Gospel Story Finder

Ten-year-old Gavin is in the fifth grade, and he likes to do missionary work. Twice already he’s given friends copies of the Book of Mormon, and several times he’s invited his nonmember friends to family home evenings. He always prays that he will be a good missionary.
One Friday Mr. Leitzmiller, Gavin’s schoolteacher, had taught his class about the Mayan Indians of Mexico and Central America. Then, after the class was over and the students were leaving the classroom, he stopped Gavin and asked if they could talk a moment. When they were alone, Mr. Leitzmiller (who was not a Latter-day Saint) said, “Do you know if Jesus appeared to the Indians on the American continents after He died on the cross?”
Remembering what he had been taught in family home evenings, at Primary, and on other occasions, Gavin replied, “Yes, He did!”
“I once had a Mormon roommate in college,” Mr. Leitzmiller continued, “and I thought that I remembered his telling me about Jesus coming to the Western Hemisphere after His resurrection. Gavin, do you have a book that tells about that visit?”
“Yes,” Gavin answered. “It’s called the Book of Mormon.”
“Could you bring it to school with you on Monday?” the teacher asked with great interest.
Gavin said that he would.
That evening during supper Gavin told his family about his teacher’s request. They were all very excited for Gavin’s opportunity to do some more good missionary work.
On Sunday Gavin’s dad went to the stake center and picked up “Christ in America,” a pamphlet that tells what happened when Jesus came to the Americas after He was crucified.
That night Gavin carefully wrote on the inside cover of a new copy of a Book of Mormon, “This book tells about Jesus visiting America. It is a true story.”
Early Monday morning Gavin took the copy of the Book of Mormon, with the pamphlet tucked inside, to school and gave it to his teacher before class started. “Mr. Leitzmiller, here’s the book that you asked me to bring,” he said. “I hope that you’ll read it.”
The teacher promised Gavin that he would, and Gavin ran outside to play before the bell rang for school to begin.
When Gavin said his prayers that night, he asked Heavenly Father to bless his teacher as he read the Book of Mormon so that he would know the truth about Jesus.

The story is told there of the grandfather who took his five-year-old grandson for a walk around town. Ultimately, they found themselves at a small grocery store on Main Street where they stopped for a cold soda pop. A car from out of state pulled up and the driver approached the old-timer. Pointing to a small cloud in the sky, the stranger asked, “Do you think it’s going to rain?”
“I certainly hope so,” replied the old man, “if not for my sake, for the boy’s. I’ve seen it rain.”
Hope is an emotion which brings richness to our everyday lives. It is defined as “the feeling that … events will turn out for the best.” When we exercise hope, we “look forward … with desire and reasonable confidence” (dictionary.reference.com/browse/hope). As such, hope brings a certain calming influence to our lives as we confidently look forward to future events.

When Church leaders told Jirí in 1988 that renewed effort on his part could change the government’s decision to grant the Church official recognition, he did not hesitate. Although he was putting at risk his family’s safety, his job, his freedom—possibly even his life—he said, “I will go! I will do it!” Embracing his wife, he said, “We will do whatever is needed. This is for the Lord, and his work is more important than our freedom or life.”

After Brother Snederfler submitted that request, the suspicion and persecution he and other Church members had endured for so long became even more severe. However, “the Saints continued in courage and faith,” says Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who, accompanied by Elder Hans B. Ringger of the Seventy, had made repeated requests over several years for formal recognition. Elder Nelson adds, “Ultimately, after periodic fasting and prayer and complete compliance with all requirements, that glorious announcement of recognition came. How I admire the Snederflers and all these stalwart members who endured so much interrogation and risk!” (Tambuli, May 1992, 14–15).

Over the next few years, Jirí renewed efforts to gain official recognition for the Church. And all active Church members in Czechoslovakia contributed their faith, fasting, and prayers. For two years, the Czechoslovak Saints had two monthly fast Sundays: they fasted on the first Sunday of each month, along with Church members worldwide—and they also fasted on the third Sunday of every month for freedom of religion.

