Gospel Story Finder

On March 22, 2016, just before eight o’clock in the morning, two terrorist bombs exploded in the Brussels Airport. Elder Richard Norby, Elder Mason Wells, and Elder Joseph Empey had taken Sister Fanny Clain to the airport for a flight to her mission in Cleveland, Ohio. Thirty-two people lost their lives, and all of the missionaries were wounded.
The most seriously wounded was Elder Richard Norby, age 66, serving with his wife, Sister Pam Norby.
Elder Norby reflected on that moment:
“Instantly, I knew what had happened.
“I tried to run for safety, but I immediately fell down. … I could see that my left leg was badly injured. I [noticed] black, almost spiderweb-type, soot drooping from both hands. I gently pulled at it, but realized it was not soot but my skin that had been burned. My white shirt was turning red from an injury on my back.
“As the consciousness of what had just happened filled my mind, I [had] this very strong thought: … the Savior knew where I was, what had just transpired, and [what] I was experiencing at that moment.”1
There were difficult days ahead for Richard Norby and for his wife, Pam. He was placed in an induced coma, followed by surgeries, infections, and great uncertainty.
Richard Norby lived, but his life would never be the same. Two and a half years later, his wounds are still healing; a brace replaces the missing part of his leg; each step is different than before that moment at the Brussels Airport.
Why would this happen to Richard and Pam Norby?2 They had been true to their covenants, served a previous mission in the Ivory Coast, and raised a wonderful family. Someone could understandably say, “It isn’t fair! It just isn’t right! They were giving their lives for the gospel of Jesus Christ; how could this happen?”
The Norbys told me, “Disappointment comes to visit on occasion but is never allowed to stay.”24 The Apostle Paul said, “We are troubled … yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.”25 You may be exhausted, but don’t ever give up.26

When Spencer was young, his father saved money to buy a piano.
Father: Children, learning a musical skill is very valuable.
Spencer thought his fingers were too short and chubby for piano playing, and they were often chapped from playing marbles.
After a few piano lessons, Spencer wanted to quit.
Father: Spencer, if you’ll practice the piano today, I’ll let you do that instead of digging ditches with your brothers.
Spencer: Yes, sir!
When Spencer was 14, he joined a band and earned money playing at dances.
He also played for his friends at parties.
Friend 1: Let’s sing!
Friend 2: Who will play?
Friend 1: Oh, I can’t play without my sheet music.
Friend 3: I haven’t practiced.
Spencer: You can play a hundred times better than I can, but I’ll try.
His musical skill helped him years later as a missionary.
Elder Kimball: Is that a Kimball piano? That’s my name too.Would you like to hear a hymn played on a Kimball by a Kimball?
Man: All right. Come in.
As an Apostle, he often played for families he stayed with during his Church travels. He wrote, “They’ll forget my sermons, but they’ll never forget the singing.”

The outlines of this story are well known. In late 1827, working with the gold plates and the Urim and Thummim, Joseph Smith began translating the “reformed Egyptian” characters found in the book of Lehi on the large plates of Nephi. As part of this early work, he transcribed some of the characters as a sort of alphabet or reference guide. His primary scribe was then Martin Harris—a well-known and respected Palmyra farmer, an early and keen supporter of Joseph Smith’s work, and later one of the Three Witnesses. For a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the resentment of his wife, Lucy, at his growing involvement, Harris persuaded Joseph to let him take a transcription to New York City, as historian B. H. Roberts wrote, “to submit them to men of learning for their inspection.”3 Roberts says Harris submitted “two papers containing different transcripts, to Professors Anthon and Mitchell [sic], of New York, one that was translated and one not translated.”4

