Gospel Story Finder

As we talked about our plans for college and careers during that last dance, she changed the topic very abruptly.
“I just want to tell you thank you,” she said with a sincere smile.
Caught by surprise, I croaked out a confused response: “For what?”
“When I first started coming to these dances,” she said, “no one would dance with me or the other girls from my branch. I really wanted to get to know other LDS people, but I’m shy. So I would sit in a chair and wait and wait, but none of the boys would ever ask. It was so humiliating that one time, while sitting and watching other people, I vowed that I would never come to a Church dance again.
“That was just before you asked me to dance for the first time. Because of that, I came to the next dance, where you asked me again. I kept coming to dances these past few years because I knew that even if no one else would ask me to dance, you would. So, thank you.”

I visited my grandpa and grandma who are not members of the LDS Church. On Sunday we went to the church where my grandpa preaches. A girl invited me to go to Sunday School with her. The teacher was teaching about “Mormonism.” I knew that what she was teaching was not the truth, and I felt angry. I excused myself from class. Once I was alone I said a prayer to ask Heavenly Father for courage to bear my testimony. When I got back to class, I raised my hand and said, “I am a Mormon.” Suddenly I felt the Spirit really strong and my fear went away completely.
The teacher asked me if I could tell the class why we are called Mormons. I said, “We are called Mormons because we believe in the Book of Mormon.” A girl said that she had started to read the Book of the Mormon but she laughed at it. She asked me how I could believe such a story. Her question hurt my feelings, but I said what was in my heart: “I know it is true because I prayed to Heavenly Father and He told me it was so.” Before this happened I did not think I could share my testimony with so many people who didn’t believe in our Church, but now I know that the Spirit will always give me courage.

My awakening to these unique verses played an important role in my first assignment as an Area Seventy. I was a bit nervous being the companion of an Apostle, Elder Quentin L. Cook, at a stake conference. As I walked into the stake president’s office for the initial meeting that weekend, I noticed a pair of tattered-looking, bronzed shoes on the credenza behind his desk, accompanied by a scripture ending in an exclamation point. As I read it, I felt the Lord was aware of my study, had answered my prayers, and that He knew exactly what I needed to soothe my anxious heart.
I asked the stake president to tell me the story of the shoes.
He said:
“These are shoes of a young convert to the Church whose family situation was strained, yet he was determined to serve a successful mission and did so in Guatemala. Upon his return I met with him to extend an honorable release and saw his shoes were worn out. This young man had given his all to the Lord without much, if any, family support.
“He noticed I was staring at his shoes and asked me, ‘President, is anything wrong?’
“I responded, ‘No, Elder, everything is right! Can I have those shoes?’”
The stake president continued: “My respect and love for this returning missionary was overwhelming! I wanted to memorialize the experience, so I had his shoes bronzed. It is a reminder to me when I walk into this office of the effort we all must give regardless of our circumstances. The verse was from Isaiah: ‘How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good, that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth!’ (Isaiah 52:7).”

I love talking to my parents and grandparents and learning stories about my ancestors. I’ve even learned how to enter their stories into FamilySearch.org. I also love searching online for my ancestors. I was so excited when my dad and I found a ship record on Ancestry.com with some of their names. I also got to visit a cemetery with my dad and grandpa to look for my relatives’ graves. I was so happy when we found the tombstone of my great-great-grandfather!

