Gospel Story Finder

Growing up on a farm, there were plenty of jobs to do. But milking the cows was my favorite chore. Mother liked me to milk the cows because she was convinced they gave more milk when they were listening to music. When I milked the cows, I sang to them.
Early one September evening I began milking and singing to our cow Old Spooky. She had been raised on the range and hadn’t taken kindly to being milked, so sometimes milking her was a struggle. I was singing my most soothing song, developing a kind of mesmerizing rhythm, when a rock landed on the tin roof right above Spooky and me. Spooky’s reaction to the noise was both violent and predictable. I found myself dazed and flat on my back, ten feet away from the milk stool. My arm felt like it was broken, and the milk pail lay dirty and dented in the manure. I sat there for a few moments trying to figure out what had happened when I heard a shrill, fiendish laugh emanating from the street immediately outside our fence. The laugh told me the source of my troubles. It was also my first introduction to Winferd.
When I stepped out of the shed, I saw the little towheaded neighbor boy convulsing with laughter. Obviously, he had never before witnessed anything so funny. I shouted a few well-chosen words hoping to intimidate him and thwart a repeat performance.
Several days passed, and I had almost forgotten my little seven-year-old troublemaker. I was confident my threats had deterred him from further mischief when one day I was milking Old Spooky and the clangor on the tin shed triggered a performance from Spooky that would have done credit to a rodeo Brahma bull. The only difference this time from the first rock-throwing episode was that I didn’t get kicked. Spooky had stepped in the milk bucket, bending it beyond repair. Without even looking, I knew who had thrown the rock. I leaped the corral fence and caught Winferd in full cackle. I grabbed him, then twisted his arm until I extracted a promise that he wouldn’t do it again. But Winferd was not intimidated. As soon as I released him, he crawled through the fence that surrounded his lot. When he was sure I couldn’t overtake him, he shouted a defiant, “I’ll do it again!”
And he did. Again and again and again, each with diabolical variations. He filled my milk buckets with manure and hayleaves. He opened the gate and chased my animals. There was no end to his ingenuity. I caught Winferd several times and gave him a good pummeling and rubbed his face with fresh cow manure—all to no avail. Winferd was having too much fun. He met my threats with “I’ll do it again” whenever he felt he could elude me.
While Winferd seemed to be thriving, my relationship with my mother was deteriorating badly. She couldn’t understand how a little seven-year-old boy could outguess a fifteen-year-old. My fall from grace with Mom pained me. One day, I explained my situation to my older brother, who was home from college. He listened quietly and then took an excruciatingly long time before he spoke. I expected him to tell me some way to get revenge.
His answer was both disappointing and unbelievable.
“Why don’t you try killing him with kindness?” he said.
“I’ll kill him, all right, but not with kindness,” I blurted out. After I finished, my brother could see I was overwhelmed with frustration and malice.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s the way to do it. Kill him with kindness.” Then he continued. “I’ve got a dime. Here, take it. The next time you catch this Winferd, act as angry as usual. Grab him by his collar and drag him to the store and buy an ice cream cone for each of you.”
“Waste a nickel on that brat?” I was incredulous.
“What have you got to lose?” he asked. “It’s my dime. You’ve tried everything you could think of and it hasn’t worked.”
It was a measure of the depth of my frustration that I even agreed to try what seemed like a silly plan. I figured even if his plan didn’t work I would at least get an ice cream cone out of it.
I didn’t have long to wait to try my brother’s crazy experiment. The following Monday, I was feeding the animals when I spotted Winferd sneaking around the far corner of the barn. It took a bit of doing to both catch him and not give in to my anger and frustration. After I caught him, I marched Winferd the two blocks to the store with him resisting every step of the way. I then ordered two ice cream cones. One for me and one for Winferd. Nellie, the storekeeper, was mystified. She was not accustomed to seeing anyone being coerced into taking a cone, least of all a young boy.
Winferd was clearly baffled at this strange turn of events. As we started for home, I kept a tight grip on his collar. Soon, however, I felt Winferd relax as he licked his unexpected bounty. I let go of Winferd, and we walked slowly together to my gate. What an unlikely and unexpected scenario—tormentor walking with the tormented, and both eating ice cream as if nothing had ever happened between them.
As we arrived at the gate, I turned in and Winferd went his way toward home. Neither of us had said a word. I was left to wonder: What next? I was troubled with mixed emotions. Our walk together had given me a small ray of hope that things could be different between us. But our silence seemed to prevent that from occurring. Nothing prepared me for what would happen next.
The following morning as I went out the back door of our home with my milk buckets, scarcely able to see in the early morning twilight, there, huddled on the step, was Winferd. He timidly asked, “Can I help with the chores?” All of the bravado was gone. Only a ragged little towhead remained who wanted to be noticed and loved.
After that, Winferd was a joy to be around. Sometimes he was like a friendly, loving, eager-to-please puppy. In the ensuing years he spent much of his time at our place, often only going home to eat his meals. Until I went away to college, a blond, loving friend often worked at my side, quick to be helpful, never demanding or expecting any kind of remuneration. None of us in those Depression years had money to spare. Winferd knew how it was and worked willingly just to be around someone who cared. After high school I served a mission, went to college, and joined the Air Force, and our paths seldom crossed. I missed Winferd, and was full of sorrow when I learned he had been killed in World War II.
I often think of Winferd, and when I do I see in my mind’s eye a ragged little boy lofting a rock onto our tin shed, hoping someone—anyone—would notice and love him. I also pay tribute to a loving and insightful older brother who had the compassion and vision to understand that a towheaded kid could become a friend for life for the price of a five-cent ice cream cone.

