Gospel Story Finder

I will never forget the events of that day. The symptoms came suddenly: cold sweats, a racing heartbeat and, eventually, unconsciousness. As I regained some awareness, I sensed a profound spiritual presence surrounding me. Confused and desperate, I called for help, only to feel lost and disoriented. Then something extraordinary happened.
When the paramedics arrived, one of them called me by name—a stranger who radiated calm and love, unlike anyone I had encountered before. The other paramedic stood in the shadows, his presence darker and less comforting. As I lay there, caught between life and death, I heard a clear voice in my mind: “I gave you the wisdom and it’s time for you to use it.” I realised I was experiencing something divine.
The first paramedic, whom I now believe was an angel, reassured me, his presence filling me with peace. I prayed earnestly, confessing my struggles and seeking repentance. Every time I mentioned the greatness of Jesus Christ, the angel smiled, his joy and love enveloping me. Meanwhile, the second paramedic growled, but the angel silenced him with a single look.
The angel asked if I wanted to “go home.” Though confused, I understood this as a spiritual call to return to the life I had been given and to change my ways. As the ambulance ascended through a dark, symbolic path, I felt my heart align with Heavenly Father’s will. The angel revealed his name as Mark, a connection that deepened my faith in the scriptures I had been studying.
After arriving at the hospital, I was diagnosed with cardiac vasospasm and pericarditis—serious conditions that could have been fatal. The doctors called my survival fortunate, but I knew it was a miracle. At that moment, I understood that Heavenly Father had intervened to guide me back to Him.
Since that day, my life has transformed. I have committed myself to living according to God’s commandments and have found peace and purpose in the gospel. I now know that Heavenly Father’s love is infinite, His patience unending, and His guidance constant.

Some years ago I had an acquaintance who had allowed himself to become a compulsive user of alcohol. He drank before he had dinner, and he would have what he called a “bracer” before involving himself in major business decisions. During a routine physical examination one day, a doctor told him that, for the good of his health, he should break the drinking habit. When I asked him what he intended to do, he said, “That’s easy. I’ll just change doctors.”

For an entire week, Sydney G., 14, from Utah, USA, visibly carried a copy of the Book of Mormon everywhere she went—to school, to her extracurricular activities, and to church. She was prayerfully trying to find someone to share the gospel with, and keeping the Book of Mormon out with her was a constant reminder of that goal.
One day, she went to the office at school and accidentally left the book there. Without even opening the cover, the office secretary knew immediately whose it was. That week, Sydney had become known at her school for carrying that Book of Mormon with her. And throughout her life, she’s become known for many other things as well.
For instance, she participates in student council. She dances for her school’s dance company. She was the lead in an Alice in Wonderland musical. She volunteers for a service group. She cheers. She crafts. She loves to spend time with her friends and family.
She’s also a strong advocate of type 1 diabetes awareness and research.
When Sydney was three, her parents noticed changes in her behavior. Among other things, she was extremely thirsty, moody, and fatigued. One day she slept for 22 hours, waking up only for moments before falling back asleep. Her parents knew something was wrong and took her to a doctor the next morning. The doctor said she was on the verge of a diabetic coma and was lucky she came in that day. Sydney and her parents now recognize that the timing was more than luck; it was a blessing.
Sydney’s diagnosis flipped her life upside down, but that hasn’t stopped her from living a life that gives back to others. Despite her age, Sydney is a leader, role model, and friend as she works to help promote diabetes awareness.
What Is Type 1 Diabetes?
Type 1 diabetes is a disease in which the pancreas produces little or no insulin, the hormone that converts glucose into energy. To treat this, people with type 1 diabetes take insulin every time they eat to help their bodies get the energy they need.
If left untreated, diabetes can have serious complications. It’s important to recognize the symptoms and be treated as early as possible. Type 1 diabetes requires constant care and vigilance throughout a person’s entire life.
In 2015, Sydney and her family participated in a fundraising managed by JDRF, an organization that helps fund research for type 1 diabetes. After the walk, Sydney wanted to keep helping. She says, “I was super excited to get out and do stuff, and I wanted to inform people of the symptoms of type 1 diabetes so they would know to get tested.” To do this, she and her mom created a social media page to promote awareness. Their first post included pictures of the walk, and they’ve continued with regular posts debunking myths about diabetes, promoting fundraisers, and showcasing diabetes-related events and activities Sydney participates in.
Sydney knows the impact youth can have in their communities, and she hopes to keep helping those around her. “Young people can make a huge difference,” she says, “and it’s good for them! They get to get out and help the community. It’s just good for the soul.”
She’s already seen some positive results from her efforts. One day, soon after they started the page, Sydney’s mom felt prompted to post Sydney’s diagnosis story. A woman in their neighborhood read the post and then, two days later, recognized the symptoms in her own daughter. As a result of a prompting, this five-year-old girl was able to receive an early diagnosis and get the medical attention she needed.
Sydney knows it’s important to have friends during times of trial, and she always strives to be that friend for people in times of need. When she heard of another young girl in the community who was just diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, Sydney immediately reached out and met with her. The girl’s mother later told Sydney about the great influence she had on her daughter. The daughter had felt alone in her trial because no one else she knew had diabetes. But immediately after Sydney’s visit, she had a friend, and that made all the difference.
Sydney also recognizes the importance of friendship in her own life and strives to include and love others. When she was about to turn 12, she was “probably more excited than anyone to go to the temple for the first time.” So for her birthday party, she invited some friends over to eat a formal dinner and then go to the temple to do baptisms and confirmations on behalf of those who have died. One of her close friends, Lindsay,* wasn’t a member of the Church, but Sydney still wanted to include her. So Sydney invited Lindsay to the birthday dinner with them and explained why the temple was so important to her.
Remember that Book of Mormon that Sydney carried around with her? She felt prompted to give it to Lindsay with her testimony. Though Lindsay respectfully said she didn’t believe in the book, Sydney didn’t focus on the rejection. Instead, Sydney just appreciated the opportunity she had to share her testimony with someone she cares about.
Though she sometimes feels discouraged, Sydney tries to stay positive and move forward in her goal to help others. She says, “I think it’s important to just keep going if you’re having a trial. It helps to focus on something positive. Like, if you fall off your bike, you just get back up and keep going, and soon you’ll forget you even fell off in the first place.”
Every day, Sydney chooses to focus on the positive of her situation by striving to be a leader in her community and a friend to those who need one. She’s learned that the smallest decisions—like deciding one day to go to a fundraiser walk with her family—can make a big difference.