I was a Mormon chaplain newly arrived in Vietnam and had been directed by a senior chaplain to teach a series of character guidance classes. A check through channels failed to produce a copy of the regular manual, but the assignment stood. The first lesson was scheduled to be given to Alpha Company immediately after they had finished their 12-hour-duty day. The class was to be taught in a quonset hut that was being used as a post office.
The company was waiting for me when I arrived—about a hundred of them in all, draped over mailbags, slouched over the few available chairs, leaning against the walls, or seated on the floor. Not having a lesson, I was free to move in any direction I wanted to go, so I posed this question for discussion: “What effect will the manner in which you conduct yourself in Vietnam have on your relationship with your wife or sweetheart when you return home?”
The initial response to the question consisted of snickers, whispering, and a quick turning or lowering of the head of any whose eyes I tried to catch. A prompt solution to their bashfulness was a randomly selected panel. Much to my chagrin, but to the delight of the GI’s, it was immediately apparent that my selection of a panel was less than inspired. They all consciously avoided saying anything that they thought the chaplain wanted them to say. They weren’t going to play goodie-goodie in front of their peers. Vietnam, they argued, was a twilight zone, and what they did there had no relationship with the real world. The last member of the panel to speak bragged about the double-standard by which he was living and concluded by saying, “What my wife doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Someone challenged him by asking how he would feel about his wife living by that same standard. He tried to maintain his cavalier image, responding that if he didn’t know about it he didn’t care. Somehow that response did not come across with much conviction. Disdain was clearly written upon the faces of his audience and it became evident for the first time that they saw through the shallowness of the arguments that had been presented.
Then a rather unusual thing happened. A tall, broad-shouldered fellow who had been sitting quietly in the back of the room stood and asked if he could speak. Silence swept across the room, evidencing that he commanded respect. He did not raise his voice, but all heard what he had to say. He told about his fiancé and the love they shared. He spoke of the beautiful relationship that was theirs, and then with tears streaming down his face, he told how all that had been destroyed by their violation of the law of chastity. He spoke of a betrayed trust and expressed his hope that someday, somehow, they could gain again the feeling that once was theirs. The effect was dramatic. I waited a few moments for it to have its full impact and then added the testimony of a Mormon elder.
With the announcement that the class was dismissed, a few of the fellows got up and walked out, but the better part of the company remained. A group gathered around to ask more questions. A number expressed themselves to the effect that they had never heard a priest or minister “give it so straight before” or even take a position on the question of morality. One young GI, curious to know what denomination I represented, asked, “What kind of chaplain are you?” Before I could answer, the fellow standing behind him responded loud enough for all to hear, “He is a chaplain’s chaplain!”
Reflecting on that experience as I returned to my quarters that night, I came to a greater realization of our responsibility as Latter-day Saints. The world is replete with “many kinds of voices,” voices that sound “an uncertain sound,” and yet there are many who are ready to respond to the banners of truth. We are of Israel, the English equivalent of which means “prince of God,” or “soldier of God.” We live in times when good is made to appear as evil and evil as good. Prophetically, they are described as times of “false and vain and foolish doctrines.” They are times that call for courage. They are times that call for quiet example, and they are times that call for bold denunciation of those things that sap character and destroy nations. They are times for soldiers of God.

Miranda hurried through the front door, thankful that her house was cooler than the hot summer weather outside. She was sweaty from playing her last football game of the season and frustrated because the Teal Turbos had lost. Again.
Mom came into the room carrying a water bottle and a bag of leftover orange slices from the game. “You played a great game. Being goalie is a rough job.”
Miranda had played well—she had blocked a lot of shots and kicked harder than usual. But most of the other girls on her team had never played football before, and today made it official: they had lost every game this season.
“I just wish I could be on a team that won once in a while, you know?” A few tears leaked out of the corners of Miranda’s eyes and fell onto her blue-green jersey. As she squeezed her eyes shut, the phone rang.
Mom picked up the phone and after a moment said, “It’s for you.”
“Hi, Miranda? This is Tom, coach of the Chili Kickers. I was watching your game today. You looked great out there.”
Miranda’s heart started beating faster. The Chili Kickers was the best football team in the league!
“Our team is going to the regional championship games next month. You played so well today that I want you to come with us as a back-up goalie.”
Miranda’s heart nearly leaped out of her chest. This was her chance to play with a winning team!
“I’d love to come!” Miranda said. They talked for a few minutes about the details before she hung up and ran into the other room to tell Mom. Together they started writing the dates of the practices and games on the family calendar.
Suddenly Mom stopped writing, her pen hovering above one of the calendar squares.
“Uh-oh. Miranda, these games are on Sundays. Here, look.” She pointed to the game schedule and turned to Miranda with a worried frown. “What do you think we should do?”
Miranda’s heart sank, and she bit her lip as she thought about her options. Mom might let her play if she asked, but when she thought about playing on Sunday—and especially about missing church—she got a sick feeling in her stomach. She knew Sunday was for going to church and worshipping Heavenly Father, and she couldn’t really do those things while playing football.
“I think I should probably call him back and tell him I can’t play,” Miranda said. She tried hard not to cry. Even though she knew it was the right choice, it was hard to give up something she wanted so badly.
“And you know what I think?” Mom said, giving her a big hug. “I think you are one great kid.”
That Sunday, as Miranda sat in Primary, she thought about the good decision she had made. The coach was surprised when Miranda had called and said she couldn’t play football on Sundays. He had tried to get her to change her mind, but she had stuck with her decision. Now, as she listened to the Primary songs and lessons, Miranda smiled. The peaceful feeling in her heart told her that she was in the right place. She’d made a winning decision after all.