Study the words of President David O. McKay, who tells of how, in his youth, he knelt and “prayed fervently and sincerely and with as much faith as a young boy could muster” that “God would declare to [him] the truth of his revelation to Joseph Smith.”

President McKay related that when he arose from his knees, he had to admit that “no spiritual manifestation has come to me. If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same [boy] that I was before I prayed.”

I don’t know how young David felt in his heart at that time, but I’m sure he must have been disappointed—perhaps frustrated that he didn’t receive the spiritual experience that he had hoped for. But that didn’t discourage him from continuing his search for that knowledge.

The answer to his prayers did come, but not until years later, when he was serving as a missionary. Why was the answer to his prayer so long delayed? President McKay believed that this spiritual manifestation “came as a natural sequence to the performance of duty.”

Early one summer morning a mother and father quail with their brood of thirteen little chicks came out of the bushes in our backyard where they had been nesting. The little chicks looked like tiny balls of fur, and the parent birds were clucking and scolding.
The father quail went first, strutting and moving his head mightily from left to right. When he was far enough into the street that he could see clearly in both directions, he gave a call and the mother quail started across the street. Then, like little soldiers, the baby quail lined up single file and followed her, running as fast as they could. The father fell in line after the last chick, and the family scurried safely across the street.
The baby quail showed great obedience and devotion to their parents. The little ones had faith in their parents’ leadership. They knew they would be protected and guided to a place where they could safely hunt for seeds they liked to eat. The parents expected obedience from their tiny chicks. They did not want them to stray, and yet they led them with tenderness.

Illustration by Paul Mann
For a while I was a student assistant in the library at my high school. At a certain hour I would usually see the special education class come in. One of the girls in that class, Stephanie, often went to a certain area to read books. She seemed very sweet and friendly.
One day some other students were in the lounge area of the library, and Stephanie tried to talk to them. These students started making fun of her, calling her names and making rude comments to her face about her disability.
As I watched from the library desk, I thought, “Oh, dear. That’s just wrong.” Not seeing an adult around at the moment, I walked over to them and said, “Hey, cut it out.” Then they turned their ridicule to me, so I took Stephanie to the other side of the library, where we sat and talked together for a while.
After that, I didn’t have another chance to talk to Stephanie again. The end of the school year came, and life moved on.
A year later, the sister missionaries invited me to go with them to an appointment. When the day came, I went to the address at the scheduled time, but the sister missionaries weren’t there yet. I called them to make sure I was at the right place, and they told me they were running late from their last appointment but would be there in a few minutes, so I might as well just go to the house and introduce myself. I stepped up to the door and rang the doorbell. A woman answered. She was very nice and courteous.
Then I saw a young woman come around the corner. When she saw me, she ran up to me and hugged me. At first I thought, “She looks so familiar.” She asked, “How are you doing?!” As she went on saying kind and friendly things to me, I just looked at her, trying to figure out who she was. And then it clicked—she was the girl from a year ago in the library. It was Stephanie.
At that moment I thought, “What if I hadn’t helped her that day and then showed up here at her door to try to teach her the gospel? If I had looked on while they were making fun of her, if I hadn’t stepped in and been kind to her, why would she listen to me trying to teach her the gospel?”
Her sweet reaction meant a lot to me. I thanked Heavenly Father for giving me the strength to do the right thing.
When the sister missionaries came, the lesson went very well. We visited Stephanie twice a week after that. She loved learning about the gospel and was baptized within a short time. She really enjoys being active in the Church. I often pick her up to take her to church and to firesides or other activities. Though her mother isn’t interested in the Church, she’s very supportive of Stephanie’s activity.
Through this experience I realized that it’s so important to know that people are always watching. You never know when you’ll have a chance to make an impression on someone and plant a seed. It’s so important to stick up for what you know to be true at all times, even when it may not necessarily seem like the easiest thing to do.