I was greatly impressed as I listened to the BYU alumni president, Ernest L. Wilkinson, M.D., tell of an emergency call that took him to the Intensive Coronary Care Unit of the LDS Hospital [in Salt Lake City], where a close personal friend of his of several years’ duration was in critical condition with a massive coronary thrombosis. He said: “As I approached his bedside he grasped my hand and through an oxygen mask, though gripped with pain and breathing in a labored manner, he muttered, ‘Oh, Doctor, can you save me? I have so many things I have been putting off and wanting to do.’
“As we labored into the hours of the morning, utilizing all of the modern electronic gadgetry that medical science can provide, and as it became increasingly evident that my friend would not survive, I was haunted by his comment and its inference. Are we thinkers or are we doers? How many of us procrastinate the really important decisions in life? Will we be found wanting when we too are at the crossroads of life and death?”

Little green swords had pierced the earth in countless numbers. Johnny took off his shoes and carefully pressed one foot down on the jade green points. He shivered, not because of the dew, but because the new grass tickled his winter-soft feet. Johnny put his shoes back on and walked along the pony path.
Betsy was still wintering in the barn. Her last year’s trail from the brook to the top of the pasture was plain to see.
When Johnny neared the ridge, he leaned against an aspen tree and with his toes idly rustled last fall’s coin-shaped leaves that hadn’t stuck to the ground from the weight of snow and rain.
From down the slope Johnny could hear his name being called.
The boy’s eyes followed the direction of the call.
“Johnny, want to help drive the horses?”
“Oh, boy, do I!” he called back and fairly flew down to the field where Dad sat on the seat behind the plow. His father held the reins of a perfectly matched pair of roans with sorrel manes lifting and falling in the breeze, their heavy fetlocks fluttering like tiny wings above the broken sod.
Johnny listened carefully to his father’s instructions. “When you come to the knoll on your left, guide the plow well around it and don’t let the horses step on it either.”
“Why, Dad?” Johnny was puzzled because his father always took pride in plowing a straight furrow, and these instructions were contrary to all the principles of good farming. He remembered his father telling him once that nothing is a beautiful as a row of grain standing in flawless line, so straight that even a sunbeam piercing the mist at morning does not appear more perfect.
“On that little mound of earth a meadowlark is making a nest. The reeds rising above it act as a cover,” Dad explained. “So the meadowlark feels that its family is safe. Survival of all creatures is one of nature’s laws that man must learn to respect.”
Johnny took his turn with the horses, holding the free ends of the reins as he sat on his father’s knee. As they approached the lark’s knoll, Johnny said, “Careful, Dad, don’t let the plow touch the lark’s nest.” And the two plowmen, with great care, curved the furrow that lay so straight behind them. When Johnny became tired he jumped down, turned the reins over to his father, and climbed to the ridge. He wandered along the same pony path that led back to the barnyard.
Several weeks later Johnny again came up the path, this time holding a bridle in back of him and an apple in his outstretched hand. “Betsy! Betsy!” he called. Then he stopped at a fence post and listened. He could hear the chirping of very young birds. He quickly dropped the bridle and apple.
Bracing one foot on the barbed wire, the boy heaved himself up so he could see the hole from where the tiny sounds came. But the nest was in a deep hollow. He tested the wood at the opening and carefully tore it away until he came within sight of the nest and the gaping bills of three featherless baby woodpeckers.
“Wow!” Johnny exclaimed, picking up the bridle and apple, “am I in luck! I can come up every day and watch them grow.”
The next morning Johnny was up early to eat breakfast with his father.
“Are you going to help with the milking?” Dad asked, smiling at his son.
