Gospel Story Finder

Grandpa was sick, so Ashley was listening to the frogs all by herself. She heard the bullfrog boom, “Vruoomp! Vruoomp! Vruoomp!” Then his lady replied, “Bruoop. Bruoop. Bruoop.” And the little one jabbered, “Bripid, bripid, bripid.” Then the chorus started.
“Vruoomp! Bruoop. Bripid, bripid.” It was the most beautiful music in the whole world, and Grandpa was missing it because he was in the hospital. Ashley knew that Grandpa would get better faster if he could just hear the frogs sing.
Ashley lay still, listening and thinking. She missed Grandpa coming in and telling her good night. He always told her that if she listened to the frogs, who made the most beautiful music in the world, she’d soon be asleep. But before she fell asleep, she had an idea! She would have to plan carefully, but she would have something special for Grandpa when the family visited him tomorrow afternoon. She smiled as the frog chorus escorted her to dreamland.
The next day Ashley was playing in her room when Mom called. “Ashley, it’s time to go see Grandpa.”
When Ashley joined her parents, she was carrying a bundle wrapped in a towel.
“What’s that, Ashley?” asked Dad.
“It’s a surprise for Grandpa.”
Mom looked at Dad quizzically, but Dad just patted Ashley’s shoulder and said, “I think we can trust Ashley. She and Grandpa are pretty good friends.”
All the way to the hospital, Ashley could hardly sit still. She was excited and a little bit worried.
They went up the elevator and into the waiting room. Dad went to Grandpa’s room and brought him out in his wheelchair. Grandpa looked kind of sad and tired.
Ashley couldn’t wait to show him her surprise. She knew that it would make him happy. Taking the towel off an old tin can, she reached in. “Grandpa, I brought the old lady frog for you to see. She’s been singing, and I knew you were missing it. I thought that if we turned the lights off and were real quiet, maybe we could get her to sing.”
Grandpa’s eyes lit up, and he asked the nurse if it would be OK. She said she thought so, since no one else was in the room. So they turned off the lights and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited.
Finally Dad turned the lights back on. Ashley was trying not to cry, but tears leaked out anyway.
Grandpa pulled Ashley close to him and hugged her and said, “Ashley, that is the best present you could have brought me. You know, I almost forgot about frog music.
“Now, I don’t believe this old lady is going to sing without her chorus line, but if you put her back with the others, she’ll soon be singing again.”
“But I wanted you to hear it, Grandpa!” cried Ashley.
“Well, Ashley,” Grandpa said with a wink, “I guess I’ve heard those frogs singing together in the pond about a trillion times. I think if I just turn on my memory tonight, I’ll be able to pick up the tune just fine—but only because someone I love very much reminded me of the most beautiful music in the world.”
Grandpa did look happier, and Ashley was glad. On the way home Mom said, “Ashley, you were right. That was a wonderful gift for Grandpa. I’m glad you took it.”
That night the frogs sang better than ever before. “Vruoomp! Vruoomp! Vruoomp!” boomed the old bullfrog. His lady replied, “Bruoop. Bruoop. Bruoop.” And the little one jabbered, “Bripid, bripid, bripid.” Then the chorus started: “Vruoomp! Bruoop. Bripid, bripid. Vruoomp! Bruoop. Bripid, bripid. Vruoomp!”

The course of Leon’s life and professional career was altered, however, when he attended the annual Christmas fair held in Ljubljana in December 1995. There he noticed a display for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Two young men, Elder Shea Clawson and Elder Craig Tingey, stood by the display, talking to and answering questions for fairgoers. Leon was intrigued by the missionaries’ message.
Although his family did not have a religious affiliation, as a child Leon had searched for the true church. “I knew there was a God, that there was a true gospel,” Leon explains. “In my childhood I attended my parents’ church, but I never received answers to my questions there. So I left that church thinking there probably was not one true church after all. But I still had a testimony that there is a God, that there is something that is true. When I met the missionaries, my questions were answered. When I heard about principles of the gospel like the Word of Wisdom and charity and the law of chastity, they were familiar to me. They were the words I had been seeking my whole life. What the missionaries were telling me was so amazing and so good for me and my soul.”
Leon was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church on 5 January 1996, two weeks after meeting the missionaries. Leon remembers: “It was a day I will never forget. I had a very strong testimony of the gospel, and it grew every day. The missionaries were a great example, and I wanted to be like them.”