According to Anthon’s own accounts, Harris first visited Mitchill, who wrote him a letter referring him to Anthon,5 who in turn “stated that the translation was correct, more so than any he had before seen translated from the Egyptian” and that the characters “were Egyptian, Chaldaic, Assyric, and Arabic; and he said they were true characters . . . and that the translation of such of them as had been translated was also correct.”6 However, when Harris said that an angel had given Joseph the book, Anthon tore up his certificate, vehemently denied the possibility of heavenly manifestations, and told Harris to bring him the plates, which he would translate. When Harris replied he could not do so and that parts of the plates were sealed, Anthon brusquely responded, “I cannot read a sealed book.”7 Harris promptly returned to Mitchill, “who sanctioned what Professor Anthon had said respecting both the characters and the translation.”8 Sometime later this entire episode came to be interpreted as fulfilling Isaiah 29:11, which speaks of “the words of a book that is sealed, which men deliver to one that is learned, saying, Read this, I pray thee: and he saith, I cannot; for it is sealed.”9 Whatever else Harris gleaned from these leading scholars, they confirmed his beliefs and encouraged him to devote his time, energy, and resources to the translation and publication of the Book of Mormon. If he left Palmyra wondering and inquiring, Harris returned supporting and defending.

Luther Bradish
William W. Phelps recalled that Harris went to New York City by way of Albany, the state capital.10 Pomeroy Tucker mentioned that “he sought . . . the interpretation and bibliological scrutiny of such scholars as Hon. Luther Bradish, Dr. Mitchell, Professor Anthon, and others.”11 Why was Harris interested in this man Bradish?

Thus Bradish was more conversant with contemporary American interests in the Middle East and with Egyptian archaeological excavations and the emerging field of biblical archaeology than any other contemporary American. Though not a linguist by training or profession, he knew firsthand of the rising interest in Egyptian hieroglyphics and antiquities. This fact coupled with the strong likelihood that Martin Harris and Luther Bradish were acquainted and that Bradish knew men in New York City renowned for their learning may explain why Harris visited Bradish in Albany before continuing on down the Hudson to New York City.

The Christmas season often reminds me of my childhood and the feelings of beauty, joy and peace during this special time of the year. My grandmother, a devoted Catholic, taught me to enjoy this wonderful season of the year. Usually every Saturday I would go with her to the local Catholic church, where we would clean the building and then decorate the stand with natural flowers in preparation for the Sunday worship service.
I remember we once had to decorate the chapel for a Christmas Eve celebration. We picked flowers and entered the church, but before we started decorating, she softly and convincingly told me, “Today’s decoration is special because tomorrow, we celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus, the Son of God.” I had a special feeling. I had just learned from my family that Jesus is our Savior.
Realizing that I had the privilege to prepare to celebrate His coming gave me a special feeling that I have not forgotten. That Christmas had a deeper meaning for me. The Christmas song we sang that day—“Faraway, I hear angels of heaven singing glory to God in heaven and peace on earth to men of good will”—still echoes in my mind. Looking at the Nativity scene, I felt like I was part of the event of the birth of Christ. The Nativity scene was often decorated with candles that illuminated our eyes and our hearts. It was not adorned with decorations that we have today, but its simplicity and natural beauty gave true meaning to Christmas. I felt that someone special had been born—He was my friend, my Savior and the Light of the World. I felt an unusual peace in my heart and, being a child, I could not quite yet understand where that feeling came from, nor could I explain it. I am grateful today for my grandmother, Geneviève Nkulu Yohari, who understood and put into practice the Savior’s call, “Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 19:14).

Tommy jumped out of bed and ran over to his hat tree. He did this each morning as soon as he woke up. What shall I be today? he wondered. A fireman? No, I was that yesterday. A baseball player? No, I was that Monday. Maybe a cowboy? Yes! That’s what I’ll be today. He reached up, took his cowboy hat off its peg, and put it on as he started down the hall to see what his mom was fixing for breakfast.
“Well, Tommy, I see that you’re a cowboy this morning,” said his mom as Tommy hurried into the kitchen and sat down in his chair.
“I’m not Tommy. I’m Cowboy Billy, and I’ve come to see what kind of grub you have for a hungry cowpoke.”
“Well, pardner, I’ve rustled you up some eggs and bacon and a glass of milk,” Mom said as she set his food down on the table.
“Well, Ma’am, that sounds pretty good,” said Tommy before blessing his breakfast and starting to eat. As soon as he was finished, he hurried off to get dressed.
Back in his room Tommy started looking for his chaps and his furry vest. He knew that before the day was over he would probably have to chase some rustlers and maybe a bank robber or two, so he opened his closet and pulled out his stick horse, Sam. Once he was dressed, he hopped onto his horse, galloped down the hall, and went outside. Tommy spent all morning playing in the backyard, and by lunchtime he was a pretty tired little cowboy. He rode Sam into the kitchen and put him by the door.
“Ma’am, do you have some oats for my horse?” asked Tommy. “He’s had a long morning chasing rustlers, and he’s pretty hungry.”
“Well, pardner, let’s see what I have,” Mom said. She held a bag up to Sam’s mouth.
Tommy could barely keep his eyes open as he ate his lunch.
“Well, pardner, don’t you think you should mosey on down to the bunkhouse and rest for a while?” suggested his mom. “I’ll wake you if you’re needed to chase any rustlers or bank robbers.”
Tommy slowly got up and headed down the hall to take a nap. Later, when he woke up, he jumped up and ran down the hall to the kitchen, shouting, “Got to go, Ma’am. There’s a bunch of robbers at the bank!” He jumped onto his horse and headed for the backyard again.
That night when Tommy got ready for bed, he put Sam to rest on his pillow, put his chaps and vest back in the closet, and put his hat back on his hat tree. Then he hopped into bed.
As Mom kissed Tommy good night and turned out the light, he was wondering which hat he’d choose the next day. Maybe I’ll be a fireman or a spaceman. Or maybe I’ll just be Tommy.