“Oh, Dad!” Johnny said excitedly. “I found some little birds in a nest.” Then he told how he had fixed the hole so he could watch them each day.
“Johnny, I hope you didn’t touch the nest,” Dad said. “Birds don’t like to be disturbed.”
After breakfast Johnny hurried up the hill to make sure the birds were all right. He propped his foot on the barbed wire, and looked in the ragged hole. “They’re gone!” he exclaimed. He reached down into the nest to make sure. It was cold and empty. Only the soft, downy bed remained. Tears came to his eyes and he ran into the barn where his father was milking the cows.
“You had to learn for yourself, son,” Dad said quietly when he had heard Johnny’s story. “Do you remember what I told you when we were plowing on the sidehill and plowed around the lark’s nest?”
“Something about respecting nature’s laws,” Johnny answered.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Now you see that the woodpecker family chose that particular hollow post for a reason. The opening was just big enough for them, but not big enough for their enemies. When you changed that, any night owl could make a meal of the little ones. Maybe that’s what happened to your birds.”
“Dad, I didn’t want them to get hurt,” Johnny said.
“I know that, Johnny, I know.” He paused a minute before continuing. “It’s early in the year. Mr. and Mrs. Woodpecker will probably raise another family in some new nest before the summer is over.”
“Honest, will they?” Johnny asked eagerly.
“Honest,” Dad assured the boy. “And when they do, we’ll both remember how important nature’s law of survival is. Then we’ll have meadowlarks and woodpeckers and boys all growing and respecting each other. It’s all according to plan, son. Do you understand?”
And Johnny did.

It had been years since I had attended sacrament meeting at the care center. But now, representing the stake Relief Society presidency, I had come back to visit a ward conference session at the nursing home.
As the prelude music signaled the beginning of the meeting, I glanced around the room. Some of those who attended were suffering the infirmities of old age. Others had been stricken with abnormalities at birth, and their whole lives had been upward struggles. Just to sit or to be strapped to a wheelchair was an accomplishment.
To my left was a familiar wheelchair, a little apart from the semicircle. I had seen this little lady each time I had visited. Thick, straight hair, squared to the chin, framed her bony face. Her jaw was twisted and loose, and her long tongue often hung out. The rest of her body was twisted and contorted, as though her joints were trying to bend in the wrong direction. But, strapped to her wheelchair, she seemed to await the meeting as anxiously as anyone else.
We sang and prayed, and as the meeting progressed, I watched the sacrament table. One of the priests seemed confident and experienced, while the other looked nervous. Then the deacons caught my eye as they approached the table, received the trays, and began to pass the sacrament.
One of them stepped up to the woman in the wheelchair. Her arm was twisted through the bar of the arm rail; her palsied shoulder did not respond. As the deacon approached, her twisted, toothless mouth fell open. Without hesitation, he took a piece of bread and placed it on her tongue.
From across the room came a high-pitched voice: “Did you see that sweet boy give bread to Rosie?”
At the amen ending the prayer on the water, I thought, “Shall I get up and help her with that tiny cup? How will she manage?” While I sat in my chair, the same deacon gently poured the water into that helpless mouth, blessing Rosie again with his service.
I sat, ashamed at my failure to act. Then, as that deacon stood before me, I saw the trembling in his hands, the questioning in his eyes, a pleading to know if he had done right. All I had seen was his strength and compassion. I nodded and tried to reassure him with a smile.
Had he been primed or prepared for that moment, or was it spontaneous? Either way, it was a hard thing for a 12-year-old boy. And I was overcome with appreciation for a young priesthood servant quietly fulfilling just another quorum assignment.