Studying abroad had always been a dream of mine, so when the opportunity came to study Spanish in Chile, I packed up my bags and flew 12 hours to stay with a Chilean family and attend school there. Morgan,* a girl I met in Chile, was also in the same Spanish program and the only other member of the Church I knew. We instantly became good friends and made plans to attend church the following Sunday morning.
I set my alarm for 8:30 a.m. that Sunday and texted Morgan to make sure she was awake. I started getting ready for church, but even as 9:00 rolled around, I hadn’t heard from Morgan. My heart slowly sank. I sat on my bed and thought, do I go alone? I felt scared. I was in a place I barely knew, I spoke minimal Spanish, I didn’t know anyone who would be at church, and I would have to walk eight blocks in cold rain. To make matters even harder, my Chilean family wasn’t LDS, and they were still asleep.
Once 9:30 passed, I figured I wasn’t going to hear from Morgan after all. But I still felt too nervous to go by myself.
10 o’clock came—the time church started—and by now I was sitting on my bed, having changed back into my pajama pants to keep me warm from the Chilean winter air. Not knowing what else to do—and wanting to feel the Spirit—I pulled out my laptop to watch Mormon Messages videos.
I was really touched by the second one I watched: “Dare to Stand Alone,” with a story from President Thomas S. Monson.
As I saw that, I realized I wasn’t being courageous enough to dare to stand alone.
I was afraid to go to church because I was by myself. As that realization sank in, I threw on my skirt and ate a speedy breakfast. I pulled on my yellow rain boots, packed my church shoes in my purse, and marched off to church just like President Monson. The whole time I walked to church, I wondered how I was brave enough to travel 5,728 miles away from my family and friends, live with a foreign family, speak a foreign language, and yet not be brave enough to walk eight blocks alone to church.
Going to church in Chile was an incredible experience. The members took me under their wing from the very first day, making sure I felt welcomed and loved. They were so kind and found ways to include me in their lives, including teaching me how to make Chilean dishes and inviting me to clean the church with them on a Saturday morning.
I learned that through the gospel we have family everywhere. No matter where we go in this world, we’ll always have a place to go that we can call home, with people who will change our lives forever. We may not speak the same language, wear the same clothes, or have the same customs, but we do have one heart to love each other.

For me, that’s my dad. He has a December birthday. He passed away just after Christmas nearly 18 years ago.
My dad always had a job that required travel.
He traveled by airplane at a time before headphones or earbuds. There was no screen in the back of the seat in front of him. No online entertainment. No mobile phone, tablet, or laptop computer.
Back then, to pass the time while you traveled, you had three choices: sleeping; reading a book, magazine, or newspaper; or talking to the person sitting next to you.
My dad always chose the third.
He came home from every trip with a story about his seatmate. His or her life story!
I don’t know how much my dad gave up about himself. But he had an uncanny ability, a listener’s gift. People felt comfortable with him. Comfortable enough to share their personal stories—heartaches and triumphs and everything in between.
And because my dad was ever an optimist, a true disciple of Jesus Christ, I know people left their flights known, heard, loved, happy, and a little more optimistic than when they boarded.