At the beginning of 2017, I was serving as a full-time missionary in the beautiful city of Duékoué in western Côte d’Ivoire. One morning, after completing my personal study guided by Preach My Gospel, I reread a passage inviting missionaries to pray continually about the truths they already knew so their testimonies could be strengthened. With that thought in mind, my companion and I left for our first appointment of the day, followed by some proselyting.
That afternoon, we visited our elderly friend, Brother Tahin, who was in his 70s. After the usual greetings and an opening prayer, we reviewed the previous lesson, discussed his commitments, and introduced the message we had prepared.
Just as we finished the introduction, a pastor—an acquaintance of Brother Tahin—posed a mocking question, doubting the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. I looked at my companion, who was still learning the language, and he immediately began to respond.
While he spoke, I prayed silently for him to find the right words. I also prayed for myself, remembering my study that morning. With sincere intent, I once again asked about something I already knew: “Heavenly Father, is the Book of Mormon true? Please confirm it to me again.”
The moment I finished my prayer, a gentle yet firm voice that was not my own spoke within me, accompanied by a spiritual warmth: “If the book is not true, why are you defending it?”
The joy and peace that followed this heavenly whisper deepened and clarified my testimony. When I spoke after my companion, I bore a powerful and renewed witness, with assurance and humility. My words carried such conviction that the pastor who had asked the question remained speechless.
When I finished, he did not speak again. Brother Tahin then said: “My children, I know today that you are true men of God. Your message is the truth. The calm and love with which you speak, even when people resist, show that you serve Jesus Christ. This book, the Book of Mormon, is true. And despite my eye problems, I promise I will make the effort to read it.”
That day was a heavenly moment for us. As we walked home, my companion rejoiced, and we both felt overwhelmed with gratitude. I recorded this experience in my missionary journal, and it has stayed with me ever since.

When I was 12 years old, my father took me hunting in the mountains. We woke up at 3:00 in the morning, saddled our horses, and set out up the forested mountainside in total darkness. As much as I loved hunting with my dad, at that moment I felt a little nervous. I had never been in these mountains before, and I couldn’t see the trail—or much of anything else, for that matter! The only thing I could see was the small flashlight my dad was carrying as it cast a faint light on the pine trees ahead of us. What if my horse slipped and fell—could he even see where he was going? But this thought comforted me: “Dad knows where he’s going. If I follow him, everything will be OK.”
And everything was OK. Eventually the sun came out, and we had a wonderful day together. As we started toward home, my dad pointed to a majestic, sloping peak that stood out among the others. “That’s Windy Ridge,” he said. “That’s where the good hunting is.” Instantly, I knew that I wanted to come back and climb to Windy Ridge someday.
In the years that followed, I would often hear my father talk about Windy Ridge, but we never went back—until one day, 20 years later, I called my dad and said, “Let’s go to Windy.” Once again we saddled our horses and started up the mountainside. I was now an experienced rider in my 30s, yet I was surprised to feel the same nervousness I had felt as a 12-year-old boy. But my dad knew the way, and I followed him.
Finally we made it to the top of Windy. The view was exhilarating, and the overwhelming feeling I had was that I wanted to come back—not for me this time but for my wife and my children. I wanted them to experience what I had experienced.
Over the years, I’ve had many opportunities to lead my sons and other young men to mountaintops, just as my father led me. These experiences have prompted me to ponder what it means to lead—and what it means to follow.

The reality of Aulola’s life, however, didn’t quite follow the plan in her heart. After her mission, it took some time before marriage became a priority for her, and by then she was in love with someone who didn’t share her faith.
“He’s a good man,” Aulola says. “He always welcomed [my Church’s] missionaries into our home and always fed them, but he was never interested in hearing their message.” His family are devout members of their own faith, and he would not break with their tradition. Their difference of religion put a great strain on their marriage. Aulola was unable to attend sacrament meetings as often as she liked, and she couldn’t raise their children in the Church the way she had been. Eventually, the contention in their home proved too much. After 23 years, the couple decided to part ways.
Aulola was devastated. She had lost her marriage and, with it, her hopes for the future with her family, but she was also suffering now from debilitating health issues. In her grief and pain, she turned to her Father in Heaven for guidance. “I fasted and prayed, and I promised the Lord that if He would accept me back, I would never turn away again.”
Her prayers kept leading her back to her patriarchal blessing, which brought her comfort and peace at such a troubling time. One day, she reread the promise that she could be sealed in the temple, and Aulola knew what she needed to do. “I realised that if I don’t do my part, it’s not going to work.” In that moment, she recommitted to follow all of Heavenly Father’s commandments, and to draw near to Him through church attendance, daily prayer and scripture study.
Before long, Aulola reconnected with an acquaintance from her early days in Tonga: Brother Semisi Mounga Mateialona, a priesthood holder who had recently found himself single again, too. They bonded over shared experiences and their mutual love for the gospel of Jesus Christ, and Aulola knew in her heart that this was the man for her. The couple got married in New Zealand in 2019 and at the end of September 2022, they travelled to the Nuku’alofa Tonga Temple to be sealed to each other for time and all eternity.
At a recent temple fireside in the Auckland Papatoetoe Stake, Aulola reflected on what she says is a miracle. As a young woman, she had experienced the sweet sacredness of the temple and knew how important it was to worship there. Then, for 23 years, she didn’t know if she could ever qualify for the temple blessings promised to her in her patriarchal blessing—but she didn’t give up hope.
It took time, patience and the kind of faith that changes lives, but now Aulola feels like she’s come home again. Finally, she can testify: “When you stay near God, He is going to bless you as He promised—if you do your part.”