My grandparents’ dog was sick, and they took her to the vet. They found out she had cancer, so they put the dog to sleep. It made me really sad. Then I saw that the Friend had come. I opened it and saw at the bottom of the page Matt and Mandy saying, “Feeling sad? Go to page 24 for the ‘Feelings First-Aid Kit’” (Sept. 2018). I turned to it, and it really helped me. Thanks for making it!
Keilani B., age 9, Utah, USA

“When is your uncle Tanolo going to take you into the kiva?” Little Brown Bear asked. “I am four moons younger than you, yet I was taken into our kiva this day.”
Acuma pulled his rabbit robe closer around his shoulders and sat huddled by the fire, watching the smoke curl upward to add more blackness to the sooty ceiling of the big cave.
“I don’t know,” he said sadly. “I have done everything I am supposed to do.”
“A boy must prove he is now a man before he can enter a kiva,” Little Brown Bear continued. “Have you gone on a hunt?”
“Oh, yes. We stalked the deer through snow and drove him to the edge of our flat mountain. It was my arrow that brought meat to our fire.”
Little Brown Bear shook his head. “I cannot understand. Surely Tanolo is not so cruel that he would tease you.”
Acuma shrugged but did not answer. He had done everything that was required. He knew the legends, his arrow points were well made, he could make fiber from the yucca plant and weave it into heavy sandals, and he could shoot a straight arrow. All these things his cousin from the big cave village had done too, and this day he had been taken into the kiva.
This was an honor for which every Indian boy lived. Yet Acuma could not go. His father said he was well prepared, but Tanolo would not take him. An Indian boy could not be taken to the kiva by his father. At birth an uncle is chosen to be his teacher, and it is this uncle who must take him to the kiva, where he will go through the rituals to become a man.
Acuma glanced at his cousin, wishing Little Brown Bear could tell him what had happened down in the kiva in his own village. But of course, it was a secret.
When Little Brown Bear left for his own cave village, Acuma jumped up and called his brown dog. He threw off the rabbit blanket. He would be running and his body would warm on this winter day.
“I will not shed tears like that foolish Popeta,” he exclaimed, and he dashed off to chase rabbits. Maybe he would kill one with his throwing stick and show his uncle how skilled he was. Acuma’s dog romped along beside him as they scrambled down the side of the canyon to the creek below.
Then he stopped in surprise. Popeta was filling a water jug to carry back up the steep canyon wall to the cave. She seemed small although she was his own age. Her father could not till his cornfield properly because of a lame leg, so the family did not have enough to eat. And because the father could not run fast, he could not kill enough rabbits to make new blankets. The one over Popeta’s shivering shoulders was badly worn.
“You wear no blanket,” Popeta said in surprise, her teeth chattering. “It is cold.”
Acuma squared his brown shoulders. “I am a man, and I do not feel the cold,” he boasted. “I shall run and catch a rabbit for our dinner.” He started off.
Popeta lifted the heavy water jug. As she did so, the blanket fell from her shoulders. Immediately the brown dog grabbed it in his teeth and raced off, dragging it through the thorny bushes.
“Come back, come back!” Popeta cried out. “It is my only blanket.” She spun angrily on Acuma. “Your horrible dog has stolen my blanket. Go get it.”
Then her shivering grew worse and she began to cry as she climbed the canyon wall with the water jug on her head.
Acuma tried to find the dog, but it had raced down the canyon, dragging the blanket. He could see torn scraps hanging on bushes.
“It is no good now anyhow,” he said as he raced along, feeling warm. Soon he threw his curved stick at a rabbit and proudly carried the dead animal home.
“We already have meat for stew, my son,” his mother said while she stirred something in a clay pot over the fire. “You are a great hunter, and my heart is proud. But why not give it to one who has none?”
Acuma strolled over to Popeta’s fire. “Here you will have meat.”
She thanked him, then asked, “Did you find my blanket? Without it I will have nothing to warm me tonight.”
Acuma shrugged. “No I could not find it.”
He forgot about Popeta as he ate his hearty stew that night and sat huddled by the fire, his own warm blanket over his shoulders.
During the night he awoke feeling cold and pulled the rabbit fur blanket up closer. Somewhere he could hear crying.
It is probably that foolish Popeta, he thought. She always cries.
The next day he could not see her by her fire.
“She is not well,” his mother said. “She needs food and warm blankets. But I have none to spare.”
Too bad, Acuma though carelessly and ran off. But every now and then he remembered her crying.
“It is the fault of my dog,” he grumbled to himself. And the more he thought about it, the less he enjoyed the games he played with his friends.
That night he could not sleep. Finally he got up and went to the small dark room behind the cave where Popeta slept.
“Here is my blanket,” he said. “Use it.”
“But it is not yours to give,” she said in surprise.
“I will lend it,” Acuma said, and he hurried back to his room. He was shivering. How cold it was! He found an old feather blanket that was so worn it could not cover him well. But if he curled up in a tight ball in the very corner of his room the blanket kept out a little of the cold. Popeta had been right—he could not give away his blanket, since all things in the family belonged to the mother. Though he used it, the blanket was his mother’s property.
Then I must make Popeta one, he decided.
For many days his friends called him to play games, but he could not because he was hunting rabbits. He had no idea it took so many to make a blanket. He gave the meat either to his mother or to Popeta, and he sat late into the night cleaning and tanning the skins. He sighed wearily. There was so much work and no fun. At times he was tempted to stop, but remembering Popeta’s tears during that cold night kept him going.
And the few hours he slept, he was always cold. He longed for his own rabbit fur blanket again.
After he had collected enough skins, he had to make many, many arrow points—the very best he could. Then he hurried to his cousin’s village, to the Blanket Maker.
“I will give you these fine arrow points if you will make me a blanket,” he said. “But I must have it quickly. The nights get colder and snow is now on the ground.”
Soon the blanket was finished and Acuma took it to Popeta. “This is yours. It should keep you warm.”
Popeta handed him back his own. “You are kind and it is a beautiful blanket. You have brought us so much meat that I am well. My mother and father do not feel hunger either.”
“I shall see that you have meat in your pot,” Acuma said in embarrassment, then hurried to his own campfire.
That night his uncle came to him.
“When the morning sun rises, you will come with me. It is time for you to enter the kiva to learn the things that will make you a man.”
Acuma’s heart leaped with joy. “I am pleased, my uncle. But tell me, why have you chosen the time as now? For these many moons I have been ready—knowing the making of arrow points, yucca fiber, and the hunt.”
“But the one thing you did not know, my son, you have learned,” Tanolo replied. “A boy plays and gives no thought to others. A man gives up his playing when there is work to be done. Because your dog caused misery to another, you did what was you duty to do, and you did it without complaint. I have watched you and my heart is proud. You shall be known as Acuma, the one who has the heart of a man, though his body is still that of a boy.”