James carefully straightened his tie as he rode to the stake center. Today was his little sister Angie’s baptism, and he knew he needed to look as nice as he could. He looked over at Angie. She was sitting very quietly, looking out the window. He wondered if she was scared or excited.
James remembered his own baptism day. He had been so excited to finally step into the font. He remembered how warm the water felt, and especially how warm he felt inside. He was happy for Angie.
But he was also a little bit jealous.
Wouldn’t it be nice if people could be baptized more than once? What if he could ask his father to let him put on some white clothes too, go down into the water, and be washed clean?
James thought about the promises he had made when he was baptized. He knew that he hadn’t been as good as he had planned to be. Sometimes he was mean to Angie. He had told a few lies. Last week he even took his friend’s Frisbee without asking and hadn’t returned it yet.
James began to feel sad. If only he could get baptized again so that he could start over! He would do better this time; he knew it.
At the stake center, James sat next to his mother and watched his father help Angie into the water. She looked happy. James remembered that feeling. Maybe if he told his father about the things he had done wrong, he could get baptized again. But he didn’t dare ask.
After Angie’s baptism, the whole family had dinner together. Angie was beaming. Grandma and Grandpa were there too, looking proud of Angie. James thought about how sad they would feel if they knew the things he had done since his own baptism. He didn’t feel very hungry.
“What’s wrong, James?” Dad asked, putting his hand on James’s shoulder. His face was full of love. Would he understand and let James get baptized again? Or would he be disappointed in his son?
James leaned over so no one else could hear him. “Dad, can I get baptized again?”
Dad looked closely at James. “Well, that’s not exactly how things work, James. Is something bothering you?”
“Well, it’s just that sometimes I want a chance to start over again.”
“Ah, I see. Are you remembering your own baptism day?”
“Yes.”
“I understand that. Sometimes I wish I could get baptized again. But you see, James, I don’t have to.”
“Why? Because you haven’t done anything wrong?” James asked.
Dad smiled. “Like you, I wanted to keep all the commandments when I was baptized. But I have done many things wrong since then. Just yesterday I lost my patience when you didn’t do your chores right away, remember?”
“Yes.”
“I really wanted to erase my mistake as if it had never happened.”
“So you wanted to get baptized again?” James asked.
“Well, I did want to be clean again,” Dad said. “But I knew that there was another way to get clean again besides getting baptized. I could repent.”
“Is that all?” James asked. “I mean, is repenting the same as getting baptized again?”
“Yes, but there is another part too. Being baptized when you’re eight is something that you do to show obedience and make a covenant to keep the commandments. After that, when you sin, you need to repent and show you really mean to do better.”
James smiled. “You mean by taking the sacrament?”
Dad nodded. “When you take the sacrament you are showing Jesus that you have repented of the things you did wrong that week. And then, as you eat the bread and drink the water, you become clean, and you are ready to start over.”
James remembered the words of the sacrament prayer. Each week he promised to take Jesus Christ’s name upon him—just like when he was baptized. “So I am clean if I repent and then take the sacrament?” he asked.
“That’s exactly right,” Dad said.
“Wow.” James was quiet for a minute. Tomorrow was Sunday. He could take the sacrament then! But he had some work to do first. He wondered if Mom would let him take the Frisbee over to his friend Mark’s house after they got home.
“Dad?”
“Yes, Son?”
“I’m sorry for not doing my chores yesterday. Will you forgive me?”
Dad smiled and hugged James. “Of course I will.”