After lunch on Saturday, Sara asked, “What should I do now?”
“What would you like to do?” Father asked. He was at his desk, opening his stamp album.
“I don’t know,” Sara replied. “Everyone else has a hobby to work on.”
“You could start a recipe collection,” Mother suggested. Mother liked to cook new things. She was scanning the newspaper for recipes to clip.
“Quilting is a nice hobby,” said Grandmother, who was cutting small squares of material for quilt blocks.
“Go leaf hunting,” Sara’s sister, Grace, said. She held a leaf in one hand and a book about trees in the other.
“Rocks are more interesting than trees,” Sara’s brother, Glen, argued as he sorted small stones.
Sara didn’t know what to say. Dad’s stamps were colorful. Mother’s meals were delicious. Grandmother’s quilts were beautiful. Grace’s leaf collection was pretty. And Glen’s rocks were interesting. But Sara didn’t want to do what anyone else was doing. She wanted a hobby of her own.
“Thank you for the ideas,” Sara said sadly. She sat on the sofa and looked out the window. Jake, the family’s dog, was in the backyard burying a bone. Even he has something to collect! Sara sighed. She thought about how her family had tried to help. Suddenly she had an idea. “I know what I’ll collect!”
“What?” Father asked.
Sara smiled. “It’s a surprise,” she said. “I’ll show you next Saturday.”
On Monday, Sara’s school class visited a limestone quarry and watched the big machines load rocks onto trucks. Sara picked up one of the small stones scattered on the ground and put it into her pocket. When she got home, she put the stone into an empty box.
After school on Tuesday, Mother told Sara, “A letter came for you.” She handed Sara an envelope.
“I’ve been hoping for this!” Sara tore open the envelope. Inside was a letter from her friend in Sweden. Sara read the letter three times.
Then Sara looked at the envelope again. With a pair of scissors she carefully cut off the corner of the envelope that held the stamp. She had seen Father do this many times. My collection is growing, she thought as she dropped the stamp into the box.
After dinner Wednesday night, Sara came downstairs carrying a worn-out dress. “May I have this for my collection, Mother?”
“Yes,” Mother replied, looking at Sara curiously.
Sara spent the rest of the evening cutting parts of the worn-out dress into small squares. By bedtime she had a large stack of squares to put into the box.
Thursday, during recess, Sara looked closely at all the trees in the school yard. Some of the leaves were golden. Sara pulled a leaf from a tree, put it between two pieces of paper, and slipped it into her math book. Later she laid it gently in the box.
Mother shopped for groceries every Friday night. Glen, Grace, and Sara took turns going with her to help. Sara was glad it was her turn. Before leaving for the store, she took some coins from her wallet.
At the meat counter, Sara found a beef bone wrapped in plastic. She put the bone into their cart and handed Mother the coins. “I would like to buy this for my collection.”
“Are you sure?” Mother looked surprised.
Sara just smiled and nodded.
On Saturday Sara had lunch with her friend Hana Clark. Mrs. Clark made a pie filled with cheese and tomatoes. It was the main course.
“This pie is very good,” Sara said. “May I have the recipe?”
“Of course,” answered Mrs. Clark.
After lunch, Hana read the recipe to Sara, who printed it on a piece of paper. When she got home, she put the recipe into the box.
Saturday evening Sara took the bone from the refrigerator and put it into the box.
“Are you going to show us your collection?” Glen asked when Sara brought her box to the dinner table.
Sara nodded. She set the box on the table and took off the lid. Father, Mother, Grandmother, Grace, and Glen peered inside. They all looked puzzled.
“What a strange collection!” Glen said.
“It is different,” Grace agreed.
“Sara, what is your hobby?” Father asked.
Sara didn’t say anything. She just handed the recipe to Mother, the stamp to Father, the fabric squares to Grandmother, the leaf to Grace, and the stone to Glen. “The bone is for Jake,” she explained. She unwrapped it and set it outside the back door.
When she came back to the table, she saw smiles on everyone’s face. “I’m collecting smiles,” she said. “Now I have five smiles for my collection. If you count Jake’s wagging tail, I have six.”
“Yours is the best hobby of all,” Grandmother said. Then she kissed Sara on the nose.

One older brother taught me an important lesson when I was five years old. That was when my twin, Karl, and I received a puppy. We did not understand the responsibilities that come with having a pet—we thought it was just another toy that didn’t require any particular care. We didn’t worry too much about giving the dog food or water or taking care of it. But we had an older brother who felt just the opposite. He had a great love for animals. He saw the need and took care of our puppy.
That dog grew up thinking that it belonged to our brother, and we used to argue about whose dog it was. Karl and I insisted that it was our dog, and we had contests with our older brother to see whom the dog would go to if we called to it. The dog always went to our brother.
The dog understood loyalty and the love our brother showed it. This experience taught me a powerful lesson about the law of the harvest, which tells us that as you sow, so shall you reap. My brother planted love when he took care of our dog, and he reaped the rewards of trust and loyalty.