For Merrick, 13, the simple choices he made to be in the right place at the right time brought him spiritual strength. He chose to go on a pioneer reenactment trek with the youth in his ward. On the last day, they held a testimony meeting and a lot of youth bore their testimonies.

“It was really cool,” Merrick says. “You could feel the Spirit a lot by just sitting there and listening to these people talk about all of the challenges they had on trek and how the pioneers had to do this but a lot worse. It was really cool to hear their perspective on the gospel.”

While I was serving my mission in Mexico, my companion and I met a man from Obregón, a city in northwestern Mexico near the Gulf of California. He was interested in our message about the Restoration of the gospel, but he had only 10 minutes to talk because he had to catch a train. We taught him all we could in that short time and gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon and all of the tracts we had. At the time, our mission had no missionaries in Obregón.
Several months later I received a Christmas card from someone in Obregón. I looked at the card and wondered who could have sent it. Then I realized it had been sent by the man we had talked to for 10 minutes. I hung up the card in our apartment with the rest of the Christmas cards the other elders and I had received.
After Christmas I was about to throw the card away when I felt an impression to keep it. The impression was not an audible voice but a feeling in my heart. Instead of throwing the card away, I put it in my suitcase.
A few months later as I was reading the monthly letter from the mission home, I noticed an announcement that missionary work would be opened in Obregón. Once again I thought, “What does that city have to do with me?” Then I again remembered the man we had met from there. I dug through my suitcase and found the Christmas card. I wrote on the card, “These elders are friends of mine, and I am sending them to teach you more about the gospel.” Then I sent the card to the elders assigned to serve in Obregón and told them to take it with them and visit the man.
Soon I received a letter from the elders in Obregón. It read: “Dear Elder Ramos, the work here has been so difficult that the mission president was planning to pull us out until we received your card. We went to see this brother, and he was so excited about our message that he took us to meet all of his family and friends. Because of this brother, we have started a branch.”
Years have passed, and now three stakes have been organized in Obregón. I am humbled to know that because I had listened to the promptings of the Spirit, I was blessed to play a small part in helping my brothers and sisters in Obregón receive the gospel of Jesus Christ.