Three years later I joined the Church, and two years after that I went on a mission to the Central States Mission. Halfway through my mission, Elder Spencer W. Kimball came to visit and it was our privilege to hear from him at a missionary conference in St. Louis, Missouri. Toward the end of his talk he spoke to us upon the subject of love—love between parents and children—and exhorted us young missionaries to be sure to write our parents and tell them how much we loved and appreciated them.
The guilt of my last hours with my father swept over me, and as the closing song was sung and the benediction offered, I began to cry. As the people began to leave the room, my crying grew into bitter tears and uncontrollable sobbings. My hands and feet grew numb and I became oblivious to everything around me. My companion, my district leader, the mission president—each came back into the room and tried to comfort me, but to no avail.
Then I became aware of someone’s arms around me, of a gentle cheek pressed against my own, of kind words softly spoken. Elder Kimball was embracing me with the same love and affection with which I now embrace my own small children. As I began to regain control of myself, he spoke words of comfort and reassurance. Later, upon his return to Salt Lake City, he would send me a copy of a talk he had given that would give me further comfort. I do not remember what was said that afternoon as I sat alone with Elder Kimball. His words have long since escaped my memory. But I will always remember his sincere show of love and deep concern for a young missionary whom he had never before seen, his cheek against my own, and his warm, loving embrace.

Although the afternoon was crisp and cold, inside our house we were warm and snug. In my parents’ room, my three sisters and I were all busily wrapping presents for the Fitzpatricks.* Ever since my early childhood we’d been friends with the Fitzpatricks, and I was always painfully aware of how little the parents and their four children had.
With the gifts in a pile, my sisters and I formed an assembly line wrapping a present and taking it to my mother. After checking the contents of the package, she would decide who would get what, and then sign it “Santa.” She would deposit the gift in a large plastic bag, and we would go to the next one. Using this method we quickly and efficiently finished wrapping the presents in about an hour.
Later that night we all piled into the family van with those plastic bags and headed toward the trailer park where the Fitzpatricks lived. After parking the van, my dad got out, walked to the trailer, and waited at the door. When he was sure no one was home, he unloaded the bags and left them on the porch.
The following Sunday I sat with my family in sacrament meeting. Sitting still and trying to listen was not something I did readily, and soon I became mesmerized by the pictures I was drawing. At one point I glanced up to see Sister Fitzpatrick at the pulpit. But I was only vaguely aware of what she was saying. Suddenly my sister Audrey jabbed me with her elbow and whispered that she was talking about us.
Streaming down her face were tears, and her voice shook as she spoke. She told the congregation how they didn’t have money for Christmas and they weren’t sure what to do. Upon returning that night, they found the bags of presents on their porch. She warmly thanked the gift givers.
The Fitzpatricks never found out who left the Christmas presents for them, although from the pulpit Sister Fitzpatrick said she knew the gifts came from someone in the congregation. Amazingly, tears came to my eyes, and I had to look down to brush them away. That was when I first felt like an angel.

Nikki and Breck Fullmer quarreled constantly. Most of their fights were about Nikki borrowing Breck’s T-shirts, and Nikki enduring Breck’s music. Nikki and Breck were both looking for a way out of their conflicts when they decided to participate in their stake’s “Time Alone” experiment.
In “Time Alone” you invite a family member to spend an hour doing something they like with only you. It’s a laser focus of attention on a single sibling or parent. “Time Alone” is a simple formula for friendship that might make a change in your family. Some family members experience results in just a few meetings.
Nikki knew her brother gulped gallons of soda pop every week, so she invited him to go get a drink with her. He thought it was a fine arrangement, since she was buying. After the soda they talked and drove around for an hour. After just one rendezvous Nikki said, “He’s at a stage where he’ll do just about anything to be cool. And now he thinks it’s cool to be with me.”
Other young people who participated in the experiment didn’t fight with their brothers and sisters but felt their relationships weren’t as strong as they could be. Curtis Morley missed the close relationship he and his younger brother had as young boys. He decided to get up early with his brother and join him in his bike ride to volleyball practice during the summer.
“At first we just talked of common things, but as the days progressed he spoke more from the heart. I anticipated a noticeable change in him. It didn’t happen. Instead the change came over me. I had regained a friend, someone who would always be there when I needed him—and an awesome volleyball partner.”