Twenty-four years ago, our tiny newborn son struggled for his life in the intensive care unit of a hospital. His lungs were not fully developed because of his premature birth, and he desperately fought for each breath of air. He was so small but with so much will to live. As young and inexperienced parents, my courageous and ever faithful wife, Jan, and I prayed that the Lord’s hand would reach out and somehow help our baby boy continue to breathe. As I put my trembling hand through the small opening into the isolette, I felt so inadequate and powerless. I took hold of the tiny but perfect hand of our newborn son, and there was a powerful spiritual connection never to be forgotten. Two fingers from each of my hands covered his tiny head as I administered to him.

Our desire for him was pure, but we knew that his earthly experience rested in the Lord’s hands and not in ours or in the medical team who cared for him. I then humbly realized that my quivering hands held power and authority well beyond my own. My fingers on his head symbolized the placing of God’s hands and power upon our son. Following that blessing, in a moment of emotional peace, my eternal companion and I looked at each other across the isolette, feeling the spirit of renewed hope and comfort born of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and in the personal effect of His Atonement. It was a powerful witness of His love for an infant son who had just left His presence. We were then better prepared to accept His will for our son. We truly felt we had placed our hands in the hands of the Savior. It was as if the Savior’s own hands provided the critical respiratory aid, allowing our son to breathe and gain sustenance. With each breath and with each incremental bit of progress, we expressed prayerful thanks. Today our healthy son and his indebted parents continue to be so grateful for the Savior’s willing hands.

Papa laid a bright pink bracelet on the dining room table.
“Oh, Papa,” I cried. “Where did you get it?”
“I found it on the sidewalk in front of the barber shop.”
I picked it up and carefully slid it onto my wrist. I felt so beautiful. I’d never, ever worn anything so pretty.
“Can I have it?”
“Would you want to keep it when it belongs to someone else?” Mama asked.
“But maybe we can’t find who it belongs to.”
“Well, if we can’t find the owner, then you may have it,” Papa said.
That night when I knelt to pray, I wanted to ask Heavenly Father to bless us so we couldn’t find the owner. But the words wouldn’t come out. I tried three times, but I just couldn’t feel good about saying it. So I climbed into bed and decided to pray later.
The next morning I hurried into the kitchen. “Can I wear the pink bracelet to school?”
“That’s a good idea,” Papa said. “Maybe one of your classmates will see it and know who it belongs to.”
I skipped to my room to pick the perfect dress to go with the bracelet. Then I had a scary thought. If someone recognized the bracelet, I’d have to give it back. So I picked a blue dress with long sleeves. I pushed the bracelet way up under my sleeve. I worked it clear up over my elbow and pushed it to the very top of my arm. No one would see it there.
Usually I liked school, but not that day. It was too warm for my long-sleeved dress, and wearing the bracelet way up on my arm was uncomfortable. At recess I didn’t feel like playing, so I stayed in.
When the bell rang for the end of recess, I hurried to the drinking fountain and bumped into Stella. I noticed she was wearing a string of beads that were exactly the same pearly pink as the bracelet on my arm. I caught my breath. “Oh, Stella, where did you get such pretty beads?”
“My aunt sent them to me. She sent me a bracelet too, but I lost it.”
“Where did you lose it?” I asked.
“On the way home yesterday. I searched all the way up and down the sidewalk both ways, but it’s gone. I hope one of my friends finds it.”
I didn’t know what to do now. It felt like the bracelet was making a rash on my arm to punish me for hiding it.
Back at my seat I realized why it had been hard to say my prayers last night. It was because I wasn’t being honest. But now, all I wanted was to give Stella her bracelet.
The classroom was buzzing like a beehive. It wasn’t a nice, quiet place like my bedroom, but all at once I wanted to pray. From deep down in my heart I told Heavenly Father how sorry I was. I asked Him to forgive me and to please help me do the right thing with the bracelet. I suddenly felt good inside, and I began to gently work the bracelet down my arm, past my elbow, and onto my wrist.
As we left the school building, I stepped alongside Stella and handed her the pink bracelet. “You found it!” She squealed and gave me a hug.
“You said you hoped a friend would find it for you.” I smiled. “Well, that friend just happened to be my papa.”