My father passed away in April 2013. As I prepared to speak at his funeral, I realized how blessed I was to know and love his favorite scriptures. He shared them in family gatherings, and he read them with me when I needed counsel, guidance, or strengthening of my faith. I heard him share them in talks and assignments. I not only knew them, but I can still remember the sound of his voice and the spiritual feelings I had as he shared them. Through sharing scriptures and feelings, my father helped me to establish a firm foundation of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.

I play basketball. One day, I messaged the coach that I wouldn’t be able to play in any Sunday games.
He responded, “What do you mean? If you want to go professional, you have to put the sport first.” I told him that if I wanted to go professional, I had to put God first, and He would help me.
My coach said, “I am going to do everything possible for the games to be on Saturdays.” And that’s the way it’s been.
It might not always work out that way. But I’m glad my coach knows that for me, the sport doesn’t come first—my Heavenly Father does.
When I do things right, I feel that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are proud of me. It’s a peace that no one can take from me, knowing that I’m trying and that They recognize my effort.
The sport doesn’t come first—my Heavenly Father does.

All through elementary and middle school, Julie Workman dreamed of the day she’d attend Utah’s Viewmont High School with her friends.
Then one day her father announced he’d received a call to preside over the New Jersey Mission. She’d be attending high school there. It was like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water in her face.
After a soggy farewell to friends and loved ones, Julie became determined to make the best of her new life. She set herself a goal: to be a good example to everyone, especially when she found out she would be the only Latter-day Saint in her high school.
What happened to the disappointment Julie felt at not attending her hometown high school? It evaporated when she learned to care about others and share the gospel with them. Now, she says, “Moving to New Jersey has been the greatest experience of my life.”

Illustration by Joshua Dennis
I had been a member of the Church for 10 years when I received a confirmation that I needed to begin looking for a companion. I understood the doctrine of celestial marriage, and I had prayed fervently to have such a marriage and to be able to create a family. I didn’t know how I would find a Latter-day Saint woman in Samara, Russia, where I lived, but I trusted that the Lord would help me (see 1 Nephi 3:7).
In 2009 I was invited to participate in a series of single adult conferences to be held in 10 cities throughout the Russia Samara Mission. I hoped that these activities might be the means by which I could meet my eternal companion.
I was happy to attend the conferences, which were fulfilling in many ways, but months passed and I still had not developed any dating relationships.
I began to worry and asked the Lord to help me. In response, thoughts came into my mind warning me that I might be tempted to pursue relationships outside the Church.
I knew that the prophets had taught that we should strive to marry in the temple, and I knew that it would be impossible to have a fulness of joy if my spouse and I weren’t united in striving to follow the Savior. I continued to pray to have the spiritual strength to withstand such temptations and to have the Lord’s help in following His plan for me.
In the meantime, I began preparing for my regular trip to the Helsinki Finland Temple, where I would spend a week.
On the train I met three other travelers, including a woman named Mariya, who I learned was single. She was captivating both physically and spiritually, and I wondered why I hadn’t met any women like her before. I thought back to my earlier warning about being tempted to pursue a relationship outside the Church.
“Be strong,” I thought. “Be true to your principles. You’ll find a worthy and wonderful sister in the Church.”
Thinking that I could at least be a good member missionary and perhaps share the gospel with her, and needing inspiration, I pulled out my copy of the Book of Mormon to read, wondering if she would notice. To my surprise, Mariya exclaimed, “I think I know where you are going!”
I looked up to see her holding her own copy of the Book of Mormon. She was a member of the Church too and was also on her way to the temple.
The next morning we continued our trip to Helsinki by bus. I learned that Mariya was from Voronezh, a city in the Russia Moscow West Mission. I liked her immediately and prayed fervently for direction. In response, I experienced good feelings in my heart.
“Lord, we have only one week at the temple,” I prayed. “Please help us to get to know each other better during this time.”
And we did. Between sessions in the temple, we took walks, shared meals, went to the store, and talked. At the end of the week, we both went home—Mariya to Voronezh and I to Samara. But we traveled to each other’s cities to get to know each other better, and on September 14, 2010, we were married in the newly dedicated Kyiv Ukraine Temple.
Mariya and I now live in Voronezh and are happy. We understand that it is fairy tales that end with the phrase “and they lived happily ever after.” In real life we create our own happy endings through continually proving our faithfulness to the Lord by keeping our temple covenants, continuing to work on strengthening our marriage, and striving to be like Jesus Christ.
We are grateful for our miraculous meeting and hope that our story will kindle hope and give strength to others who are searching for their eternal companions. Others’ stories may not turn out as ours did, but Mariya and I know that no matter what the challenges, the Lord hears our sincere prayers. He loves each of us and is concerned about each of us. If we let Him, He will guide our paths and let all things work together for our good (see D&C 90:24).