Susan awoke to the smell of sausage frying. Saturday! That’s the only day Mom cooked sausage. She sat on the edge of her bed and stretched. A familiar rattle outside drew her to the window. Uncle Gordon’s brown pickup truck drove into the driveway in a cloud of dust.
Susan quickly straightened the bed covers and tucked them in. She slipped into her blue jeans and lavender gingham cowboy shirt. Then she grabbed her cowboy boots and pulled them on as she ran down the hall.
“Good morning, Kate,” she heard Uncle Gordon greet her mother. “Is Susan up yet this morning?”
“Here I am, Uncle Gordon,” she called. “Did you get the new horses?”
“Well, now, I like that,” he teased. “I haven’t seen you since school started, and all you can think of is horses.”
“I’m glad to see you too.” Susan grinned. “How are you? Did you get the horses?”
“That’s better,” he laughed. “Yes, I did. I picked up two yesterday.”
“What do they look like?” she asked.
“They’re both mares and as black as the root cellar at midnight,” he told her. “I’m having a hard time figuring out what to call them. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I was hoping your mother would let you spend the day at the ranch with me. Then you could have the job of naming them.”
“May I please? I’ll do my chores before I go,” she promised.
“It’s fine with me if your father doesn’t need you today,” Mom agreed.
The kitchen door opened wide, and Dad entered with pail of fresh milk. “Good morning, Gordon,” he said. “I’d shake your hand, but Kate doesn’t allow us to have milk shakes before breakfast.”
Susan grinned. She liked her father’s sense of humor. “May I go home with Uncle Gordon?” she asked. “He has two new horses, and he needs me to name them. May I, please?”
“Hold on just a minute, young lady,” her father said. “You can’t go anywhere without breakfast. How about joining us, Gordon?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” he admitted. “No one makes biscuits like my sister-in-law.”
“Susan, will you get the pitcher of orange juice while I finish setting the table?” her mother asked. “Then we can eat.”
“The men will go wash up,” Father said.
“Don’t forget the raspberry jam,” Gordon whispered to Susan as he headed to the bathroom.
After breakfast, as Susan and Uncle Gordon drove from Pleasant Heights to Middleton, Susan studied her uncle. He looked a lot like her father, only much younger. He’d only been home from his mission a few years. He was medium in build and had strong arms like her father’s from throwing bales of hay. Both had brown arms and faces from a summer in the sun. The strong jaw and high cheekbones were the same too. But Dad’s hair was dark brown touched with gray. Uncle Gordon’s was blond.
“Why don’t you get married, Uncle Gordon?” Susan asked.
“Because I haven’t met someone just like you yet,” he laughed.
Susan blushed at his joke. Deep down she didn’t want Uncle Gordon to get married right away. He would have less time for her if he did. But she knew that someday she would have to share him.
Grandpa had been ill when Uncle Gordon returned from his mission to Brazil. Uncle Gordon had taken over the ranch and cared for Grandpa until he died last summer. At first, it was hard for Susan to go to the ranch after Grandpa died. She loved the horses, but everywhere she went, she expected to see him. Uncle Gordon understood how she felt. He knew when to make her laugh and when to let her think about the emptiness she felt without Grandpa.
When they arrived at the ranch, Uncle Gordon pointed to the pasture by the barn. “There they are,” he told her. “You go over and get acquainted.”
“Are they broke?” she asked.
“One of them is, and one isn’t,” he said, “so be careful. I have a truckful of grain to unload. I’ll be back in a little while to see how you’re getting along.”
Susan leaned against the top rail of the fence and watched the two horses grazing side by side. They look just alike from here, she thought. Still, being around horses all her life taught her that no two horses were ever exactly alike. I’ll find the difference, she told herself.
She climbed the fence and walked slowly around the edge of the pasture until she could see their faces. The closest horse whinnied and tossed her head. Susan saw a brief flash of white. There must be a small blaze under her forelock, she thought. The mare tossed her head again. There was the blaze! It’s like the moon hiding on a cloudy night.
The second mare cocked her head to one side and studied Susan. Then she sauntered over to her and nuzzled at her jean pocket.
“What are you looking for?” Susan asked. “Do you have a sweet tooth?”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a sugar cube. The horse carefully put its lips around the cube on the palm of Susan’s hand, then nudged again at her pocket.
“You’ve had enough.” Susan pushed her nose away. “The other one is for your friend.”
The second mare continued to nuzzle at her, letting Susan scratch her behind the ears. “You’re pretty friendly, aren’t you, girl,” she said, stroking the horse’s slender nose. She’d keep her distance more if she was wild, Susan reasoned. Well, there’s one way to find out if she’s broke or not.
Uncle Gordon’s rule was if she could catch, saddle, and bridle it, she could ride it, so Susan headed for the tack room of the barn. She shut her eyes tightly for a moment when she entered the barn, to help her eyes adjust to the dim light. The saddles rested on sawhorses against the wall of the tack room; the bridles hung on the wall above them. She chose her favorite saddle from the farthest sawhorses, and the bridle closest to the door.
Talking softly, she approached the mare. The horse stood steady as Susan slipped the bit into her mouth and the leather strap over her ears. After putting on the saddle blanket, Susan paused for a moment. The mare acted indifferent to the blanket, so Susan slung the saddle onto her back too. She pulled the cinch tight, lifted her left foot into the stirrup, swung her right leg over the mare’s back, then took the reins and clucked her tongue. “Come on, girl,” she coaxed. “Let’s take a little walk.”
At first they swayed gently back and forth together. Then the mare went crazy. She ran full speed toward the fence. Just when Susan was sure that they would hit it, the mare turned with a jerk that nearly snapped her rider out of the saddle. Susan grabbed the saddle horn tightly with one hand and pulled back on the reins with the other. “Whoa, girl!”
But the mare just continued her wild dance. She stiffened her legs and bounced across the pasture. Each jolt forced the air out of Susan’s lungs. The horse spun around several times, then ran full speed toward the open barn door! Susan knew that the top of the door was only about a foot taller than the mare’s back, but she didn’t dare roll to the ground—the horse might suddenly turn back and trample her. Heavenly Father, help! she prayed silently.
“Lie down!” the thought pushed through her fear.
She lay back until her head rested on the horse’s rump just as the mare lunged over the threshold of the barn. The top of the door frame missed Susan’s nose by inches.
Once inside the barn, the horse stopped as though she had come in from a leisurely trail outing. She pulled a mouthful of hay from the manger and was chewing innocently when Uncle Gordon came running into the barn. “Are you all right, Susan?”
Susan was still lying on the horse’s rump, catching her breath. Her heart pounded against her ribs. “Yeah, I’m OK,” she replied sheepishly between breaths. “I guess I got the wrong horse.”
“You got the right one if you’re training for the rodeo,” he laughed. “I couldn’t have paid for a better show than the two of you put on.”
Susan sat up, swung her right leg over the mare’s back, and slid to the ground. Uncle Gordon put his arm around her and walked her to the house. They sat on the porch steps and listened to a meadowlark calling. Susan sat on the top step, and Uncle Gordon sat two below her. It made them eye level.
“Did you come up with some names for me?” Uncle Gordon asked at length.
She nodded. “I’d call the one in the pasture Moonlight for the small blaze hidden under her forelock. And you can call the one in the barn Nightmare!”
“What great names,” he laughed. “Do you think you’ll take up breaking horses?”
“It was exciting,” she assured him. “But I think I’ll leave that to you. I did learn one thing, though—next time I’m going to ask Heavenly Father if I made the right choice before I get on a horse.”