Let me speak of another experience where the heart of the widow was in full view. In Samoa, we labor with village councils to gain access for missionaries to preach the gospel. A few years ago, I had a conversation with a chief from a village where the missionaries had been prohibited for many, many years. My conversation occurred not too long after the paramount chief had opened the village to the Church, permitting our missionaries to teach those interested in learning about the gospel and its doctrines.

After so many years, to have this miraculous turn of events, I was curious to learn about what had happened to cause the paramount chief to take this action. I asked about this, and the chief with whom I was conversing replied, “A man can live in the dark for a period, but there will come a time when he will long to come into the light.”

The paramount chief, in opening the village, demonstrated the heart of the widow—a heart that softens when the warmth and light of the truth is revealed. This leader was willing to relinquish years of tradition, confront much opposition, and stand firm so that others might be blessed. This was a leader whose heart was focused on the welfare and happiness of his people rather than on considerations of tradition, culture, and personal power. He gave away those concerns in favor of what President Thomas S. Monson has taught us: “As we follow the example of the Savior, ours will be the opportunity to be a light in the lives of others.”3

While I was daydreaming at school, a popular guy invited me to his party. “My parents are out of town,” he said. “I hope you can come!” He winked mischievously.
I knew his wink probably meant there would be alcohol at the party. I also knew that if his parents weren’t going to be there, then I probably shouldn’t be either.
Without hesitation, I said, “No, thanks. I won’t be able to make it.” He furrowed his brow and said, “I don’t get you Mormons. You never have any fun!” Then he turned and walked away.
I knew I had done the right thing. But as the hours ticked by, I began to doubt my decision. I thought, “Why don’t I go? It’s not like my parents would ever know. It’s not like I would drink.”
These thoughts continued until my last class. I tapped my pencil on my desk and asked myself again, “Why don’t I go to the party?” At that moment, I looked down at my pencil. Written on the side was the word Integrity. It was the brand name of the pencil I was using, but it was also a little answer to a big prayer in my heart.
I’m grateful Heavenly Father gave me an answer exactly when I needed it, and I’m glad I didn’t go to the party. I know I can make good choices because I am Heavenly Father’s child and I have integrity.
Missy D., Arizona, USA

In the humid heat of a Thai morning, the newly ordained elder knelt on an old newspaper to protect his knees from the rough concrete floor of the hut. He was wearing a second-hand white shirt, an old tie, and sandals on his feet. Reverently, he broke bread and blessed it. Thach Khuong was not only grateful for the opportunity to participate in a sacrament service, but also for life itself. He had recently led his family through the dangers of war-ravaged Vietnam and Cambodia to the promise of freedom and safety in a United Nations refugee camp in Panat Nikom, Thailand.
When Brother Thach first arrived at the camp, he surprised Church welfare services missionary Elyce Jones by shaking her hand instead of giving her the traditional Cambodian bow of greeting. He told her that he was a member of the Church and that he held the Aaronic Priesthood. It was welcome news. Welfare services missionaries were assigned to teach refugees Western culture and English as a second language, but it was against United Nations’ policy for them to proselyte. However, with proper authority, refugee Church members were permitted to conduct Church affairs, including Sunday services.
At Brother Thach’s news, Sister Jones and other welfare services missionaries contacted Elder Marion D. Hanks of the First Quorum of the Seventy, then the Church executive administrator for Southeast Asia, and informed him that an Aaronic priesthood holder had arrived in the camp. Following a personal interview, Elder Hanks ordained Thach Khuong to the office of elder. “Brother Thach was our first priesthood holder in the camp,” says Sister Jones. “With his ordination, we were permitted to hold Sunday services.”