“She can’t see! The fever has left Sister Stratton completely blind!” The news swept rapidly through the little pioneer town of Virgin, Utah. Sister Emily Amanda Gardner Stratton, beloved Primary president in the Virgin Ward, had lost her sight following a sudden illness. She had lovingly and faithfully served the children in this southern Utah town for 15 years, and she had helped many of the ward members in times of trouble. Now she needed help. But what could the children and ward members do?
The local doctor had done everything he could for her and had advised her family to take her to the nearest hospital, which was in St. George, Utah. He said her only hope of seeing again was to receive the help available at the hospital.
For weeks, the doctors in St. George tried every treatment they knew, but nothing worked. When their last treatment failed, Sister Stratton sent word that she wanted to come home.
The children and Primary workers in Virgin had prayed diligently for her recovery. When they learned the doctors had given up, they were even more determined to do whatever they could to help their dedicated Primary president.
Someone suggested they hold a special fast for her. The children knew that if they fasted and prayed with faith, Heavenly Father would help Sister Stratton in ways they could not. Heavenly Father would hear their prayers and answer them according to His will.
It was difficult to go all day without food, but even the youngest Primary children fasted and prayed for their beloved leader.
That evening, they all met at the tiny meetinghouse to close their fast with prayer. Afterward, they felt great peace and joy and knew that Heavenly Father had heard their prayers. The sunset was glorious, casting rays of red and gold throughout the western sky as they went to their homes.
A few days later, Sister Stratton’s wagon creaked as it rolled along the dusty road toward Virgin. The children and Primary leaders hurried to greet her and tell her of their special fast.
“What time was your fast meeting, children?” Sister Stratton asked.
“It was at sunset!” one child exclaimed.
Sister Stratton sat back. Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke. “At sunset on that day, I was sitting in a chair by the west window of my hospital room. As I looked up, I saw the sunset for the first time since the fever stole my sight. Yes, children, I can see!”
The loving prayers and faithful fasting of the Virgin Ward Primary had been answered with a miracle. For the rest of Sister Stratton’s life, she was blessed with perfect eyesight.

Just as he creates names for the characters he writes about, Samuel has his own unique story of how he came to be named for Samuel in the Bible, who heard the voice of the Lord. At first, his parents didn’t know what to name him! “In the hospital, my dad was reading the Ensign,” Samuel says. “He found an article about Samuel, so they named me that. Then he flipped the page and there was an article about Jacob and the twelve tribes of Israel. So my middle name is Jacob.”

Samuel understands the importance of being named after two righteous people. “I picture myself being a bit like Samuel,” he says. “I think of how he was obedient, and I know that is Christlike. I want to be like that.”

The bus pulled into the parking lot of the hotel at 10:00 P.M. and deposited 36 nervously excited singers, a load of stage equipment, and a couple of dazed advisers who were showing the effects of a 16-hour bus ride. Inside the hotel’s ballroom Bob Hope was finishing up a few jokes while 750 Hollywood celebrities and top military officials finished their dinner. In the parking lot a few last-minute instructions were given, a prayer was offered, and on the cue of “Footprints, let’s go!” the Footprints of Freedom entered the Beverly Wilshire Hotel to entertain at the annual Air Force Ball.
The group had left Provo the night before and had not really slept since. After the show they would have six hours of sleep before the bus picked them up for the return trip to Provo. But cramped buses, lack of sleep, and a steady diet of roadside hamburgers are minor inconveniences when the Footprints have the chance to sing about America’s proud 200 years.
The performance at the Air Force Ball was a rousing success. General David C. Jones, Air Force Chief of Staff, personally came backstage after the performance to congratulate the Footprints. The group was invited to film a short segment in a movie for the Air Force, and it was nearly midnight before everyone got back to their hotel rooms. At 6:00 A.M. the bus would arrive for the return trip. There’d be another round of “Good,” “Bad,” and “Ugly” awards, another luggage rack rotation, and another 16-hour bus ride.
But it had been worth it—they had sung about America for 20 minutes. And during those 20 minutes perhaps one person had decided not to let the good land pass him by.

