bottom.
Laughing with excitement, Amy and Roy and Mother watched Dad reach down, pick up the dishpan, and run up the hill. He scrunched down in the dishpan and, before you knew it, was flying down the slope, shouting with glee.
At the bottom of the hill Dad handed the dishpan to Mom and said, “Now it’s your turn.” Taking the dishpan, Mom ran up the slope for her ride in Amy’s sled!

Also deeply comforting to me is a less well known but equally dramatic vision that came to President John Taylor during another financial crisis in our early years. Zina P. Young Williams [Card], the dean of women at the Brigham Young Academy and daughter of Brigham Young, came to President Taylor very distraught because the financial troubles of the school were so severe that they threatened to close it.

After listening to Sister Williams’s plea for help, President Taylor took her hand “in a fatherly way” and said:

“My dear child, I have something of importance to tell you that I know will make you happy. I have been visited by your father. He came to me in the silence of the night clothed in brightness and with a face beaming with love and confidence told me things of great importance and among others that the school being taught by Brother [Karl G.] Maeser was accepted in the heavens and was a part of the great plan of life and salvation; . . . there was a bright future in store . . . and that Christ himself was directing, and had a care over this school.”

And, we do not have to do this alone. He will help us all the way. He knows each of us. He loves us. I had a special witness of this just the other day. It was a moment of deep spirituality for me. I was vacuuming, mulling over in my mother's mind all of the challenges members of my family are facing right now. Okay, I was worrying a little as mothers will. And I happened to look up at a picture on the wall of my son. Whenever I look at this picture I have particularly sweet, tender feelings because he is the son that we lost in an accident just three years ago at the age of 34. But this day, as I looked up and saw him, words came instantly into my mind so clearly, I could almost hear his voice saying to me, "Mom, everything is going to be all right, because He loves us more than you can even know." And I knew that he knew this because he has felt the arms of the Savior around him. He has looked into his face. He has gone ahead of us and has experienced things that we all long to experience. He understands, better than we do, life in the eternal perspective.

Our faith can and will increase as we make an effort to study the scriptures daily and as we familiarise ourselves with the teachings of His prophets and apostles. While growing up as a young boy, I lived with my grandmother. She could not read or write, but she loved the scriptures. She went to Church every Sunday and memorised the verses that were read aloud. She would then return home and ask me to read them to her over and over again.

One night whilst reading 1 Samuel, chapter 3, I came across a scripture that got me to sit up and wonder. I read about how Samuel was called as a prophet. That scripture stirred something within me. In fact, from that moment onward I started wondering why God had stopped calling prophets in our day. I started by asking the very pastors in our family church; and since they could only attest it to the fact that God has spoken and that’s why we have the Bible, I started looking elsewhere. I then started a quest of searching for a church that believed in a God that spoke to His children through prophets and apostles as He did to Samuel of old.

I was only about 10 or 11 years old when I started this search, which took me from church to church until I met the missionaries as a teenager. The question I had for them in our first meeting was simple, “Do you believe in a God who speaks? Their answer was a resounding “yes”, and then they shared with me how Father in Heaven called Joseph Smith and restored His church through Him. I joined the Church because of that simple answer, and through the years I have been richly blessed by the teachings of living prophets and apostles. Their counsel has helped me increase both my faith in and testimony of the Saviour Jesus Christ. A simple practice of daily scripture study as taught by my grandmother has helped me as an individual, and now as a father—as my wife and I strive to teach our children the value of daily scripture study.

Dad called everybody to the computer. Lucy dropped the stuffed giraffe she was playing with and hurried over. What was going on? Was it time to call Grandma online?

Dad pointed to the computer screen. “I wanted to show you part of a talk from general conference.”

Lucy squinted. It wasn’t Grandma. It was President Eyring! He was in the First Presidency.

Dad pushed “play.” President Eyring taught about supporting your Church leaders. He explained how Church leaders need us to pray for them.

“That’s why we pray for the prophet. Right, Dad?” asked her little brother, David. Dad and Mom both nodded.

“Yes, we do,” Dad said. “But I also keep thinking about our branch presidency. I think they need our prayers too.”