Jessica paused by the weed-tangled, paintless picket fence to gaze with uneasy wonder at the old, hauntingly still, two-story house. It stood in the scorched summer field just off Banberry Road.
She knew nothing about the old woman who lived behind those chipped gray walls except what had been told her by the townspeople of the whistle-stop town of Dogwood. In fact, she had only seen Emma Murphy once since she moved here with her parents the summer before, yet she still remembered the woman’s pale, weathered face eroded with furrows that seemed almost as deep as the ones in Papa’s field. She had wondered then how a woman so old could ever have been a little girl. And Jessica remembered every word the woman said: “Get away from here, you nosy little scamp!” She also remembered how anger elbowed its way past her own uncertainty when she yelled back, “You don’t scare me, you mean ole … snippety snap!”
Jessica turned and stomped off that day, small puffs of dust exploding about her feet. She was doubly certain that the tales spun about Mrs. Murphy were true—tales about her never coming out of that house unless it was to chase some poor child away with a big stick and stories about her howling and bellowing at everyone.
And if the accounts about the old woman weren’t enough to make Jessica a firm believer, the sight of the house was! Its walls, wrapped in heavy vines, rose eerily skyward. The old swing on the buckled wooden porch was blanketed with dust, leaves, and a gauze of ancient webs; and it creaked in the slightest breeze like something alive.
Today Jessica was on her way to the creek, another half mile down Banberry Road. It was mid-July, and the sun that rolled and burned its way across the hot creek bed had sucked up all but a few isolated pockets of water. She felt sorry for the small fish trapped in the puddles and had taken upon herself the task of catching and transporting them by bucket to bigger ponds upstream.
She studied the old house a final moment from behind the tall yellow weeds that hedged the fence. Never once had she seen the musty curtains drawn open. It must be awfully dark and gloomy in there, she imagined, dark as Papa’s eyes were the day I poked fun at old Mike Kelsay’s long braided beard.
“A body’s different only to the extent that he’s himself and not anybody else,” Papa had sermoned. “If it’s in Mike Kelsay to braid his beard, then it’d be unnatural, maybe even wrong, for him not to. A body can’t be dishonest in his feelings and ever hope to come to terms with himself.”
Papa had a way of saying things that one just couldn’t argue with. Somehow he always sounded so right that all a good Christian heart dared do was store it away with other pearls of wisdom.
But does that make Emma Murphy’s wild stick waving and unfriendliness fine and proper? Jessica wondered. Her face twisted in confusion, and she was just about to turn her back on it all and start down the dirt road when she saw the old woman a second time. The ancient claylike face suddenly peered between the tattered curtains and stared out from behind dirty windows into the yard, glancing in both directions up and down the road. Then it disappeared, reappearing a moment later in a patchwork of light that filled the open front door. Mrs. Murphy stepped out onto the porch, and Jessica cowered behind the weeds.
She didn’t want to be caught staring—not again. Just to be caught by Emma Murphy was a fate that could put white hair on a twelve-year-old girl. Uncertainty pulled at the coattails of calm and dared her to feel at ease. She would have to wait out Mrs. Murphy, who was starting down the crooked path toward her. Jessica gasped and glanced quickly over her shoulder. Banberry Road was empty—not a wagon, buggy, nor single soul in sight. She was alone.
Jessica’s eyes shifted back toward the old woman, who hobbled closer still. The girl scrunched into a ball like a little dead spider and shut her eyes tighter than two pages in a closed book, expecting the worst.
After a moment of tense, sun-blistered silence, Jessica heard the old woman’s grating voice and dared to open one eye a slit, just enough to see Emma Murphy bent over a little grave marker in a tangle of briers just a few feet inside the fence. “Picked you some bluebells by the side of the house this morning, John.” The quiet reverence of the voice stunned Jessica so that her eyes popped open round and wide.
Mrs. Murphy placed the small wad of flowers atop the crude tombstone. “Not too regular I get out here, John,” she went on, “what with the way folks stare at me, like I was something out of a bad dream. Haven’t come by a kind word from anybody as long as I can pain to remember. Just the sound of rocks thrown against the house and people whispering things could turn a God-fearing woman into the hardest human being that ever took a breath. Folks call a body mean long enough, he’ll start believing it.”
Emma’s chin quivered and emotion stumbled her words. “Been downright choreful to act Christian of late, John.”
Jessica watched Emma brush away a tear, cock her head, and gaze darkly off down the empty road, her explosion of white hair rivering in the hot wind.
Up close, Jessica observed something that distance had hidden before. It was more than the corroding of time that had set the shadows so deeply upon Emma’s face. And it was something more than the scowl she wore like a tiresome chore. It was a look of loneliness every bit as sad as was Jessica’s when she had first moved to town and had not known a soul. But children and grownups alike had talked to her and made her feel at home. Soon the loneliness had pleasantly vanished like a late winter day filled with sunshine.
Mrs. Murphy’s eyes glanced back to the grave, and her knotty hands pulled feebly at the weeds around it.
Jessica rose slowly, rigid as an old field oak. She wasn’t sure where her courage came from. Maybe it was something Papa had said, or maybe guilt had pushed it out. Whatever the cause, it was a hair ahead of fear. Suddenly she realized there was something she had to do.
Mrs. Murphy’s eyes took hold of the girl in the rustling weeds. They widened with surprise and then narrowed with the old hardness. “What do you want here?” she snapped.
“I—I want to help you,” Jessica declared meekly.
The old woman stared, disbelieving her ears.
Jessica managed a smile. “Maybe I could help you pull some of those weeds, Mrs. Murphy.”
“You want to help me?” the voice scratched out with puzzlement and suspicion.
Jessica nodded. Emma Murphy straightened, her eyes still narrowed with distrust, but she was too dumbfounded to speak. And since she didn’t lift her voice or raise a stick to Jessica, the freckle-faced girl pushed through the rickety gate and started pulling weeds.
Emma continued to stare, completely taken aback by the girl’s friendliness and grit. Finally she said, “Nobody wants to help me.”
“I’m not ‘nobody,’” Jessica declared, “I’m Jessica Goodhue. I live a few miles down the road.” She twisted off a prickly brier twig, then squinted at Emma Murphy’s withered shape, shadowed against the sun. “Can we be friends, Mrs. Murphy?”
The old woman’s silent stare was unbroken.
Just as Jessica thought that perhaps she had made a horrible mistake by coming through the gate, Emma hunkered down beside her and eyed her so deeply that Jessica felt her very soul had been seen for the first time since Heavenly Father had told her good-bye and she was ushered down to earth!
A smile slowly faltered across Emma Murphy’s face like a young baby trying to walk. She extended her hand to Jessica, and a moment later a smooth, youthful hand was enfolded in one old and worn. Winter was suddenly gone from the old woman’s eyes, and warm tears meandered down a furrow in her cheek and disappeared into the folds of her neck.
For a long while the two just sat there, lost in the magic of the other; then they turned to pulling weeds together.
Two days later when Jessica walked by the old house with some friends on their way to save the last of the fish in the creek puddles, they noticed the curtains pulled back in Emma’s room. For the first time in their recollection, Emma Murphy had let in the light!