A simple thing happened many years ago that I have always remembered because it caused me to think about the Savior’s mission. Although it was just a childish incident, it has some meaning. It happened when our twins were only about five years old. They were just learning to ride their bicycles. As I glanced out the window, I saw them speeding down the street on their bikes going very fast! Perhaps they were going a little too fast for their level of ability, because all of a sudden Adam had a terrible crash! He was tangled up in the wreck, and all I could see was a twist of handlebars and tires and arms and legs. His little twin brother, Aaron, saw the whole thing happen, and immediately he skidded to a stop and jumped off his bike. He threw it down and ran to the aid of his brother, whom he loved very much. These little twins truly were of one heart. If one hurt, so did the other. If one got tickled, they both laughed. If one started a sentence, the other could complete it. What one felt, the other did also. So it was painful for Aaron to see Adam crash! Adam was a mess. He had skinned knees, he was bleeding from a head wound, his pride was damaged, and he was crying. In a fairly gentle five-year-old way, Aaron helped his brother get untangled from the crash, he checked out the wounds, and then he did the dearest thing. He picked his brother up and carried him home. Or tried to. This wasn’t very easy because they were the same size, but he tried. And as he struggled and lifted and half-dragged, half-carried his brother along, they finally reached the front porch. By this time, Adam, the injured one, was no longer crying, but Aaron, the rescuer, was. When asked, “Why are you crying, Aaron?” he said simply, “Because Adam hurts.” And so he had brought him home to help, home to someone who knew what to do, to someone who could cleanse the wounds, bind them up, and make them better—home to love.

“My father was the greatest influence on me. He was such an example of one who quietly serves! He would sit back and listen to everybody’s opinion and then make a wise judgment. One day I decided I didn’t want go to sacrament meeting. My father wasn’t alarmed. He only said, ‘Just remember that when you don’t go once, it’s easier not to go the next time. That’s how we can fall into bad habits. I would suggest that you go every time, and then you won’t have to keep remaking that choice.’ That’s all it took. I didn’t argue with him, and I didn’t feel unhappy about going to church that day—or any other day. And l’ve always remembered that advice when I’ve been tempted.

During our last stake conference, something momentous happened for me. Our stake president asked us to read a scripture in Mosiah that was near a verse I had highlighted on the previous page. I felt prompted to turn the page back and read what I had marked:
“I pray that ye should awake to a remembrance of the awful situation of those that have fallen into transgression.
“And moreover, I would desire that ye should consider on the blessed and happy state of those that keep the commandments of God. For behold, they are blessed in all things, both temporal and spiritual; and if they hold out faithful to the end they are received into heaven, that thereby they may dwell with God in a state of never-ending happiness. O remember, remember that these things are true; for the Lord God hath spoken it” (Mosiah 2:40–41).
The last sentence struck me. I realized I had never really received a testimony of the Book of Mormon. Since I had grown up in an LDS family, I just took for granted that it was all true and believed what people had told me. But I didn’t have that knowledge for myself. I lacked a surety that this is the true Church, that Joseph Smith saw God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, and that President Thomas S. Monson does receive revelation from God. But the sentence, “O remember, remember that these things are true; for the Lord God hath spoken it,” made me realize it couldn’t be this way forever. I needed to find out for myself if this really was the truth. So I began to pray.
“Dear Heavenly Father, I. …”
But I didn’t get any further. I felt the Spirit so strongly within me it brought tears to my eyes. It was actually burning in my bosom, and I choked on the words. I have never felt anything so compelling and real. I had finally experienced personal revelation that the Book of Mormon was true, and I knew it. Suddenly the Spirit brought back to my memory Moroni 10:4:
“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.”
I began again. “Heavenly Father, I need to gain my own testimony of the truth of this book, and of this Church. I ask you, in the name of Jesus Christ, are these things true?” And once again, the Spirit confirmed truth. It was so powerful. I knew there could only be one answer, and I knew it as surely as I know 2+2=4.
The Book of Mormon is true. Joseph Smith actually was a prophet, and Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ did appear to him in the Sacred Grove. President Thomas S. Monson is a true prophet, and he does receive divine guidance to lead this Church, a Church I now know for sure is true. I hope all people take the advice Moroni gave us and pray in the name of Christ, with a sincere heart, real intent, and faith, and ask if these things are true. I know the answer will be “Yes. Yes, it is.” I hope we all will “remember, remember that these things are true, for the Lord God hath spoken it.”