Lucy loved President Alvarez and his counselors. They were always so nice to her. She wanted to help them.

“I’m going to pray for them,” Lucy said. “And we can pray for them in our family prayers too!”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Mom said. “Let’s do it.”

For the next few days, Lucy tried hard to remember to pray for the branch presidency whenever she said a prayer. It only took a few extra seconds each time. Easy!

The next Sunday in sacrament meeting, President Alvarez stood up after the hymn. Then he said something that made Lucy’s eyes get wide.

“As a branch presidency, we wanted to thank you for praying for us,” he said. “We have felt very real strength from those prayers. We really need your faith and prayers to do our callings. Thank you!”

Lucy grinned. She looked over at David. He was smiling too. She couldn’t believe it! She was so excited that she could hardly sit still. She leaned over and tugged on Mom’s sleeve.

“Mom!” she whispered. “Did you hear what President Alvarez said?!” She wanted to jump up and down. “It worked! Our prayers really worked!”

After church, Lucy and her family walked home together.

“God really does hear our prayers,” Mom said. “And isn’t it amazing to see how powerful it is for a group of people to pray for someone else?”

Lucy felt warm and happy inside. She and David skipped down the sidewalk while Mom and Dad walked behind them. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her family’s prayers. They were truly making a difference. Just by praying!

That night, Lucy got ready to say her prayers. She thought about her Primary teacher and other Church leaders who could use some extra blessings. Maybe she would pray for them too! Lucy folded her arms and bowed her head. She knew just what to say.

Fifty years ago, I knew a young man—even a priest—who held the authority of the Aaronic Priesthood. As the bishop, I was his quorum president. Robert stuttered and stammered, void of control. He was self-conscious, shy, fearful of himself and all others, and this impediment was devastating to him. Never did he fulfill an assignment; never would he look another in the eye; always he would gaze downward. Then one day, through a set of unusual circumstances, he accepted an assignment to perform the priestly responsibility to baptize another.

I sat next to Robert in the baptistry of the Salt Lake Tabernacle. He was dressed in immaculate white, prepared for the ordinance he was to perform. I leaned over and asked him how he felt. He gazed at the floor and stuttered almost uncontrollably that he felt terrible, terrible.

We both prayed fervently that he would be made equal to his task. Suddenly the clerk said, “Nancy Ann McArthur will now be baptized by Robert Williams, a priest.”

Robert left my side, stepped into the font, took little Nancy by the hand, and helped her into that water which cleanses human lives and provides a spiritual rebirth. He spoke the words, “Nancy Ann McArthur, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Not once did he stutter! Not once did he falter! A modern miracle had been witnessed. Robert then performed the baptismal ordinance for two or three other children in the same fashion.

In the dressing room, as I congratulated Robert, I expected to hear this same uninterrupted flow of speech. I was wrong. He gazed downward and stammered his reply of gratitude.

To each of you brethren this evening, I testify that when Robert acted in the authority of the Aaronic Priesthood, he spoke with power, with conviction, and with heavenly help.