After Joseph Smith had completed translating the Book of Mormon, he still had to find a publisher. This was not easy. The complexity of this lengthy manuscript and the cost of printing and binding thousands of copies were intimidating. Joseph first approached E. B. Grandin, a Palmyra printer, who refused. He then sought another printer in Palmyra, who also turned him down. He traveled to Rochester, 25 miles (40 km) away, and approached the most prominent publisher in western New York, who also turned him down. Another Rochester publisher was willing, but circumstances made this alternative unacceptable.

Weeks had passed, and Joseph must have been bewildered at the opposition to accomplishing his divine mandate. The Lord did not make it easy, but He did make it possible. Joseph’s fifth attempt, a second approach to the Palmyra publisher Grandin, was successful.3

After her eligibility for college competition was up, she decided to go on a national professional tour. It was a tour that involved Kurt Thomas and other well-known gymnasts, and Diane would get paid $5,000 just to go. She says she knew her gymnastics career was mostly over, but she just wanted to hold on to the thrill of the spotlight and the fun of the sport for as long as she could.
During training for the tour Diane was practicing a vault she’d done thousands of times. She ran toward the vault just like she had done every other time. She jumped on the springboard like all the other times and flew into the air—just like all the other times. This time was different though. This time she rotated just a little too much. This time when she landed, she broke her neck. The accident put her in the hospital for almost half a year and in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.

I learned something of how prophets feel about those who may be left on the outside looking in — or in other words excluded. It is a simple story, but one that for me conveyed a powerful message. Some years ago I had been asked to make a brief report to the Church Board of Education regarding some things that were being done here to allow more students to attend our school. (I notice from a recent press release that you continue working to make that happen.) I made my report with some emphasis on how many fewer had been denied admission during the current year than had been the case for the previous year. It was a significant number, in the thousands. In retrospect, I think I may have sounded more pleased with that progress than I wish I had. As the report was concluded, there seemed a momentary silence, and then President Hinckley asked: "What happened to the "few" who were still not admitted?" His thought was not about the many who were in, but rather about the few who were not. With prophets as with temples the point is the inclusion of all who wish it.

I was worried. My Primary teacher had asked me to give a talk the next week in sharing time. “You could bear your testimony about prayer,” she had said. We had just talked about prayer in our class.
I had prayed many times. I always said my own prayers, and I often prayed during family prayer. I had prayed for blessings on the food many times too, and I had prayed in Primary before. But now I wasn’t sure I had a testimony of prayer or if I understood how prayer could help me. Does someone really hear me when I pray? I wondered.
I went to the kitchen, where my mother was getting dinner ready.
“Mama,” I said, “how can I bear my testimony of prayer when I’m not sure I have a testimony of it?”
Mama put her arm around me. “Why don’t you give a lesson about prayer in family home evening tomorrow, and we’ll talk about it together,” she said.
My mother helped me find stories and conference talks about prayer. Then I began to prepare for family home evening and for my Primary talk. I thought about it all day—at home, at school, and at soccer practice.
When I gave the lesson that night, Mama and Papa told me how prayer had helped them. I gave my Primary talk the next Sunday too, but I didn’t feel much different. I still wondered if I had a testimony of prayer. I prayed about my doubts, but the answer didn’t come right away.
One day my father came home after looking for work all day with no success. He was very sad. He had been out of work for many weeks. I ran to him and hugged him, as I always did.
“Don’t be sad, Papa,” I said. Then suddenly I felt something in my heart. “We need to pray,” I said.
“Right now?” Papa asked.
“Yes, right now,” I said. “I believe Heavenly Father will hear us.”
We knelt together and prayed, asking Heavenly Father to comfort us.
After the prayer we read the scriptures, as we did each night, and then sat together and talked. I noticed that little by little our sadness was replaced with the happiness we always had in our home. I felt different—as though we were safe and protected, and I knew that everything would be all right. It was a wonderful feeling.
Mama noticed it too. “Can you feel it, Lucas?” she asked quietly. “The Holy Ghost is comforting us, helping us know that we are not alone.”
“Yes, I feel it,” I said. I knew that Heavenly Father heard our prayer.
It was a night that I will never forget. Now I have my own testimony of the power of prayer.