Some may ask why some of us occasionally have dreams that have a spiritual purpose. In general conference, Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared an experience having to do with dreams. He spoke of an inspired priesthood leader who was prompted to learn the names of all the youth in his stake. Shortly after the leader had learned all their names, the Lord revealed truth through a dream.
“One night the priesthood leader had a dream about one of the young men whom he knew only from a picture,” Elder Bednar said. “In the dream he saw the young man dressed in a white shirt and wearing a missionary name tag. With a companion seated at his side, the young man was teaching a family. The young man held the Book of Mormon in his hand, and he looked as if he were testifying of the truthfulness of the book. The priesthood leader then awoke from his dream.
“At an ensuing priesthood gathering, the leader approached the young man he had seen in his dream and asked to talk with him for a few minutes. After a brief introduction, the leader called the young man by name and said: ‘I am not a dreamer. I have never had a dream about a single member of this stake, except for you. I am going to tell you about my dream, and then I would like you to help me understand what it means.’
“The priesthood leader recounted the dream and asked the young man about its meaning. Choking with emotion, the young man simply replied, ‘It means God knows who I am.’”1

“I’m impressed with the five goals you scored in today’s game.” Collin turned around and realized the man was talking to him. “I’m starting a new soccer team and want to know if you would like to be on it.”
“Would I ever!” Collin thought. Collin was nine, and he enjoyed playing soccer. When he and his parents attended the first planning meeting for the new team, the coach explained that they would be playing in many tournaments on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. “Not on Sunday,” Collin thought.
After talking with his parents, Collin told the coach he wanted very much to be on the new team, but he would not play soccer on Sunday. He thought the coach would be mad and not let him be on the team. The coach paused for a moment and told Collin that he still wanted him to play. Collin felt peace in his heart and knew he had made the right decision. He was glad he had made the team. His parents reminded him that even if he had not been allowed to join the team, he had made the right decision.

Helping others can make a difference. Here’s a story worth telling:
A man walking on an ocean beach noticed that a young man was reaching down, picking up small objects, and throwing them into the ocean. As he came closer, he called out, “Good morning! What you are doing?”
The young man paused, looked up, and replied “Throwing starfish into the ocean.”
“Why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?” asked the older man.
To this, the young man replied, “The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don’t throw them in, they’ll die.”
Upon hearing this, the man said, “Young man, don’t you realize that there are miles and miles of beach and there are starfish along every mile? You cannot possibly make a difference!”
At this the young man bent down, picked up another starfish, and threw it into the ocean. As it landed in the water, he said, “It made a difference for that one.”