“The time is now yours, brothers and sisters,” the bishop said, smiling. “We look forward to hearing your testimonies.”
Maria squirmed in her seat. This would be her last testimony meeting in her English-speaking ward before her family moved back to Mexico. She wanted to bear her testimony, but it frightened her to think about standing up in front of so many people and speaking in her imperfect English. Maria began to think maybe her testimony wasn’t very strong. Maybe that was why she had never gotten up to bear it.
Maria’s mother leaned over to her. “Maria, can you come help me, por favor?” she asked.
Maria nodded and followed her mother to the podium.
“My inglés is not good,” her mother said into the microphone. “Maria will translate.” Then she stepped aside and spoke softly to Maria. “Quiero dejar mi testimonio con ustedes, mis queridos hermanos y hermanas.”
Maria translated into the microphone. “I want to leave my testimony with you, my dear brothers and sisters.”
Then she thought to herself, “Yes, I also want to bear my testimony to you, my good friends and teachers.”
Her mom continued. “Sé que José Smith fue un profeta, que él restauró la iglesia verdadera a la tierra.”
Maria translated, “I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that he restored the true Church on the earth.”
Maria remembered how happy she had been on her baptism day and thought, “I am grateful the priesthood was restored so I could be baptized and confirmed.”
Her mom spoke again. “Sé que el Libro de Mormón es verdaderamente la palabra de Dios.”
Maria translated, “I know the Book of Mormon is truly the word of God.”
“I love the Book of Mormon. It’s my favorite book,” Maria thought.
Maria’s mother smiled at her with tears in her eyes. “Sé que tenemos un profeta viviente hoy en día,” she said.
Maria translated, “I know we have a living prophet today.” She added with certainty, “He is President Thomas S. Monson.”
Her mom was too emotional to speak clearly now, but Maria knew what she wanted to say. Maria’s heart swelled within her as she declared, “We know that God lives and loves us, and that He answers our prayers. We say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Her mother added her “amen” along with the rest of the congregation. She took Maria’s hand as they returned to their seats.
“Gracias,” her mom said when they were seated. She gave Maria a hug.
Maria smiled. She felt so happy inside. She had actually stood in front of all those people, spoken English, and felt the Spirit as she helped her mom share her testimony.
Maria found something precious. She discovered that when she translated her mother’s testimony, she was also bearing her own testimony. She did know the gospel was true. And she knew that the Spirit testifies of truth, in any language.

A little old lady at a rest home turned to the old man next to her and said, “I can guess your age.”
“You can’t,” he replied.
“Yes, I can,” she said. “You go take a bath, shave, brush your hair, put on a nice clean shirt and a tie, and shine your shoes, and I’ll tell you.”
The old man was gone for about an hour. When he returned he was neat, clean, hair brushed, shoes polished, and in his suit. She said, “Now you go stand up against the wall.” He did.
He said, “Now, how old am I?” She said, “You’re 89.”
He responded, “That’s right, but how did you know?”
She said, “You told me yesterday.”