Her three brothers—Miguel, Angel (called Micky), and Jorge—are quite a bit older than she is. About four months after Miguel returned from his mission, JoAnnie became very sick with a high temperature. Their mother asked him to give his sister a blessing. JoAnnie had faith that if he did, she would be healed. Miguel changed into his Sunday clothes and prepared himself to give the blessing. After the blessing, JoAnnie immediately became better.

I urge you to do what a missionary companion of mine did. He had run away from home as a teenager, and someone had placed a Book of Mormon in a box he carried with him in his search for more happiness.
Years passed. He moved from place to place across the world. He was alone and unhappy one day, when he saw the box. The box was filled with things he had carried with him. At the bottom of the box, he found the Book of Mormon. He read the promise in it and tested it. He knew it was true. That witness changed his life. He found happiness beyond his fondest dreams.

My wife and I have taught our children about the importance of prayer. They learned at a very young age that they could turn to Heavenly Father for help and guidance. I remember one experience when our family had just returned from Korea. I had served as a mission president there for three years. Although the experience was wonderful, our family was exhausted. A friend offered to let us use his cabin for a much-needed vacation.
We were excited! We headed up to the mountain and found the cabin. As we got out of the car, we were attacked by mosquitoes. It felt as if they were thick enough to carry us away.
We ran to the door, only to discover that the key we had been given didn’t fit in the lock! We were desperate. We ran around the cabin, trying to find another way to get in. We even considered trying to break in through a window, but we didn’t want to damage the building.
After only a few minutes, I heard my six-year-old son, Steven, yell out, “I’ve opened the door. Come on in, everybody!”
I couldn’t believe it, but as I rounded the corner of the cabin, I saw Steven standing at the door, waving everyone inside. After we’d escaped the mosquitoes, I asked, “Steven, how did you find the key? What happened?”
His answer was simple: “I closed my eyes and told Heavenly Father that we needed to find another key. I opened my eyes and saw a rock lying nearby. I had the feeling that a key was under the rock. And there was!”