During a visit with the Communist government’s secretariat of religious affairs in 1987, Elder Russell M. Nelson was informed that the official leader of the Church in Czechoslovakia—the Church’s official liaison with the government had to be a Czech citizen. Elder Nelson and Elder Hans B. Ringger called Jirí Snederfler to be that Czech leader.

Of course, Jirí was more than willing to accept the assignment; he had already made countless petitions to the government over the years and had been regarded as a troublemaker and an enemy of the state. Now, by the secretariat’s own decree, he—a Czech citizen—would officially represent the Church in the eyes of the Communist government.

When accompanied by Elder Nelson and Elder Ringger, Jirí was received kindly. But when he was invited to come alone to a meeting in December 1988, “the officials of the secretariat showed their true faces,” he says. “They tried to intimidate me into withdrawing the Church’s petition for official recognition. They even used threats, telling me what might happen to the Church members if we continued to pursue it.”

At that moment, Brother Snederfler fearlessly opened his mouth and expressed his outrage at the way the Church had been treated during the preceding four decades. “I lost my patience and told them they had only two alternatives in order to get rid of us: either grant us official recognition and permission to worship publicly—or eliminate, lock up, or kick all of us out. I knew I could have landed straight in jail for saying that! But surprisingly they started to treat me with courtesy. Perhaps they were afraid the Church would publish in the free world how the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia was illegally oppressing religiously inclined citizens. Be it as it may, I know I was under the protection of God.”

For the next year, Jirí found himself near the top of the secret police’s list of people dangerous to the state. “I had grown used to that for the past 40 years anyway,” he says. But although he was interrogated monthly by the secret police, he now also dealt monthly with the secretariat for religious affairs. He used those frequent opportunities “to let them get used to the idea that we would not withdraw our cause.” On 17 May 1989, he submitted a renewed official request for recognition. When he received no reply, he wrote letters of complaint and began making weekly visits to the secretariat.

Then came that remarkable day of 17 November 1989—the beginning of the nationwide “velvet revolution” against the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia. “That was a signal to us to intensify even more the pressure regarding our petition. The secretariat for religious affairs referred me to the ministry of culture, who referred me to the state department, who claimed not to be able to do anything without a decision of the cabinet. There was chaos. Nobody knew anything; nobody was responsible for anything. Then the secret police ceased to exist, the secretariat for religious affairs was eliminated, and the power of the Communists was broken.”

In January 1990, Brother Snederfler submitted the Church’s petition to the new administration’s minister of culture, who was overseeing the registration of churches and religious societies. After hearing Jirí’s account and reading the documents, the minister of culture “immediately wrote a petition recommending that the government grant the Church official recognition and permission for public activity as soon as possible. He wrote that the new government had a moral duty to rectify the injustice done to our Church by the Communist regime, which had ‘illegally and criminally abolished the activity thereof.’”

On 6 February 1990, Elder Russell M. Nelson, Elder Hans B. Ringger, and Brother Snederfler met with the vice chairman of the new government; that afternoon they retraced Elder John A. Widtsoe’s steps up Priests Hill near Karlstejn Castle, and Elder Nelson reaffirmed the dedication of Czechoslovakia for the preaching of the restored gospel.

On 21 February 1990, the new administration passed a resolution granting the Church’s request, effective 1 March 1990. The news was broadcast nationwide in newspapers and on radio and television. “Finally, 40 long years of struggle for official recognition and public activity in Czechoslovakia had come to an end!” says Brother Snederfler.

Many years ago when I was a young missionary and had just received a new companion, we met a Protestant minister who invited us in out of the cold. After exchanging points of view on various topics, he asked us, “And what is the Mormon attitude toward sexuality?”
I choked on my cup of hot chocolate. “Well,” said the minister after a moment of silence, “could you please tell me the Mormon philosophy toward sexuality?” I was speechless. Finally, my companion, realizing that I didn’t have an answer, replied, “Sir, we believe in it.”
It has been more than twenty years since that time. As a marriage counselor and university professor I have been asked the same question by students, friends, professional people, and LDS members and nonmembers alike. And still, I have never found a better answer than the one my young missionary companion gave: “We believe in it.”