In the 1950s my mother survived radical cancer surgery, but difficult as that was, the surgery was followed by dozens of painful radiation treatments in what would now be considered rather primitive medical conditions. She recalls that her mother taught her something during that time that has helped her ever since: “I was so sick and weak, and I said to her one day, ‘Oh, Mother, I can’t stand having 16 more of those treatments.’ She said, ‘Can you go today?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, honey, that’s all you have to do today.’ It has helped me many times when I remember to take one day or one thing at a time.”

In closing, may I share with you a story of a woman whose life demonstrated trials, promises, and dedication to Relief Society.
Years ago, a faithful father and mother were traveling with three of their six daughters from Utah to Washington. About 13 miles out of Baker, Oregon, the car spun out of control, left the road, and rolled two and a half times. The second time it rolled over, the mother, who was driving, and her youngest daughter, who was 10 years old, were thrown from the car. Because the car did not have enough momentum to complete the third roll, it rocked back and pinned the mother and her daughter beneath its weight. The father quickly surveyed the situation and, knowing that if the car was not moved quickly his wife would die, he bowed his head in humble prayer and then proceeded to lift the huge Buick, with its wheels still spinning. The youngest daughter crawled from beneath as his 12-year-old daughter pulled her mother from beneath the car. The mother was critically injured and in terrible pain. As the father tended to the others, the 12-year-old daughter knelt beside her mother to comfort her. The mother reached for the girl’s hand and said, “Always remember who you are, and always be a good girl.”
The ambulance soon arrived, and the mother was whisked off to the nearest hospital. Amid the critical moments of that evening as the mother teetered between life and death, she pled with her Father in Heaven to spare her life long enough to see her six daughters married to worthy men in the house of the Lord. She promised that if He would grant her this righteous desire, she would then be ready to go, and she would dedicate her life to Him.
Miraculously, the woman steadily progressed over the days and weeks that followed until she fully recovered from her near-fatal injuries. More committed than ever, she faithfully served the Lord and focused her attention on raising her six daughters in righteousness.
Years later, while serving as the stake Relief Society president in Clearfield, Utah, she saw her youngest daughter married for time and all eternity. That day was the fulfillment of a sacred covenant between a beloved daughter of God and her loving Heavenly Father. The woman, her husband, their six daughters, and their eternal companions stood together in the house of the Lord. Her earnest plea from a hospital bed years before had been heard and fulfilled.
From that day forward, the woman’s health quickly declined under the ravages of cancer. Her condition worsened to the point that she could no longer continue in her calling as stake Relief Society president. As a result, she reluctantly accepted a release just weeks before she serenely and gratefully passed into the eternities, returning to a Heavenly Father who was mindful of her.
Sisters, that 12-year-old girl who knelt at the roadside beside her mother so many years ago, stands before you as a witness that:
“Your every need shall be fulfilled, now, and in the eternities; every neglect will be erased; every abuse will be corrected. All of this can come to you, and come quickly, when you devote yourself to Relief Society.”

In May, prior to her entering the Miss Utah Pageant contest, Sally found time to enjoy a two-week foreign language tour in Mexico.
There an older Mexican friend, charmed by the stunning blonde with an Acapulco tan, exclaimed, “You seem so happy all of the time. How can I be as happy as you?” Sally answered him without hesitation, “I am happy because I know that I am a daughter of God. And you are my brother. You can be happy too if you will become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

Three weeks after I opened my heart, received the gospel, and made the important decision to be baptized in 2001, I attended a Sunday School class in which we discussed the importance of observing the Sabbath day.
As a successful business owner with a large number of employees, I had been working on Sundays for more than 20 years. But as the importance of this day became clear to me, I decided to tell my three store managers that we were not going to open anymore on Sunday.
A few weeks after I announced my decision, my three managers told me that several insistent customers, mainly schoolteachers, asked whether we might open our stores the following Sunday. I work in the candy business in Papantla, and people needed to buy candy and piñatas to prepare for El Día del Niño (Children’s Day), which would be observed the following Monday. On Children’s Day, held on April 30 in Mexico, schools have parties and games, and children receive candy.
“Tomorrow, on Saturday, I’ll let you know,” I told my managers.
When I got home, I told my wife what had happened. I expected her to say, “Stay open. After all, it’s just one Sunday.” But that was not her answer.
With a firm voice, she told me that I was the head of the family and that it was my decision. But then she asked me, “If someone told you that this Sunday you could receive either a huge fortune or you could receive your Father in Heaven, which would you choose?”
Her question helped me realize the importance of receiving the Lord every Sunday, and I knew I had to stand by my decision. Honoring the Lord is the most important thing we can do on Sunday, and since then I have not missed an opportunity to do so.
If we put the things of the Lord before the things of man, we will be given a testimony of the Sabbath day. For our observance of the Sabbath day, my family and I have been greatly blessed, as has my business. May we all receive the blessings of honoring the Lord’s day.