I dreaded testimony meeting each fast Sunday. Time moved slower than Gertie, my pet turtle, especially on those sticky hot summer days when folks’d rather lean back and wait for somebody else to do the talking. The waiting always made me squirm in my seat. Sometimes I’d watch the big wall clock and time how long it took until somebody’s conscience finally dragged him up the aisle.
Most of the time, though, so many people wanted to bear their testimonies that the meeting went five or ten minutes over the usual time. Some of them would start crying in the middle of their testimony, and that really drove me nuts.
But the worst part was Molly Prentiss. She had been bearing her testimony almost every month for two years. She always used fancy words and went back to her seat with a contented smile on her face.
One day I got a great idea: I wrote up a testimony that even a returned missionary would be proud of and practiced it for days until I had it memorized. I even practiced how I’d walk to the front with just the right combination of confidence and humility. I hadn’t ever born my testimony before, but how tough could it be? I’d just walk up, deliver my brilliant speech, then go back to my seat amid gasps of admiration from the whole ward. Yup—that’d show Molly Prentiss, all right.
On fast Sunday, before we left for church, I stood in front of the full-length mirror and practiced one last time for good measure. Wow! Even I was impressed! For once even my braids stayed neatly in place.
I decided I’d save the best for last and give my performance right at the end of the meeting. What I didn’t count on was how many butterflies could hatch in my stomach in such a short amount of time. When the moment came, I tried to boldly walk up the aisle, but my confidence had become about as solid as warm gelatin.
It was when I was nearly to the pulpit that Sister Johnson and I noticed each other for the first time. Both of us had thought we were the only one headed for the front. I knew that I should let her go first, but I also knew that I would never make it back up that aisle if I had to sit down. Sister Johnson took matters into her own hands and with an understanding smile waved me on and sat in an empty seat on the front row.
When I stepped up to the pulpit, I was suddenly gripped with panic. There must have been a thousand people at church that day, and that meant that there were two thousand eyes staring at me! I opened my mouth, only to discover that the butterflies in my stomach had flown off with the wonderful speech I had prepared. I couldn’t remember one word of it. I closed my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, hoping I could find the words better that way. When that didn’t work, I opened my eyes again, and there was Sister Johnson down on the front row, smiling encouragingly.
That was when the ultimate humiliation happened. I felt tears pricking at my eyes. And try as I might to hold them back, they burst out and flooded down my cheeks. Knowing how bad my freckles stand out when I cry, and feeling a strand of hair suddenly spring from a braid, there was only one thing I could do. I turned and stumbled back down the aisle to the pew where my family was sitting. Mama put a comforting arm around my shoulders, and I heard Sister Johnson saying something about how her testimony affects her the same way sometimes. But there was no consoling the burning embarrassment I felt. I vowed then and there that I would never try to bear my testimony again for the rest of my life.
I was surprised that when church was over, no one from my Primary class teased me about what had happened. Molly Prentiss gave me a sympathetic look.
The next few weeks were busy ones. School started again, and then my eighth birthday came along almost before I realized it. After my baptism and confirmation, a few things began to change. I started getting up a little earlier each morning to read the Book of Mormon before I headed off to school. That was tough because I hate getting up in the morning, but I was determined to make it all the way through that book.
I also started fasting each month on fast Sunday. There aren’t many things I like to do more than eat, so I slipped up sometimes, but even so, I started noticing a difference in how I felt about testimony meeting.
I began paying more attention to what each speaker was saying, and that made the meeting a lot more interesting. I found out that Sister Johnson had joined the Church when she was twenty-six years old. I thought she’d been a member all her life! And I loved it when old Brother Badger bore his testimony. He had exciting stories to tell about his life and about miracles he had witnessed.
I finished the Book of Mormon early the next summer. There were great stories and teachings in it, and I was happy that I’d reached my goal. But Moroni had written in the last chapter that if you read the Book of Mormon and want to know if it’s true, you should ponder it in your heart and pray to Heavenly Father about it. He promised that if you do that with faith in Jesus Christ and with a sincere heart, the Holy Ghost will help you know that it’s true. I decided to try it out for myself.
The rest of that week I prayed every morning and night. Sometimes I even said a quick prayer in my head when I was at school, but I never saw a vision or even heard a voice that told me the Book of Mormon was true. I felt like giving up, but I really wanted to know, so I just kept on praying.
The next fast Sunday, I fasted to know if the Book of Mormon was true. I spent a lot of time on my knees, and I reread some of my favorite parts. It was amazing how seldom I thought about food.
Testimony meeting was going along great that day. I was even happy for Molly Prentiss when she went up and bore her testimony. Then Brother Badger went to the front to speak. His quiet voice trembled as he spoke of his great love for the scriptures and how he knew of the truth of the gospel.
As he spoke, a strange feeling started in a little spot in my chest. It got warmer and bigger until my whole body was filled with glowing, tingly warmth. When he finished, that warmth seemed to pick me up and carry me right to the pulpit. The lump in my throat loosened into a few words that came right from my soul: “I know that the Book of Mormon is true. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