I know one young woman who goes home feeling deflated and unimportant almost every night after being around a certain young man in her group of friends. He constantly makes fun of, criticizes, and belittles her. I asked her why she continues to spend time with him, and she responded, “He says I have to learn how to take a joke. I figure it’s not worth losing friends over.” I’m concerned about her decision to continue to be around this guy, and I wonder why he thinks he’s so funny in the first place. How sad that she tries to cope with him rather than genuinely enjoying his company.

An acquaintance of mine used to live in a ward with some of the highest statistics in the Church—attendance was high, home teaching numbers were high, Primary children were always well behaved, ward dinners included fantastic food that members rarely spilled on the meetinghouse floor, and I think there were never any arguments at Church ball.

My friend and his wife were subsequently called on a mission. When they returned three years later, this couple was astonished to learn that during the time they were away serving, 11 marriages had ended in divorce.

Although the ward had every outward indication of faithfulness and strength, something unfortunate was happening in the hearts and lives of the members. And the troubling thing is that this situation is not unique. Such terrible and often unnecessary things happen when members of the Church become disengaged from gospel principles. They may appear on the outside to be disciples of Jesus Christ, but on the inside their hearts have separated from their Savior and His teachings. They have gradually turned away from the things of the Spirit and moved toward the things of the world.

Once-worthy priesthood holders start to tell themselves that the Church is a good thing for women and children but not for them. Or some are convinced that their busy schedules or unique circumstances make them exempt from the daily acts of devotion and service that would keep them close to the Spirit. In this age of self-justification and narcissism, it is easy to become quite creative at coming up with excuses for not regularly approaching God in prayer, procrastinating the study of the scriptures, avoiding Church meetings and family home evenings, or not paying an honest tithe and offerings.

My dear brethren, will you please look inside your hearts and ask the simple question: “Lord, is it I?”

My family investigated the Church for three years. It was very important to my parents that we be baptized as a family. They knew if we joined the Church, it would often be difficult for us to choose the right. But they believed if we all decided to follow Jesus Christ, we could help each other when times grew difficult.
When we joined the Church, my parents committed our family to sacrifice and service. I saw that helping other people made my mom and dad happy. My parents were always serving, so I followed them around and tried to help, too. I was often too young to do much, but my parents’ example of service inspired in me a lifelong desire to serve.

A few years ago, my wife and I attended an afternoon session in the Salt Lake Temple. The company was small, consisting of no more than a dozen men and a dozen women. I scanned the group, casually noting that all were strangers to me except my wife. We were instructed in the first room and then moved to the next. As we took our seats in the second room, there was a slight commotion. I looked about to see what was wrong. In doing so, I saw a woman leave the room. All of us assumed that she was ill or had perhaps forgotten a piece of clothing. The interruption was brief and the instruction resumed. It was a refreshing temple experience for us, and we returned home rejoicing.

The next day I received a very unusual telephone call. My secretary came to my office door and said: “A woman wants to speak with you, but she won’t give me her name.”

I picked up the phone and announced myself. The caller promptly asked, “Elder Asay, what do you know about me?”

“How can I answer your question,” I responded, “when you haven’t even given me your name?”

She continued, “You were in the three o’clock temple session yesterday, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” I answered, “I was there.”

She said, “Do you remember someone walking out of the second room?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“It was I who walked out of the temple yesterday. Elder Asay, what do you know about me?”

At this point the conversation was becoming a bit tedious, and I said, “My dear, please don’t play games with me. Unless you tell me who you are, how can I respond to your query?”

Almost totally ignoring what I said, the woman confessed: “It was I who left the temple room yesterday before the instruction began. I did so because you looked at me with a searching look, and you made me feel as though I was unworthy to be there.” Once again, she asked, “What do you know about me?”

I said: “Well, if you attended the temple worthily yesterday, I apologize for how I may have looked at you and for how I may have made you feel. However, if you were there unworthily, I make no apology.”