In 1992, time was a precious and limited commodity for Elder S. Mark Palmer and his wife, Jacqueline.
Elder Palmer was serving on the stake high council at the time. He was also working hard to build his professional career. Sister Palmer’s time was stretched just as thin. The Palmers were raising six children in their Austin, Texas, USA, home—including a six-month-old baby boy.
When their stake president invited them to serve as workers at the Dallas Texas Temple, they didn’t know how they could handle one more duty. But they accepted the call—and then prayerfully asked for the Lord’s help.
Making a monthly bus trip to serve all day in the temple required sacrifice and careful planning. “But it blessed our lives enormously,” says Elder Palmer.
Serving in the temple, he adds, prepared him spiritually for future priesthood callings. It also made him a better husband and father—and he found balance in his busy life.
“Going to the temple often helps you reset your priorities and be reminded of the covenants you have made,” he says.

I grew up, joined the Royal Navy, and after nine years began working for a fire-protection company. One evening after work, I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it, two sister missionaries introduced themselves. I was tired, dirty, and hungry, so I suggested that they come back later in the evening or some other time.
To my surprise they returned an hour later. I invited them in. As soon as they started talking, I knew there was something special about their message. My home felt different, and I knew it emanated from these two sisters.
They gave me the first discussion that night and the second discussion the following night. Two elders then came every night until I had received all the discussions. I began reading the Book of Mormon and praying. Getting down on my knees to pray for the first time in 20 years was the most spiritual experience I had had in my life.
I made the commitment to be baptized a week after finishing the discussions. After my baptism, Elder Ross and Elder Fullerger laid their hands on my head to give me the gift of the Holy Ghost. As soon as their hands touched my head, my experience with the Spirit 20 years before came back to me. Something precious that had been preserved within me—but had been suppressed by all the mistakes I had made in life—was spiritually reunited with my memory. I was overwhelmed to think that I meant so much to the Savior that He had not forgotten me.
I’m grateful to the missionaries who taught me the gospel and to the members of my first ward who nourished me. Most of all, I’m grateful to my Savior, whose existence I had once doubted but whom I now gratefully serve.

“When I was eleven, the Fourth of July was a real big event in Spanish Fork. World War II had begun, and the whole town was having a parade to send off the men who were leaving to serve in the war. The night before the Fourth I went outside to play. I sat on the porch, and my mother said, ‘You’re not going to go anywhere, are you?’ I said, ‘No, I’ll stay here.’
“Then my friend Mark came across the street and said, ‘I have a big box of firecrackers. Let’s go up to Janet’s and show the girls how to light them!’ I forgot that my mother had asked me to stay home. The only thought in my mind was to go up to Janet’s and light some firecrackers.
“We lighted all the firecrackers that would light, and the remainder we put in a cardboard box and set on fire. Mark and I were both burned in the resulting explosion. In fact, our faces, chests, hands, and arms were burned so severely that it didn’t look like we were going to make it.
“Sister Hill, Janet’s mother, came out when she heard the explosion, and she saw five kids on fire. Somehow the fires were put out, and she calmly took us into the house, knelt us down in the living room, and offered a prayer. Then she called the doctor, and we went down to Dr. Moody’s office.
“He operated on my face to put it back together. Before he started, I asked my father to give me a blessing. Dr. Moody was also an elder, so the two of them administered to me. My father said in the blessing that if I would have faith, the Lord would make me well. You have to remember that at that time my father was an alcoholic. But when he said that the Lord would make me well, I knew it was true.
“Then Dr. Moody began to work on me. I didn’t have any anesthetic because they were afraid of shock. into my mind came the words of one of my mother’s favorite hymns:
O how praying rests the weary!
Prayer will change the night to day;
So when life gets dark and dreary,
Don’t forget to pray.
(Hymns, no. 31.)
“I couldn’t speak, but I could hum. For the whole two and a half to three hours while the doctor was trying to fix my face, I hummed that hymn. When he was finished with me, I looked just like a mummy. My face and arms were all wrapped up with bandages. It appeared that I had lost the sight of one eye and severely damaged the other. My hands were as black as shoe leather, and they were hard and crinkled.
“All five of us were healed and back in school in the fall. Janet had a severely damaged finger, Mark had burns on his face, as I did, and on his arms, but we were all back in school. Someone in the ward had placed our names on the prayer roll in the temple. To Mother that was tantamount to saying, ‘Don’t worry, if your names are on the prayer roll in the temple, you can just count on being healed.’ And we were.”