The sun hung low after a warm summer day in Pacheco, in the Latter-day Saint colonies in Mexico. As five-year-old Mae and two-year-old Wasel played outside, they could smell smoke wafting from adobe chimneys and open fires. Supper would be ready soon. Sure enough, Mama called, “Mae! Wasel! Go wash up.” The girls quickly obeyed and went inside to eat.
After supper, Mama said, “Come, little Wasel.” Every night Wasel went with Mama and Papa to herd the cows. Mae and baby David stayed home with Aunt Hattie. Wasel loved this time alone with her parents. She was so excited that she ran outside still clutching her dinner spoon.
“I don’t think Wasel should come with us tonight. We have to care for some horses, and it may be too far for her to walk,” Papa said.
Mama nodded. “Wasel, Mama and Papa are going on a long walk tonight. Take that spoon back to the house and give it to Aunt Hattie. Then you can play with the other children, and tomorrow you can come with us to get the cows.”
Wasel just stood there, holding her spoon. She didn’t want to go back to the house.
“Run along now,” Mama said. Wasel turned and ran toward the house, but when her parents were out of sight, she put her spoon near the door and decided to go get the cows after all. She knew the way to the pasture. But she didn’t know that her parents hadn’t gone straight there.
The shadows grew long as the sun sank lower. Wasel walked and walked, through fields and corn patches. Wolves howled in the distance. Wasel came to a marshy area and walked there for a long time. She liked to feel the mud squishing between her bare toes.
When Mama and Papa returned from the cow pasture, Mama went inside to put the children to bed, and Papa went to the barn to take care of the animals.
“Hattie, where is Wasel?” Mama asked.
Aunt Hattie froze. “Wasn’t she with you?”
“Yes, but we sent her back here.”
“Well, I haven’t seen her!” Aunt Hattie exclaimed.
Mama and Aunt Hattie called for Wasel and searched in all the rooms and in the yard. Then Mama ran to the barn.
“Wasel isn’t here. I’m going to look for her,” she told Papa.
“She’s probably asleep somewhere,” Papa said. “I’ll look in the house.”
Mama knew that Wasel wasn’t in the house. She ran to the river and the cornfield calling, “Wasel! Wasel! Can you hear me, Wasel?” There was no answer, so she returned to the house.
“I think we need help,” Papa said.
Just then, Aunt Hattie pointed out the window. “Look! It’s Brother Carroll.”
Papa ran outside and stopped him. “Wasel is lost,” he explained.
“I’m on my way to the church for a meeting,” Brother Carroll said. “I’ll tell everyone that you need help looking for her.”
When Brother Carroll told Bishop Hardy that Wasel was lost, Bishop Hardy dismissed the meeting and asked the brethren to go search for her.
As everyone searched under the beds, in the outbuildings, and through the house, Mama began to fear for Wasel’s life. “We are wasting time looking for her here. We have already done that, and I know she’s not here!” she cried.
Wasel’s grandpa gathered the men together. “Let’s divide into small groups and circle the area,” he said. “Whoever finds her will return here and fire a gun five times to signal the rest of us.”
One group went with the bishop. They followed the road toward the cow pasture.
“Look, Bishop!” someone shouted. “Little footprints.”
The men held their lanterns high and carefully followed the footprints until they reached the marsh. The ground was too moist there to hold any tracks.
Bishop Hardy instructed the men to kneel on the soggy ground. Then he prayed for Wasel’s safety and for guidance to find her.
With teary eyes, Bishop Hardy rose. He thought he heard something and paused to listen. There, very faintly—yes! He could hear her! The others strained but heard nothing. “She’s calling for her mama!” he exclaimed.
Bishop Hardy ran toward the sound he heard so clearly. He stopped occasionally to listen—“Mama!”—and hurried on. He ran through fields and over hills for nearly two miles (3 km). He found himself in a rugged canyon, the moonlight falling softly around him. Then, suddenly, he saw Wasel walking wearily along the mountainside. Bishop Hardy ran to her and gathered her into his arms. “Mama,” Wasel whispered as she fell asleep.
The bishop carried Wasel back to the house as quickly as he could go. Mama took Wasel in her arms, and tears of joy flowed freely from her eyes. She offered a silent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for bringing little Wasel home safely.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bishop Hardy fired the gun with joy. When Papa arrived, he hugged his wife and daughter, weeping with gratitude. Then everyone knelt in a circle, and Bishop Hardy thanked the Lord for protecting Wasel. He knew that he couldn’t have heard her soft cries on his own. But the Lord was watching over Wasel and had helped him to find her.