A convert from Seattle, in answering the question “What has the Church done for you?” replied, “Everything! My life now has purpose and meaning. Now what can I do for the Lord? I owe him my all.”
Another convert living in Arizona had this to say:
“One brother was extremely instrumental in our becoming members of the Church. We will ever be indebted to him and thankful to him for asking us what we knew about the Mormon Church and would we like to know more. Through the missionary discussions we were thoroughly convinced that this was the true church. And the thing that has changed my life the most is that I have found a purpose in life and a certain peace of mind I have never felt before. I know with all my heart that this is the true church and that Christ lives and God lives.”
These converts’ testimonies are truly inspiring and emphasize the value of the gospel to them and to their families.
I have borne my testimony many times to people who were interested in knowing more about the Church, and they have asked me, “How can I obtain a conviction of the truthfulness of the restored gospel—yes, a testimony to this effect?” My answer has been, “Study the gospel, pray and attend church.”
This formula when followed will bring a conviction or testimony that the restored gospel of Jesus Christ is true, and when one accepts the gospel plan and lives its principles, it will bring him peace, happiness, growth, and development. However, to obtain a testimony one must have a real desire to know the truth and must be willing to exert considerable effort.
The interested person must study the gospel, and the gospel is to be found primarily in the Bible, Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price, the four standard works of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In this dispensation the Lord has counseled us to “seek … out of the best books words of wisdom: seek learning, even by study. …” (D&C 88:118.)
Jesus said, “… know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” (John 8:32.)
I feel sure that part of this freedom Jesus refers to must be freedom from ignorance, as ignorance is a deterrent to happiness, growth, and development.
Through study of the scriptures we can understand our relationship to God and how the basic gospel principles apply to our daily lives. Our study, however, should be constant and intensive, for the gospel of Jesus Christ embraces all truth.
Now regarding the second step to acquire a testimony—prayer—the Prophet Joseph Smith observed that “it is the first principle of the gospel to know for a certainty the character of God, and to know that we may converse with Him as one man converses with another. …” (Documentary History of the Church, vol. 6, p. 305.)
Near the end of the Book of Mormon, Moroni, a great leader, gave this promise:
“And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.” (Moro. 10:4–5.)
Although this promise specifically refers to the Book of Mormon, I am sure as you study the Bible, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price you will find that the promise is likewise applicable to these scriptures.
Prayer plays a vital part in our religious thinking and in our daily lives. One of my convert friends told me, “Because the elders emphasized that we should pray, I did. I barely had asked the questions when this beautiful answer came. Yes, that was the start of my new life.”
Another convert said, “I used to pray, not often, but I did pray before we became members. I prayed that someday my husband and I would grow closer together. I never thought it would come to be, but the Church was my answer. We found the power of prayer. I’m so thankful for the Church.”
Prayer then must accompany study for one to obtain a testimony of the truthfulness of the restored gospel.
The third part of the formula to obtain a testimony is to attend church and become involved in church activities. My Arizona convert friend also had this to say: “The first time we visited a ward meeting, I felt such a warm, loving feeling. All the people seemed to have smiles on their faces and hearty handshakes for us. We felt so welcome, and we knew we wanted to be a part of all this. This was the only way.
She continued: “Another aspect of the Church I love is its constant learning, developing, and growing power. I’m grateful for the opportunity to work in the Church because this constant contact is helping us to grow and develop in the gospel.”
Another convert expressed it this way: “As my husband and I were baptized, I had no idea just how involved we would become. My first calling was that of chorister in sacrament meeting.
“Then I was asked to be a Mia Maid leader. I asked the question, ‘What is a Mia Maid?’ I learned from experience. That is a girl at the delightful age of 14. The girls have so much enthusiasm and energy. I am thrilled with my calling in MIA. It keeps me feeling young and needed and busy.
“My husband, too, has held many positions in the ward, and his determination and dedication have been a strength to me.”

It seems that every class has its odd student, and my seminary class was no exception. One boy was a total loser in every sense of the word. At least it seemed that way.
He was skinny and combed his greasy black hair straight down so that it covered his eyes and hid him from the world. Mockingly, I compared him to an ostrich who buried his head in the sand so he couldn’t be seen by others. He always sat at the back of the room, never voluntarily participating in any discussion. Friends were out of the question. He never socialized with others. I feel ashamed to say it, but I thought he couldn’t do much of anything, and I know many of the other students felt the same way. I was extremely surprised when he won the championship scripture chase award. I smugly thought that he just had more time to study because he wasn’t involved in anything else. The night of our seminary closing social proved how wrong my opinion of him was.
That evening remains indelibly engraved upon my mind. I arrived early at the church—a miracle in itself—and found him already there. Again I rationalized that his promptness resulted from a lack of having anything else to do. I greeted him with a perfunctory hello, then hurried to help the other “more friendly” students set up chairs. Besides, I knew how he would react if I tried to start a conversation with him. First, his head would drop until his eyes became firmly attached to his fidgeting feet. His shaking hands would nervously jiggle his car keys, showing how uncomfortable he felt. He always tensed up whenever I came near. Instinctively, I decided to avoid that awkward experience.
Then the time came for the party to begin. I was trying to organize the other students when I saw my teacher peek into the chapel. A smile of pure delight appeared on his face, like the expression one would find on the countenance of a miner at the discovery of gold. Indeed, a hidden treasure had been found.
Beautiful music floated out through the chapel doors—not just notes but feelings. The person playing the piano had been blessed with outstanding musical abilities. I looked in, expecting to see an adult practicing for a performance. Instead I was shocked to see that the piano player was the quiet boy who I had thought couldn’t do anything. One by one, the entire class crept into the chapel while he continued to play complete compositions—from memory—of Bach, Beethoven, and others. Painfully, my conscience reminded me of my critical judgment of him. I had pronounced him a nobody, simply because he was different from me. I felt superior to him. What a joke! Humbled, I realized he must have numerous other talents to which my abilities couldn’t even be compared. What a mistake it had been to think of him as a nobody.
Someone coughed. Immediately, he glanced down, catching us like a bunch of children with our hands caught in his cookie jar. We were devouring his musical treats without permission. Instantaneously, he flushed crimson, not from anger as I expected, but from embarrassment. He closed the lid of the piano and slowly left the stand. Many compliments filled the air as he walked down the aisle and out of the chapel. Still red, he mumbled a humble thanks, not wanting any more of our attention.
The seminary party went on to be a success with everyone laughing, joking, and acting crazy. (I should say acting normal.) That is everyone except me. Somehow that small incident changed me in a very big way.