Brother Carlstrom, in his daily journal, narrates the contentment he reveled in one evening: “We made camp. Some of us wanted to sleep on the beach, but after a while we were forced to higher ground by the unusually high tide. … The day’s end caught most of us watching the beauty of the coast as wild fowl flew … before us. As the sun sank … , it filled the sky with all shades of reds and oranges, with slight traces of pink. … It was replaced by the moon, almost full, as it came over the mountains in back of us, painting the ocean’s surface with flickering light. It was soon joined by other heavenly bodies and God’s handiwork was displayed before us. We had just received our compensation for an afternoon of hard, uphill riding, and we all were thankful.”

Before giving a personal example, let me share a caution from Elder Neal A. Maxwell. He said:
Whenever Church members speak of consecration, it should be done reverently while acknowledging that each of us “come[s] short of the glory of God,” some of us far short. Even the conscientious have not arrived, but they sense the shortfall and are genuinely striving.11
I count myself among the genuinely striving and genuinely falling short. But let me recount a way in which our family has exercised our consecration that has become deeply integrated into who we are.
Fifteen years ago, my dear wife, Christine, felt inspired to look into foster care after bearing three sons. Health concerns made it imprudent to have more pregnancies, but we felt that we had surplus love, energy, and resources that we could share with more children. And who better to help than the most vulnerable—whose birth homes are currently insufficient—for whatever amount of time they would need it?
With much prayer, we started getting licensed. Since our cautious beginning, we have welcomed twenty-one children into our home. With my wife’s medical expertise, we were almost always caring for medically fragile infants—so we’ve had pretty intense sleep deprivation! Many of these children were with us for short durations while their health stabilized, a few of them stayed with us for months, and three of them are now staying with us for eternity.
In terms of exercising agency, though, I emphasize that foster care was not a one-time choice but has required continual evaluation of our consecration. The state has called us regarding potential placements many times; each time we have prayerfully considered the request, and, frankly, we have said no at least as often as yes.
One of the most consequential decisions happened in June 2014. I was traveling for an economics conference and got a call from my wife about a placement of three children. We discussed it but readily felt that it was not right for our family at that time. The very next day my wife called again with another placement of infant twins, and we both felt a different gravity of the decision. After some discussion we hung up, and each prayed independently—1,200 miles apart—I in a deserted university hallway.
When we called each other back, I first asked my wife to list all the reasons this placement could be a bad idea for our family at that time. She did, after which I confirmed that she had included all the same points I had considered. I then added, “That being said, we need to call them back and say yes. Those girls need to be in our home.” My wife confirmed that this was the answer she had also received.
Well, we did call back, and they did come to our home. And they have never left. On their first birthday they were sealed to us in the Salt Lake Temple. Of course it’s not always easy (whether raising these girls or, frankly, in any foster care case). This photo in particular foreshadows many future squabbles between the girls! [A photo of twin girls, one grabbing her sister’s hair, was shown.] But in the hard times, I frequently remember my prayer in that lonely university hallway. We chose this! We exercised our agency and trusted our prompting. We knew it was right.

Besides seeing his family sealed together, Michael has another hope—of becoming a champion wrestler. He’s been undefeated for three years in his weight and age division in the South New Jersey Wrestling Association. But sometimes he has to make tough choices between two things he loves—wrestling and the Church.
A few years ago, a very important tournament was coming up. Michael’s parents thought that the tournament was on a Saturday, and he signed up to go. When they found out it was on a Sunday, his father asked him if he still wanted to be in the tournament. Although he knew that his team was counting on him to score some team points for it, he said, “Well then, I can’t go.” He explained, “It’s hard not to go to Sunday tournaments, but I don’t, because it’s against a commandment. And I’ve had a lot of blessings.” Since making that decision the first time, not competing on Sundays has been easier. And his decision has showed others that he lives what he believes.