In 1997 our branch president announced that the branch would do a service project in the neighborhood surrounding our meetinghouse. We were doing this activity to join with Church members all over the world in commemorating the 150th anniversary of the arrival of the Latter-day Saint pioneers in the Salt Lake Valley.
The activity involved cleaning roads and filling potholes. The branch president said we would get dirty but that the activity might give us an opportunity to talk with others about the Church.
I didn’t think I would go because my professor had scheduled extra lectures at the same time as the activity. I felt that everybody would understand, but then I came across a pamphlet titled Faith in Every Footstep. When I read excerpts about the travails of the Saints on their trek to the western United States, I was moved to tears. Some Saints left their comfortable homes to go to a desert, unsure of what they would find. Others forged ahead even after every other member of their family had died along the way. In the midst of sickness, pain, hunger, and poverty, they had faith that if they migrated to the West, they would be free from oppression.
I felt bad that the early Saints had to make great sacrifices, even their own lives in some cases, to see that the Church continued moving forward. Because of their sacrifice and faith, I now enjoy the blessings of the gospel.
I then realized how small a sacrifice I would be making by comparison. I was being asked to give a mere two hours of service and to share the gospel with a few people, and I was making excuses for not attending.
I forgot about the lectures and participated in the activity. I got dirty, but people did come and ask about the Church. I felt happy for being involved, and I have since graduated from the university—despite missing a few lectures.

I think of Elder Neal A. Maxwell and some of the challenges he faced during his teenage years. His parents were very poor. It was embarrassing to him that early on, they did not have indoor bathroom facilities like so many of his friends. His 4-H project was raising pigs, and that didn’t gain him a lot of popularity at high school either. He suffered from severe acne that challenged his confidence and self-esteem. He wondered if he would ever be socially acceptable to others.
He was intensely interested in athletics—particularly basketball—and was good enough to be able to play on the team as a freshman. But in later years, he was cut from the team and the sport he loved. Consequently, as he described it, “I turned to the world of words.” That became an immense blessing for him in his political, university, and educational executive assignments, and to all of us he now serves as one of the Lord’s prophets, seers, and revelators.

Congratulations to the Figueroa sisters of Puerto Rico, 16-year-old identical triplets who were baptized not long ago. The missionaries had visited their home more than seven years ago but hadn’t returned. One day last year, Belen felt inspired to take a different route home from school, where she found other elders. She approached them and asked them to come teach her family.
They did, and soon Awilda, Belen, Cecilia, and Carmen (an older sister) were baptized.
They’re all active in the Trujillo Alto Ward and love seminary and Young Women.

I’ll never forget the man on the airplane who seemed very interested as I explained family home evening, the missionary system, etc., until we reached an issue on which he vigorously disagreed with me. Following Joseph Smith’s counsel, I avoided a vain dispute and changed the subject. As the plane began circling to land, I felt his agitation at our “small talk,” and finally he burst out, “Could two of those young men you told me about call on my family?” He smiled at my surprise and added, “I’m sure you thought you’d lost me, but I am impressed with your certainty on this matter. I want that for my family.”

Disagreement is encouraging. Don’t be put off by solid objections. Such objections usually indicate a real interest and that your friend is thinking in stride with you. So just lengthen your stride and hold fast to the truth. It is a firm, sure foundation. Remember the man on the airplane. It was my assurance that interested him.

When I was nine years old, my family purchased a farm and moved to the small town of Fairfield, Utah. I felt that life there was the best a young boy could possibly have. I was fortunate enough to have three outstanding friends my age. In the summertime we swam in a natural swimming hole filled with clear well water. In the wintertime we ice-skated on frozen sinkholes.
Each year as winter approached, a number of sheep herds came through town. One year one of the herds camped about a mile from our home so that the sheep could graze on the sagebrush-covered floor of the valley. The sheepherder left in charge stopped his horse-drawn wagon, which he called a “sheep camp,” not far from a large gully. I remember wondering what life as a sheepherder was like. So with the permission of my parents, I rode my horse out to the sheep camp and introduced myself to the sheepherder. We developed an immediate friendship, and although it only lasted a very short time, it taught me a valuable lesson.
One day as I arrived at his camp, he was about to saddle up and ride around the herd to make sure that everything was all right. He had selected a horse I had never seen him ride before, and the horse seemed nervous. Usually my friend kept the saddle on a cart wheel and simply threw it onto his horse. After buckling the cinch, he would mount the horse and ride past the rear door of the camp, away from the gully, and toward the sheep. It seemed to me he had mastered the art of taking as few steps as possible in accomplishing all these tasks.
This day was different. He watched the horse very carefully. He seemed to take more time than usual in putting the saddle on and in making sure that all the rigging was just right. When he finished, I expected him to just get on the horse as he always had. Instead, he led the horse away from both the sheep camp and the gully.
I followed him and asked about this sudden change in procedure. His answer taught me a lesson that has been important all my life. He said, “This horse isn’t fully broken and therefore can’t be fully trusted. He’s apt to buck or run off in any direction. I didn’t want him to be near the sheep camp or the gully when I got on, for fear he’d begin to buck and get tangled up in the sheep camp and get hurt, or fall into the gully—then we’d both get hurt. So I brought him out here where there’s plenty of room for him to make whatever mistakes he is going to make without getting either of us hurt.”