The gaunt figure came ambling up the rutted road leading to our slab-sided house on the hill. He was dressed in tattered pants and jacket, and his cap was nothing more than a bill, four heavy seams, and a button on top. His shoes consisted of shoestrings, bits of worn leather, and cardboard.
Poverty was not new to us. Dad worked on a public works program for the county, and we knew what it was to do without. Mom, however, always planted a garden, and it was the garden that helped us survive those long years of the Depression. We never went hungry.
The hobo’s look of uncertainty made me feel sad as I watched him come toward us. Bobby, my oldest brother, had already run to tell Mom, and my two younger brothers just stood there trying to decide whether this bundle of rags was a threat or just a curiosity. As for me, I was impressed that anyone so thin could climb the hill to our house.
Mom came out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind her. With the warmth of an angel, she greeted this stranger with all the dignity and pleasure that one would give a close friend. “You look kind of beat, young man,” she said. “Just step over to the well, and I’ll get you a pan of hot water so that you can wash up.” Pointing to the well, she went back to the house.
We were no different from any of our friends in the community; none of us had running water in our houses. My dad had dug the well years before when he had first built our house, and we took turns drawing water from the well for everything from drinking to bathing and washing clothes.
In a few minutes Mom was back carrying a wash pan, soap, towel, and Dad’s shaving cream and razor. “You’ll feel just like a million dollars, young man, if you get yourself shaved. After you’ve had a bite to eat, I’ll give you a haircut, seeing as how you could certainly use one.” With this declaration, she turned to the task of fixing him breakfast.
The four of us stood wide-eyed and watched the stranger as he washed and combed his hair. Then very carefully he shaved off his long beard with Dad’s razor, leaving his face tanned at the top and white at the bottom. We looked at each other and giggled, but never did he speak to us or we to him. Perhaps he was as puzzled by us as we were of him.
I was second to the oldest child, and the only girl, so I felt that perhaps I should take over the duties of hostess. The smell of hotcakes came drifting from the open door, and even though we had eaten, it was a heavenly smell. The stranger’s eyes shifted to the kitchen door and back to us. Digging my big toe into the dirt, I said, “My mom’s a really good cook. You’ll like her hotcakes.”
The man just nodded and said nothing. Shifting from one foot to the other, he gazed around the yard, taking in the picnic table that my dad had built and the old cookstove sitting in quiet dignity on cement blocks beside the well house.
“Why don’t you sit down,” I said, moving toward him cautiously. I wasn’t sure whether Mom intended for this bundle of rags to come into the house or not, but I felt that good manners forced me to say something.
Again he nodded. Moving to the table, he threw his long, thin legs over the seat and collapsed like a deflated inner tube.
With a flourish of pot holders and warming pan, Mom pushed open the screen door with her shoulder. She carried a stack of hotcakes, homemade syrup, and butter and set them on the table. She turned to me. “Sissy, run into the house and get this hungry young man a plate and a glass. And bring the pitcher of milk while you’re at it.” When I returned, she gave the table a last-minute check, then said, “Now, young man, you just dig right into these hotcakes, and you’ll feel better in no time.”
I have never seen food disappear so fast in my life! He was so hungry that it made me want to cry. I was thirteen years old, and I had never been hungry a day in my life. Most of the time our food was plain, but we always had plenty to eat.