May brings Teacher Appreciation Week, and youth of the Jurupa California Stake did not let their teachers be forgotten. Each student invited the best teacher he or she had ever had to a teacher appreciation dinner held at the stake center.
During the dinner, the young men and young women provided musical entertainment, and Bishop David Hanson of the Jurupa Fourth Ward spoke about Christ as the Master Teacher. Many of the 50 teachers who attended the dinner wrote thank-you notes commenting on how impressed they are with the youth of the Church and with the Church’s emphasis on education.

I wanted to write you and thank you for your article “I Didn’t Fit In” (May 2000). When I read it, I felt so grateful that I was not the only one in this vast world that has experienced that feeling of stupidity when you stand up for what is right in a crowd of people who are not doing what’s right. My roommate recently invited me to go with her to another city to visit a friend she hadn’t seen in a while. I agreed to go with her simply because she is my friend and I wanted to support her. When we arrived at the house, I walked in and was overwhelmed by the smell and the smoke. Everyone was doing drugs. I crouched in the corner hoping they wouldn’t see me, but of course they did and they started pressuring me to smoke. It became so overwhelming that I ran outside, got in my roommate’s car, and just cried until she finally came back out. During that time, I prayed harder than I’ve ever prayed. I longed so badly to be surrounded by my good LDS friends. I realized that even standing up for what you believe in is not enough. You have to be in the right places because the Spirit will not dwell where others around you are doing things to drive it away.
Name Withheld (via e-mail)

Soon after my husband and I were married, we were blessed with a son. When I saw his smile and looked into his eyes, I felt indebted to Heavenly Father. Our son seemed perfect to me. My husband and I thanked the Lord daily for such a precious gift.
On February 19, 2009, I packed in preparation to return to school for my final year of classes. My husband and I didn’t know that the next day our beloved son would contract a fever and leave this mortal life.
It was a difficult experience for me to bear. The members of our ward came to our home to console us with scriptures and hymns and to pray with us. I cherished their compassionate condolences, but my grief for my son persisted. Whenever I thought of him, my eyes became heavy with tears.
Four days after his death, I was inspired to study Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Joseph Smith. As I held the book, it fell open in my hands to the chapter titled “Words of Hope and Consolation at the Time of Death.” I began to read and was deeply affected by the tragic losses Joseph and Emma had suffered as they started their family. When I reached an excerpt from a speech the Prophet gave at the funeral of a two-year-old girl, I felt as if cold water had been poured on my head, cooling my grief-ridden thoughts.
I called to my husband. Together we read: “I have … asked the question, why it is that infants, innocent children, are taken away from us. … The Lord takes many away, even in infancy, that they may escape … the sorrows and evils of this present world; they were too pure, too lovely, to live on earth; therefore, if rightly considered, instead of mourning we have reason to rejoice as they are delivered from evil, and we shall soon have them again.”
The Prophet added: “A question may be asked—‘Will mothers have their children in eternity?’ Yes! Yes! Mothers, you shall have your children; for they shall have eternal life, for their debt is paid.”1
Since we read those beautiful words, our family’s prayers have been full of thanksgiving for the promise that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ we will be with our son again.
Today we have three wonderful children, siblings to our departed son. We are teaching them the true and everlasting gospel, which will guide them back to their Heavenly Father and to their Savior, Jesus Christ.
I know that the Prophet Joseph Smith’s message of life after death is true. I will be grateful forever for the hope, peace, joy, and happiness it brings to our family—on both sides of the veil.

Other contemporaries of the Prophet Joseph Smith were prepared for the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. In 1816, in response to a prayer much like Joseph’s, an angelic visitor informed Solomon Chamberlain that “faith was gone from the earth, excepting a few and that all Churches were corrupt.” The angel told Solomon that the Lord “would soon raise up a Church, that would be after the Apostolic Order, that there would be in it the same powers, and gifts that were in the days of Christ, and that [he] should live to see the day, and that there would [be] a book come forth, like unto the Bible and the people would be guided by it, as well as the Bible.” In 1829, while traveling on the Erie Canal, he felt prompted by the Spirit to stop in Palmyra. He walked three miles south of the community, then lodged at a farmhouse for the night. In the morning the house’s occupants asked if he had ever heard of the “Gold Bible.” Solomon later recalled that, at the mere mention of it, “There was a power like electricity [that] went from the top of my head to the end of my toes.”9
He made his way to the Smith’s home, where he told the family of his vision. They, in turn, told him of the Book of Mormon. They spent two days teaching him the doctrines of the book, and he then took some of the newly printed pages of the book with him to Canada, where, he recalled, “I preached all I knew concerning Mormonism.”10