When Robert L. Backman was 12 years old, his father was called to be president of the South African Mission. Young Robert soon found himself living in Capetown and attending Rondebosch High School, a very strict English prep school. “The first weeks of school were a difficult time for me. I was strictly a minority and felt like a curiosity. I cried myself to sleep at night more than once, particularly when missionaries I had come to love went home. I wanted to go home with them.”
At school, Robert was indeed something of a curiosity. “Everybody wanted to hear me speak, so at recess they’d gather around me and try to provoke me into conversation, and then they’d try to mimic my accent.” Appalled at his student’s barbarous American twang, one cultured British teacher undertook to reform Robert’s speech. “Martha came down the garden path carrying a large basket of tomatoes,” he would intone in his most cultured diction, each vowel floating heavenward like a balloon. Then the young American would deliberately repeat the phrase with a Yankee accent so heavy that the good professor would shake with anguish. “He’d slam his ruler down on the desk he was so angry. We had a contest. I was just as stubborn as he was and bound and determined he wasn’t going to break me of my accent. He never did.”
To make matters worse, many of the parents of students didn’t want their children becoming too friendly with this young foreigner who might not only corrupt their speech but, since he was a Mormon, might undermine their morals as well. To a boy that age, belonging is very important, and so all this was difficult to accept.
There was another problem. After the easygoing pace of schoolwork in the United States, Rondebosch was academically tough. Robert studied English, French, Latin, math, chemistry, physics, and a couple of history courses all in the same term, attending school from 8:00 till 4:00 five days a week and till 1:00 on Saturday. And every night there was a crushing load of homework.
Discipline was also strict. Once a young school fellow made a remark that Robert took exception to, and a fight ensued. The two antagonists were ushered into the office of the headmaster, who politely asked them to please touch their toes. “He then pulled out a bamboo rod with a little steel tube right up the middle of it and gave us six good ones across our bottoms to teach us not to fight.”
But while the first weeks went badly at school, Robert turned more to the Lord and his religious faith for support, performing his duties as a deacon with great pride. His young faith grew strong. “I don’t think I’ve ever doubted. I’ve questioned. I’ve been exposed to a lot of other philosophies in my schooling, but I’ve never really had any doubt. I have always believed that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I’ve never had any question about the Savior and his mission, his death and resurrection. I suppose that part of that is due to my exposure to the missionaries quite early in my life. They buttressed me during those traumatic years when one ordinarily might be having some of those real doubts.”
And so, gradually, an unhappy situation became a happy one. “I got used to it and won my way, as youngsters usually do, and I ended up playing some rugby on the junior squads and made friends at the school and began enjoying myself.” Even the heavy academic demands turned out to be a blessing. “It was really a good discipline to my life and set me in some study patterns that have been of great benefit to me ever since.” And though it must have seemed merely a question of survival to young Robert at the time, it was a battle won, and his spiritual strength increased.

I’m grateful for the bishop’s encouragement and belief in my daughter’s ability to be able to settle down in a sacrament meeting. He didn’t judge me for not being able to get my daughter to be reverent all the time. I will never forget the day he assigned me to give a talk on the responsibility of a mother. I felt it was a role I had fallen very short on, but my bishop didn’t. On Mother’s Day, the bishop, knowing that I often had to leave church early, ran after me to ensure that he personally handed me my Mother’s Day card and gift. That deeply touched my heart.

After my mission I wanted to attend college, but my family could not afford to send me. So I took a job in the freight yards of the Southern Pacific Railroad in Los Angeles to earn money for school. I worked fourteen hours a day moving freight between warehouses and boxcars on a two-wheeled hand truck. Often I had a thousand-pound load on the hand truck. I’m sure you can understand why I was tired at the end of the day.
I was living with my sister two or three miles away. The streetcar fare was ten cents, and I trudged the whole distance each way in order to save twenty cents a day. I wanted very much to go to college, and walking that distance made my goal that much nearer realization. I was able to save enough to return to my home state of Arizona and attend the University of Arizona.