Vítor lived with his mother and sister at his grandma’s home in Brazil. Vítor’s grandma became ill and could not leave her bed for many weeks. She was lonely in her room by herself.
Vítor decided that he could keep Grandma company. Every day when he came home from school, he took a copy of the Liahona into Grandma’s room and read her stories from the children’s pages.
After he read all the copies of the Liahona that his family had, he began reading the Book of Mormon and the Bible to her. Grandma was not a member of the Church, but she loved hearing Vítor read to her. She was happy to learn about the gospel.
Grandma asked many questions. If Vítor did not know the answers, he asked his Primary teacher or looked in the scriptures. Grandma called Vítor her little missionary.
Grandma told Vítor that she had learned a lot from him. She promised that she would attend church with him when she got well. What she had learned made her want to get better and study more about the gospel.
When Grandma was well, she kept her promise. She went to church with Vítor to learn more about what he had taught her. It was not long before Grandma was baptized and confirmed. Vítor had helped her learn that the gospel is true.
When Vítor grew up, he became a full-time missionary in the Boston Massachusetts Mission. Before he left, he went to the temple—with his grandma.

Fortunately, there are still those who observe such principles of personal rectitude. I recall riding a train from Osaka to Nagoya, Japan. At the station were friends to greet us, and in the excitement my wife left her purse on the train. We called the Tokyo station to report it. When the train arrived at its destination some three hours later, the railroad telephoned to say the purse was there. We were not returning via Tokyo, and more than a month passed before it was delivered to us in Salt Lake City. Everything left in the purse was there when it was returned.

From a hill, the ripe pumpkin field looks like orange and brown cake batter—swirled, not blended. It’s harvest time, and Alf Buckley is pulling pumpkins, building orange pyramids. It’s back-breaking work; 10–12-hours-a-day work.
“There are things I’d rather be doing,” says Alf, 17, a straight-talking young man with a true New England accent. “But you feel better about yourself after working. Maybe just to know you’re not sitting around the house, watching the tube all day.”
During the summer Alf works six days a week, saving for his mission and technical college. In the fall and winter he works evenings and Saturdays at local farms and for his father’s plumbing business.
Alf isn’t perfect, of course. He has challenges at school and with friends just like any other LDS teenager, but he knows how to work hard, and people recognize his effort.
“Sure, I get tempted to spend my tithing money, but Dad gave me a good way to stay in line,” said Alf. “I slip the money behind a poster on the wall. I can’t see it, and then I don’t spend it. When I pay my tithing the jobs keep coming in.”
Even Alf Buckley doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but he has learned the value of work. Perhaps it was one afternoon when his dad came home exhausted from a long day on the job, and he realized he was looking at an honest man. Whatever made the difference, it was Alf who decided to be the kind of young man he is today.
In a field near Pepperell, Alf is pulling pumpkins, working steady. The field was orange, now it’s brown—the pumpkins are stacked. “My dad taught me how to live, but now I have to take that and do something with it,” he says.
He pauses. “That’s kind of hard in a way. But I can do it.”

When Babe was about eight years old, she earned money for a harmonica by cutting some neighbors’ grass. It was so high that she had to cut it with a sickle before she could mow it. When she got the harmonica, she practiced for hours and hours. Her brothers played the drums, two of her sisters played the piano, her other sister and her father played the violin, her mother sang, and Babe played her harmonica. Even when she was older and famous for her athletic prowess, she was good enough to play her harmonica in public.

Forty-seven years ago this general conference, I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. At the time, I had been serving on one of the general priesthood committees of the Church, and so before my name was presented, I sat with my fellow members of that priesthood committee, as was expected of me. My wife, however, had no idea where to go and no one with whom she could sit and, in fact, was unable to find a seat anywhere in the Tabernacle. A dear friend of ours, who was a member of one of the general auxiliary boards and who was sitting in the area designated for the board members, asked Sister Monson to sit with her. This woman knew nothing of my call—which would be announced shortly—but she spotted Sister Monson, recognized her consternation, and graciously offered her a seat. My dear wife was relieved and grateful for this kind gesture. Sitting down, however, she heard loud whispering behind her as one of the board members expressed her annoyance to those around her that one of her fellow board members would have the audacity to invite an “outsider” to sit in this area reserved only for them. There was no excuse for her unkind behavior, regardless of who might have been invited to sit there. However, I can only imagine how that woman felt when she learned that the “intruder” was the wife of the newest Apostle.