There was a long silence and then soft sobbing over the telephone. Finally, the woman confessed: “I have committed a serious sin, and I attended the temple yesterday under false pretenses. However,” she added, “I visited my bishop last night, and I will follow his counsel and advice.”

I learned lots of lessons from my Grandmother. She was always cheerful, even though she was a widow and lived by herself all of the time I knew her. She loved serving and helping others. Her house was always tidy inside and out. She didn't even get mad at me when I told her I had accidentally broken her bedroom window with a softball while I was playing "Annie I Over" with my cousins.

Grandma always encouraged me to practice the piano. In fact, one time she promised to give me ten dollars if I would practice my piano every day all summer. I must have been crazy to agree to that much practicing for that little pay, but I did it for Grandma. I remember how thrilled I was the day she gave me the ten dollar bill.

Grandma always spoke her mind. When I was about 15 years old I had gone shopping for a bathing suit in the city near where she lived. When I brought the suit to her home and put it on to model it for her, she looked at me and said with a scorn, "I never thought a granddaughter of mine would wear a two-piece bathing suit." Well, that was the first and last time I wore the suit. I returned the swimming suit to the store the next day.

After the discussion, Mother began to read the books they left and to pray about what she should do. It wasn’t long until she decided to be baptized. She was worried though about telling my grandmother.
Finally, however, Mom got the courage to call Grandma on the phone and to tell her that she was going to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
There was an empty, cold silence on the other end of the line. At last my grandmother said, “I’m heartsick and disappointed in you,” and then she hung up the receiver.
It was a long time before Grandma would talk to any of us on the phone or answer our letters; so you can imagine how happy my mother was when Grandma called one day and said, “I’ve been thinking about your baptism and I’ve decided that it’s all right for you to be a Mormon, dear, as long as you’re happy.” And Mom really was happy.

We were living in a small town in Georgia, USA, when my father died at just 55 years old. Most of our family lived in another state. Never had the 2,000 miles (3,200 km) between us felt greater than at that time.
My husband was the bishop and I the organist of our small ward. With all the emotions and stress of helping with funeral plans, I was feeling especially weary that Sunday when it came time for our sacrament meeting closing hymn: “God Be with You Till We Meet Again” (Hymns, no. 152).
Halfway through the second verse, my grief overcame me. Somehow I played through the end of that verse, but my hands were shaking and my eyes so full of tears that I had to stop with an entire verse left. I couldn’t stop crying.
A brief pause followed as the congregation realized the organ had stopped. But then ward members started singing a cappella. The singing wasn’t perfect. We were few, after all. But the Spirit made up the difference. Through my tears and embarrassment, I could feel the love of many as they sang.
God be with you till we meet again;
Keep love’s banner floating o’er you;
Smite death’s threat’ning wave before you.
God be with you till we meet again.
When the hymn ended, the music leader held me as I sobbed through the closing prayer. Several people then came up to the organ with tears in their eyes to say how sorry they were about my father.
Later, I told the music leader I would be playing the piano at the funeral. It probably seemed like a bad idea after what had just happened, but my dad so enjoyed hearing me play the piano. I wanted to play for him. I realized then how close he had felt during the closing hymn.
I am so thankful for the hymns. I testify that music can teach and comfort us in ways that words often cannot. As the First Presidency wrote in the preface to the hymnbook, “Hymns … comfort the weary, console the mourning, and inspire us to endure to the end.” I am also thankful for the love of a good ward when I was so far away from my own family. I know that my father and I will indeed meet again.

“While we were in the mission field, Dad asked all of us to invite our nonmember friends to a fireside. About thirty young people attended, and for 2 1/2 hours Dad told them all about our church and about the gospel. Then he bore his testimony to them. Many of them hadn’t lived lives to be proud of but they all listened. The impact was something! Some of our friends commented that it was certainly a different way to spend a Friday night. I’m sure many who attended will never forget that evening. Seeds were planted that may bear fruit in years to come.”