As fast as the hotcakes were eaten, Mom put more onto his plate. I poured milk into his glass as fast as it vanished down his throat. At last he stood up and wiped his mouth with his ragged sleeve. “How can I thank you, ma’am?” he asked as he backed away from the table. “I’d be glad to chop some wood for you to pay for my meal—or whatever else you could find for me to do.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, young man, we’ll talk about that after I give you a haircut.” Mom smiled at him, then sailed into the house for her clippers and shears. Long hair was not something that she could abide on a man. It was an absolute sign of sinful neglect, and getting it cut neatly was your first step on the road to salvation, according to her. Mom was sure that the eleventh commandment was—or should have been—“Thou shalt be clean, with hair trimmed.” In no time at all, the young man was seated under the big old weeping willow tree, having his hair expertly cut.
There was something about my mom that made you feel right at home. She visited with the stranger, and in no time he was telling us who he was and where he’d come from, just as though he had known us all his life.
His name was Tad Bellows, and he was barely nineteen. He’d been raised in Missouri and had three brothers and four sisters, all younger than himself. His father had died when he was sixteen, and he’d left home, hoping to find work.
As Mom cut his hair, I saw this whole new person emerge. My mind remembered him as he had arrived, and matched it against this clean-cut young man. I wondered if his mother and brothers and sisters missed him. I wondered what it would be like to be a hobo, riding the rails among strangers—hungry, cold, and tired. I knew that some folks were hard on hoboes, thinking that they were just bums and having nothing to do with them. I quickly looked around at the home and family that I loved, and I silently thanked Heavenly Father for them.
“Just a minute, Tad,” Mom said as she shook out the old sheet she had put around him while cutting his hair. “I think that Dad has an extra cap you might as well have. The poor thing that you have has had its day.” She hurried into the house and returned with a cap and one of Dad’s old jackets.
Tad shuffled his feet in embarrassment but took the things that she handed him and headed for the woodpile. All morning we could hear him chopping away, and by noon we figured that he must have cut a stack high enough to build a fort.
At noon Mom called to Tad to eat lunch with us, and he did so gratefully, filling himself as though he had not eaten all those hotcakes just a few hours before.
My brothers and I were all blond and curly headed. We were each just two years apart in age, and during the summer Mom dressed us all in overalls, even me. They were easier to clean and much sturdier than dresses. We never wore shoes in the summer, except to church on Sundays or when we went berrying, so we must have looked funny to Tad. Our eyes never strayed from his face as we sat on the picnic bench, eating our sandwiches. Our blond curls and freckled faces shone in the sun, and our bare feet swung in perfect rhythm.
All of a sudden Tad winked at us and pulled a piece of green willow wood from his pocket. Placing it to his lips, he began to play. Soft at first, the melody floated across the yard and into the summer air as though seeking escape. Tad’s long thin fingers moved swiftly over the tiny holes, and the gentle melody grew and danced in the air like butterflies in flight. I wanted to sing along with its beauty, but the lump in my throat made it difficult.
We sat spellbound by the magic of it all, and when he lowered his arms, we clapped our hands and cried out with glee, urging him to play some more. Instead, he stood up quietly, tapped the simple flute gently in the palm of his hand, and stuffed it back into his ragged pocket. Looking at each of us in turn, he said, “I made it from one of God’s little miracles.”
He worked long into the afternoon, and we wondered what Dad would say when he came home to find half the backyard stacked with chopped wood. We each had our own chores to do before Dad came home from work, so the hours passed swiftly. It wasn’t until our stomachs began to tell us that it was time for dinner that we realized how silent it was in the backyard.
Hurrying around the stack of wood, and stumbling over each other, we were stunned to find that Tad was gone! But lying on the chopping block was a package of flower seeds and—wonder of wonders!—the magical little instrument that he had played for us. Written in a childlike scrawl on an old scrap of paper was, “Beauty has nothing to do with money. It is a gift of God!”