Several years ago, President Russell M. Nelson invited the young adults of the Church “to increase their testimony” and “learn all they can about Jesus Christ.” He asked them to spend some time each week “to study everything Jesus said and did as recorded in the standard works” using the scripture citations under the heading Jesus Christ in the Topical Guide or Guide to the Scriptures.

At that time, President Nelson had already “read and underlined every verse cited about Jesus Christ, as listed under the main heading and the 57 subtitles in the Topical Guide.” He studied over 2,200 scriptures! It took him six weeks to complete the task. When President Nelson’s wife Wendy asked him what impact studying all those scriptures had on him, he said, “I am a different man!”

When I was a youth, I didn’t know what the Holy Ghost felt like. I was around 12 years old when my mother sat me down and asked me this important question: “Mark,” she said, “has the Lord ever told you through the Holy Ghost that the Church is true?”
I wasn’t in the business of lying to my mom, so I honestly and sheepishly responded “No?”
She then said, “Heavenly Father wants you to know for yourself, but you need to put in the effort. If you will read the Book of Mormon and pray, He will let you know of its truthfulness by the Holy Ghost.”
I had my own copy of the Book of Mormon, but I had never read it on my own. With the determination to take this invitation seriously, I started my own spiritual journey. Each night before I went to bed, I read a chapter or so in the Book of Mormon. As I knelt down to pray, I asked Heavenly Father to let me know that it was true. As I prayed, a peaceful feeling rested upon me. I felt good inside.
Were these feelings from the Holy Ghost? I wasn’t really sure. This was all new to me, and I didn’t know what the promptings of the Holy Ghost felt like. I wondered if an angel was going to come visit me or if perhaps a great divine light would appear in my room. Nevertheless, with sincere desire to receive the promised knowledge from the Holy Ghost, I continued to read and pray night after night. Every time I prayed, I felt feelings of peace, and I felt good inside.
It wasn’t until later that I realized the Lord had been answering my prayers all along, but I had been looking for a different kind of answer. I just didn’t realize that we can “feel” the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

Be grateful and forgive. It was late. My husband and I were both exhausted, the house was a mess, and our toddler was teasing the baby. Then suddenly my husband and I had a discussion that quickly escalated into an argument. Feelings were hurt. I soon found myself in one room and my husband in another room. Silence stretched across the house.
I put the children to bed, and still no words had been spoken. Our home had become simply a house: empty, cold, and silent. I couldn’t sleep. My pillow became wet with tears, and my thoughts kept turning to my wonderful husband of six years who was sitting alone in the living room.
I began praying for guidance. I wanted him to make the first move and say he was sorry, yet I wanted the loving atmosphere of our home back even more. As I prayed, my mind filled with beautiful memories of my husband, our marriage, our temple covenants, and all my blessings. A thought came to me—What would the Lord have me do? My tears increased, and before I knew it I was kneeling beside my husband, gently waking him.
Hugging me, he said, “Please don’t cry.” We both said we were sorry over and over and told each other how much we loved each other. Immediately a sweet spirit filled our home again.
In my mind I thanked Heavenly Father, who had led me to listen with my heart, to be humble, and to count the ways my husband blesses our life together. Since that night my husband and I try to be more careful when exhaustion sets in, and we try to count our blessings and be more patient.—Kelly Smith

I grew up in the Church but drifted away in my teens. When I returned to the Church, my husband, Dale, supported me but was not interested in meeting with the missionaries.
After becoming active, I met with the bishop for a temple recommend interview. He asked if I was a full-tithe payer, and I was pleased to announce that I was. To my surprise the bishop asked, “Does your husband know that you pay tithing?” I was shocked—why did it matter? The bishop kindly asked me to return after I had told Dale I was paying tithing.
One Sunday morning I finally got up the courage to tell my husband I was paying tithing. Dale stunned me by simply saying, “I know.” This was the first of many tithing miracles.
A short time later, Dale turned the family finances over to me. When I explained that I would pay a full tithe on all our income, he approved because he saw the blessings tithing could bring.
Now our cupboards are always full, we hold family prayer every day, we have the missionaries over at least once a month, and my husband participates in family home evening. I believe that someday Dale will join the Church and that his conversion will have started with our decision to pay a full tithe together.