Elder F. Enzio Busche of the Quorum of the Seventy learned about peace when he was a boy. He says, “During World War II in my home country of Germany, I lived with my mother and four sisters far away from home in southern Germany in two very small, humble rooms. We had fled from our home because of the many air attacks that had destroyed our city and threatened our lives. My father was separated from us because he had been drafted into the army. I was too young to understand the dramatic events happening around me during that terrible war.
“Lying in bed one night in the room I shared with two of my sisters, I remember an intense feeling of loneliness. … I was awake until early in the morning, and I was so overcome with despair that I began to cry. I wept and wept.
“Suddenly something changed. A comforting power enveloped me, and a small voice said to my soul, ‘You are My child. Have trust in Me.’
“Immediately joy and happiness filled my heart. All my fear, loneliness, and despair were changed into feelings of warmth and comfort. That night I learned for the first time that there is some unseen but loving Person who is concerned about me.” (Blazer A manual, page 126; Friend, October 1980, page 6.)
Elder Busche experienced the peace that comes from the Lord.

As I finished my shopping, I did not consciously choose the cashier farthest from the long lines of noisy shoppers. Perhaps it was just because I felt so exhausted that I was drawn to this quieter area.
Whatever the reason, it was somehow comforting to stand quietly without making decisions for a few moments. As soon as the two customers in front of me finished with the cashier, I could pay for my items and go. My teenage daughter stood behind me in line. Wearily I allowed my mind to wander in thought, not totally aware of what was happening around me. Not until the middle-aged man ahead of me began to get restless did I realize that our line was not moving. Glancing to the far end of the counter, I saw four brown bags full of groceries loaded in a shopping cart. A humbly dressed, white-haired woman was counting her cash onto the checkout counter. Futilely she search her purse for additional change, opening one compartment after another with trembling hands.
As the tension mounted, I wished I were nearer to her. Yet this was a special group of strangers—all unusually patient, with no disgust or mockery on anyone’s face. I felt the flooding warmth of the Spirit as I almost heard the words that flowed into my mind: “Help her.”
“That’s all I have,” the elderly woman quietly said, giving up on her search.
Apologetically, the cashier removed a small sack of fruit or vegetables from the top of one brown bag and weighed it on the scales. Its value was insufficient. Her face registered embarrassment as he took a second bag of produce from her sack and weighed it.
“No, I need …” There was urgency in the woman’s voice as that second bag was removed.
Knowing that helping in the wrong way might create more awkwardness, I prayed silently. “Oh, Father, how should I help?”
I could wait no longer. Better to try and be wrong than to wait.
Leaning across the customer ahead of me, I asked the cashier, “How much does she need?”
“Ninety-five cents,” he said, grateful that someone else was getting involved.
“Add it to my bill,” I replied. But the Spirit prompted, “Pay now.”
“Better yet, here is a dollar,” I said, and reached across my groceries and the man in front of me to lay it on the counter. Relief showed in his face. Apparently he had wanted to help but had not known how. “I’ll divide the cost with you,” he said and immediately laid some coins on my dollar. I resisted the impulse to decline his offer and thanked him instead. Suddenly, I felt as though the heavens had opened, bathing our group in an unexpected warmth. We had all wanted to help.
Quickly the young cashier completed the transaction and replaced the things in the woman’s sack. Then, calmly, self-reliantly, the woman turned and faced us. Standing more erect, she began, “To whom do I owe …”
Tears blurred my vision as I pleaded for help. “Oh, Father, give me the right words to say. Please don’t let us hurt her or wound her self-esteem.”
A reply came effortlessly. “Someone who loves you, and who loves the Lord,” I heard myself saying. “Besides, you’d have done it for me.”
The white-haired woman began to relax. Her trembling stopped. A smile came slowly, thoughtfully to her face.
“You know, I would have,” she said, as if she were surprised that I would know. Then, smiling broadly, she reaffirmed, “I really would have!”
With dignity she turned and pushed her grocery cart out the open door.
A sort of reverence lingered in our line to pay. Suddenly, I didn’t feel tired anymore. The customer in front of me began to whistle a tune.
On the way home, my daughter broke the silence. “Mother, that was really nice the way you helped that lady. It made everyone happy.”
“You know,” I said, “I really didn’t know how to do it by myself. The Spirit had to teach me. All I did was pray for help.”