Once I find the names of family members who need their temple work done, I reserve the ordinances, print the sheet with their information, and then use it to print their ordinance cards off at the temple. In order to do the baptisms for the family members I have found, I usually go to the temple every week. I also attend our youth temple nights, where everyone there helps complete the baptisms and confirmations. Then, I give the names to extended family members, who have helped me complete a lot of temple ordinances for my ancestors. I also make sure that I get all of the cards back for my own records.
I have found so many names of ancestors without ordinances that my effort to do their temple work has become a ward effort. The adults in my ward come and get stacks of cards from me and take them to ward temple night after the baptisms and confirmations are complete. The bishop has told me that the numbers at our ward temple nights have increased in anticipation of helping me with this work. It has been amazing to see the excitement that this work has brought to others in the ward. Family history has affected so many more people than just me. I never would have imagined this would happen when I sat down at the computer that first day.

A friend of mine tells the story of coming to BYU for a job interview a few years ago when there was a huge hole in middle of campus for the underground addition to the library. This meant that many sidewalks were closed off and there were fences and detour signs everywhere. My friend had an appointment in the Administration building but he had parked by the student center. So he asked a freshman how to get there. The puzzled freshman furrowed his brow, thought about this for a moment, and then said: “You can’t get there from here.”
Too many young people feel this way nowadays about their own lives. They feel they can’t get through this assignment, class, or major; that they can never reach their goal to go on a mission, get married, have a family, qualify for a career, and so forth. In short, they can’t get there from here. So they are tempted to give up, feeling there is no hope; things will never get better; in fact, they’ll only get worse.
But there is hope! There is always hope! You CAN get there from here.

Let me share one final story about a lady in Mesa, Arizona. While serving as President of the Texas Corpus Christi, now Texas McAllen Mission, I was summoned to an Area Council meeting in Mesa, Arizona. Elder Gene R. Cook of the Seventy was serving in the Area Presidency and conducting the Saturday morning training session. He advised us that the meeting would be postponed until the mission presidents and stake presidents who were in attendance were paired off in companionships and went out as missionaries to call on church members who had been absent from the church for a number of years. My stake president companion was fairly young and fairly new on the job. Before we left the chapel we had a brief word of prayer and I picked up a hymn book to take along with my scriptures. We knew we had to do something to invite the spirit to be with us during our visit. The person we were assigned to call on was a middle aged lady who had had nothing to do with the church for more than 10 years. She was a widow. Her name was Sister Lockhart. We knocked on her door about 9:00 a.m. that Saturday morning. She opened the door only a few inches. I introduced ourselves and asked if we could come in and share a gospel message and that we were representing local church officials. Reluctantly she permitted us to step inside the doorway. I asked if we could go into her living room. She didn’t say anything but stepped aside which we interpreted as a partial positive response. After sitting I asked her if she would kneel with us and have a prayer before we shared our message. She refused to kneel. We felt uncomfortable and a good spirit was not present. Following a brief prayer I asked my stake president companion to read some verses in the 8th chapter of 1st Nephi relating to Lehi’s dream and the delicious fruit on the tree of life and how he was desirous that his family partake of the fruit which was the word of God. Neither the prayer nor the scripture caused any change in Sister Lockhart’s countenance and attitude. We always taught our missionaries different ways to invite the spirit. It is only the spirit that can teach and touch one’s heart. Everything else had failed. I opened the hymn book and asked if she would join with us in singing “I am a child of God.” She refused to sing with us. My companion and I sang a duet. Even though I love the songs of Zion and sing them regularly while on the tractor at the ranch, my wife can attest to the fact that singing is not my long suit. Fortunately, my companion had a beautiful voice. There was no change in Sister Lockhart’s countenance or facial expressions as we sang the first two verses. However, as we were singing the words of the chorus following the third verse; “Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way. Teach me all that I must do to live with Him some day,” her eyes became moist and tears began to roll down her cheeks. It was obvious that the spirit had touched her heart. She then confessed that she had been away from the Church too long. She committed to get her life in order and return to the fold. The stake president followed through with the bishop and relief society president to assure she had home and visiting teachers. The last I heard, Sister Lockhart had returned to full activity in the church and was enjoying all the blessings of the restored gospel.