What the power of the Spirit can communicate beyond the meaning of words is clearly seen in an experience of Brother Peter Mourik, real estate director for the Church in Europe. He met with city officials, including the mayor, to negotiate the purchase of the former city hall. If it could be purchased, it was to be converted into a meetinghouse for the Church. The mayor of the neighboring German town was also present, inasmuch as a recent change in the boundaries involved both communities in the transaction.
The gentleman who introduced Brother Mourik to the mayors and officials did so in a spirit of levity. He said, “I want to introduce Mr. Mourik here, who represents this denomination … this sect … this group.” He finally got around to saying “This church.”
Then Brother Mourik raised his hand and said, “Mr. Mayor, I object.”
The mayor answered, “The meeting hasn’t even started. What are you objecting to?”
Brother Mourik replied, “Before we start, I’d like everybody to understand who and what it is I represent. I represent The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the only true church upon the face of the earth today!”
This statement incited laughter. Then the mayor said to the gentleman introducing Brother Mourik, “You’d better be careful what you say about this church!”
Brother Mourik thought that this had settled the preliminaries. But the mayor of the smaller town spoke up and said, “I would like to say something about this church. We have leased a schoolhouse to them for over two years. I have found them to be a very beautiful people. I go to the swimming pool on the school grounds quite often. One night I found a special gathering of their church members near the pool. They were holding a baptismal service. I sat quietly at the rear of the group and watched. They sang a hymn. I thought it was beautiful. Then someone prayed, and when he said ‘Amen,’ they all said ‘Amen.’ I was impressed with that. Then a teenage girl got up and spoke about what Christ and the Church meant to her. She was moved to tears. I, too, was deeply moved. I was further moved by the heartwarming sincerity, the oneness and spiritual unity of these people. When I went home, I said to my wife, ‘Let’s get more information about this church. We need to find out more about it.’”
When the mayor concluded, Brother Mourik said: “Mr. Mayor, you would make a good bishop in our church,” and they all laughed again.
But the feeling in the meeting had changed profoundly. The Spirit of the Lord was there and was speaking to the hearts of those present. So Brother Mourik was impressed to say, “Since the mayor has explained to you what our church is about, I’m sure now you understand why we need to purchase the building at the lowest possible price.”
The Church bought this choice piece of property at a very greatly reduced price. This was accomplished because Brother Mourik had the courage to bear his testimony. This testimony was accompanied by the power of the Spirit, which inspired the mayor to speak and which communicated a favorable conviction about the Church to the city officials. What the Spirit communicates to the hearts of men is beyond the power of words to portray!

As a young boy living in Mexico, I was given the job of watching our cattle in the field as they grazed. One day I became bored with this chore and went to play, leaving the cattle unattended. I played all day, returning to my chore only when it began to get late.
As I approached the field, I realized that the cattle were gone! I could picture my father’s face—how disappointed and angry he would be! I was his eldest son. He had taught me to be responsible, and he was proud of me. How would he feel about me now? Quickly I searched for the cattle from one end of the field to the other. I couldn’t find them anywhere!
As I wondered what to do, I remembered something my father had taught me—if I ever needed help, I could pray to my Father in Heaven, and he would help me. I needed help then! I knelt and asked Heavenly Father to help me find the cattle. Then, sure that I would find them, I searched again.
But the cattle were nowhere to be found! I became angry. I had prayed, as my father had taught me. Why hadn’t Heavenly Father answered my prayer?
I stormed home. I had almost forgotten about the cattle and how upset my father would be. I wanted to know why my prayer hadn’t been answered. My father listened patiently as I explained what had happened. In his wise way, he asked me what I would have done the next day if Heavenly Father had helped me find the cattle. “Would you leave the cows again, thinking that your Father in Heaven would find them for you?”
After some thought, I replied, “Yes, that is probably what I would do.”
My father told me to kneel again—this time to ask for forgiveness and to promise that I would never again leave the cattle to go and play. I did as he said. Then, humbly, I once more asked Heavenly Father to help me find the cows. With my father by my side, I returned to the field and found the cattle there.
I learned an important lesson that day. Heavenly Father does not give us what we want just because we want it. He answers our prayers when we have done our part. And he answers them in a way that will help us become better people.