As a freshman at Brigham Young University–Idaho (then Ricks College), I missed my family. But after a few months of classes, I had settled into college life and was enjoying myself. When the telephone call came, I was in my apartment, studying.
“Christy, I have some bad news for you,” my mother said, her voice breaking. “Your father passed away tonight from a severe heart attack.”
Emotions flooded over me as I tried to comprehend what I had just heard. I had seen my father only a few days before, but I had no idea it would be for the last time. Dad’s death was a shock to our entire family; it was also a shock to my home ward. Dad was only 53 years old, and he was serving as our bishop.
The days that followed were filled with visits and phone calls from family, friends, ward members, and neighbors. We felt a tremendous outpouring of love from those around us. At Dad’s funeral, family members shared memories of our life with him, and we testified of the plan of salvation and of life after death.
Dad had been a faithful husband, a devoted Latter-day Saint, an avid Scouter, and a wonderful father. Many people were blessed because of the life he had lived. After the funeral my oldest brother dedicated the grave, and as a family we stood and sobbed through “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301).
The day after the funeral I returned to school. I wasn’t thrilled to be back, but I knew I had to go on with life and fulfill my responsibilities. Some days were easier than others. I spent a lot of time thinking about my father, and I relied on my knowledge of the plan of salvation and my faith in Jesus Christ to help me face my challenges and questions.
About two weeks after my father passed away, I took my journal to a chapel on campus to record my feelings and the events surrounding Dad’s death. As I wrote, I felt the Spirit so strongly that I had an overwhelming assurance that my Heavenly Father loved me, that He had a plan specifically for me, and that I would never be left alone. As I finished writing, bells sounded from speakers atop the nearby student center playing the hymn “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” (Hymns, no. 136). Words from the hymn instantly came to my mind:
I know that my Redeemer lives.
What comfort this sweet sentence gives!
He lives, he lives, who once was dead.
He lives, my ever-living Head. …
He lives to silence all my fears.
He lives to wipe away my tears.
He lives to calm my troubled heart.
He lives all blessings to impart.
I do know that my Redeemer lives, and I know He loves me. Because He rose from the dead, I know that my father and all of our loved ones who have gone before us will also live again. What a comfort it is to know these truths.

Due to misunderstandings by persons who did not want The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints established in Ghana, the Church was banned. On June 14, 1989, the government of Ghana suspended all activities of the Church. The members of the Church faithfully ministered to one another. They did not assemble at meetinghouses, neither did they raise their voices to their Lord, but just like the people of Alma who were persecuted by Amulon they, “did pour out their hearts to him”3. The Savior, through the still small voice, asked these faithful, committed, covenant keeping members to wait and watch, and continue on the covenant path. The voice of the Lord came to them through their afflictions; “lift up your heads and be of good comfort, for I know of the covenant which ye have made unto me; and I will covenant with my people and deliver them out of bondage”.4
On November 29, 1990, after a period of 18 months, the freeze was lifted and the Church could continue as it did before. The members who were “anxiously engaged in a good cause, and [doing] many things of their own free will, and [bringing] to pass much righteousness”5, found joy in the 18-month journey rather than anticipating the arrival.

The witness of the truth of the Book of Mormon which came to me as a young man was that kind of experience. It was during World War II. I was a young sailor assigned to the Anacostia Naval Air Station in Washington, D.C. I was just a small insignificant cog in a vast system of cogs and wheels that turned for much larger purposes. One of my jobs was to help make training films, identifying shapes and outlines of enemy ships and airplanes. These films were made in a large, barnlike structure containing a big flat stage approximating the horizon or the sea or whatever was demanded. The building itself was filled with models and outlines and forms and staging devices to make possible the fulfillment of our assignment. Most of the time we were very busy, but there came a time toward the end of the war when we went for weeks without assignment. Eventually, all the other personnel on this job were assigned to other duties, but for some reason I was left alone in the building, I guess to guard the equipment. At first I enjoyed my freedom. It was great to have nothing to do. All the electricity in the building was turned off with the exception of one outlet, into which was plugged a small crook-necked lamp which sat on the corner of a flat drafting table. There was a hard wooden chair where I could sit if I cared to. All the rest of the great building was in darkness. So for a few days I opened the door to the outside light and sat in the doorway on the old chair and thoroughly enjoyed myself, but before long I became immensely bored.

I had been raised in the Church by careful parents who had taught me the gospel, but I had never read the Book of Mormon completely through for myself. One day, as I sat idle, I decided this was an opportune time for me to do this. And so, that afternoon, I brought my small serviceman’s Book of Mormon from my quarters and, desiring privacy, went inside the building and turned on the little light by the table and began to read, hunched over there in that great dark building. I remember how I was struck by those first words, “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents. . . .” And as the days went by I read every word, and my soul, programmed as it was to goodness and truth, began to respond to the testimonies of the prophets. I had never had such an experience! I read slowly, prayerfully, savoring every word, looking forward to what was to come, even wishing that it would never end. I had feelings in my heart that I had never been conscious of before. And when at last I read the admonition of Moroni at the end of the book, I felt a great desire in my heart to try his words, to ask for spiritual verification even greater than what I was then feeling. I remember shutting the doors of that vast building and locking myself in, then kneeling in the darkness on the cold cement floor, my forehead resting against the hard wooden seat of the old chair, and telling the Lord that I believed the words of Moroni, and asking him to strengthen my belief into knowledge.

I shall never forget what happened; I have felt it many times since. I became aware that I was surrounded by a power beyond myself, which came over me and through me. It was all around me, calm, clear, indescribably powerful. It seemed white and delicious to me, like the fruit of the tree of life which Nephi told of. It filled me completely to the brim and over the brim, and did not leave me for days afterward. It was not shocking or disturbing in any way, as is the power of evil, but was sweet and assuring to my soul. I knew that the book was true.

He was born in a small adobe house with a thatched roof in Chojoló, a remote mountain village in southern México. When he listened to the missionaries at age 15, someone had to translate their Spanish words into his native language, Tzotzil. He studied Selections from the Book of Mormon in Tzotzil, was baptized, and tried to share the gospel with his parents. Four years later, they were baptized.
Manuel Solís Ruiz served as a Primary teacher and branch clerk. When a missionary encouraged him to serve a full-time mission, Manuel explained why he couldn’t go. “I don’t speak or understand Spanish—only Tzotzil,” he said. “And we don’t have any money. I had to quit school as a boy to work in the fields to support my elderly parents. They depend solely on me.”
But Manuel wanted to serve a mission, and he found the courage to speak to the local mission president. Recognizing the purity of Manuel’s heart, the mission president and other local leaders helped make it possible for him to serve.
“Now I am at the Missionary Training Center in México City!” says 21-year-old Manuel, who was called to the México México City South Mission. “I was sad to leave my father and mother, but they will be all right. The Lord gives me confidence and strength. I am learning the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I have found many friends here in the MTC who are helping me.”
Elder Solís is having a life-changing experience at the Missionary Training Center—one that is helping him prepare for his mission and also for life. Missionaries in MTCs around the world are having similar experiences.

My father was my best friend while I was growing up. He had a great influence on my life because of the way he treated my mother. I never, ever heard him speak a cross word to her. He treated me and the rest of our family with the same kindness.
He often took me fishing. We also worked together at our family’s sawmill. After working hard all day, we sometimes went on evening picnics. Spending time working and playing together created a real family bond.

During my junior year in high school the principal asked me to run for vice president of the student body. It was a life-changing experience for me, because I had never considered such a thing before. I didn’t say yes at first, but I thought about it, and the Holy Ghost confirmed that it was the right thing for me to do. It scared me, but I ran and won the election. From that time to now, a whole different world has opened up as I gained confidence. Listening to the Holy Ghost helped me know I could become more than I had ever dreamed of becoming.