When the phone rang, Michael had no idea that the call would turn a good deed into a bad one.
Dad got up from the dinner table and answered the phone. He returned a few minutes later, hands held up as if he’d just scored a touchdown. “Great news!” he shouted. “The company has called me back to work. I start next month.”
It was great news. Dad had been laid off from the steel mill nearly two years ago. They had lost their house and now lived in a small apartment. It had been a difficult adjustment.
“Congratulations, Dad,” Michael said.
Crystal jumped up from the table, threw her arms around Dad’s neck, and squealed, “Oh, Daddy!”
Michael hadn’t seen her do that for a long time.
Mom sat quietly, smiling.
“Donna,” Dad told her, “this spring we hunt for a new house.”
A tear slid down over Mom’s smile. She got up from the table and gave Dad a long, tender hug. “Sit down and finish your supper, Fred.” She put on a coat and took the storage shed key from the key rack. “Wait here,” she said, heading for the door. “I have a surprise for you.”
That’s when Michael realized that he might have a problem. He knew that Mom had gone after Dad’s company coat. Dad had been proud of the coat, an award for ten years’ service at the steel mill. But he had refused to wear it after the layoff. Mom had stored it for safe keeping, though—just in case.
Several weeks before that, while Michael and Crystal were doing the dishes, he had overheard his mom and dad talking. She had suggested that Dad wear his company coat since the weather was getting cold.
“No,” Dad had said sternly. “I’ll freeze before I give the mill free advertising. Just get rid of it.”
The next day Michael had gone to the park as usual. He enjoyed seeing the pigeons and squirrels there on his way to school. He had paid little attention to the old man collecting empty bottles and cans from the garbage cans. But that particular morning he noticed the old man sniffing and sampling food scraps, stuffing what he liked into his pockets.
From then on, whenever he could, Michael smuggled biscuits or waffles or jam-covered toast from his own breakfast plate and left it in a neatly wrapped package for the man. Normally the man smiled gratefully when he found the food. It made Michael feel good inside.
But one morning the man reacted differently. He searched about the park with stark, jerky glances. When he saw Michael, he marched over, shook the wrapped breakfast in Michael’s face, and rasped, “What is this! I don’t need charity from any young wet-eared whippersnapper like you.”
Mortified, Michael had run.
He hadn’t left anything for the man again until yesterday. The weather had turned extremely cold, and when he saw that the man was wearing a thin, ripped jacket and was huddling under the viaduct near the park. Michael ran home, scavenged two leftover chicken legs from the refrigerator, wrapped them in a napkin, then stuffed them into a pocket of Dad’s coat and hurried back to the park. He jammed the coat into the garbage can, trying to make it look discarded, then fled—it was almost time for the man to get there on his daily round.
Michael’s recollections were interrupted when his mother came back. “Fred, your company coat is gone! Did you throw it away?”
“No,” Dad said. “Didn’t you get rid of it long ago?”
“No,” Mom said. “Just last week I had it out, thinking that maybe I could talk you into wearing it while it’s so very cold. But it had a big grease stain on it, so I put it back until I had a chance to take it to the cleaners.”
Michael looked worriedly at Crystal. She had seen him with the coat. But she just looked at the ceiling and didn’t say anything. He knew that he should tell what happened, but he was afraid to. I’ll wait to tell them tomorrow and not spoil Dad’s good news today, he rationalized.
The next day, when the family was returning home from church, Mom gasped and said, “Fred, that man is wearing your coat!”
Michael spun around to look.
Dad stared at the old man. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Mom said. “See that grease stain?”
Michael blurted, “I think I’d better ex—”
“No need to concern yourself with this, son,” Dad interrupted. “Donna, go ahead with the kids up to the apartment. I’ll take care of this.”
“But, Dad, I want to—”
“It’s all right, Michael,” Dad cut him off again. “Go upstairs now.”
While Michael paced the floor, Mom sat watching out the window. Crystal’s gaze went back and forth from Michael to Mom as if she were watching a tennis match.
When Dad came in, he stared at Michael for a long moment. He didn’t hear Mom’s questions till she tugged at his sleeve and asked again, “Where’s your coat? Wouldn’t he give it back to you?”
“We were mistaken,” Dad said. “It’s not my coat.”
“Fred, I’d know that coat anywhere,” Mom said, astonished. “It’s your coat.”
“It’s his coat, Donna,” Dad said. “He said that his boy gave it to him.”
“Highly unlikely,” Mom said indignantly. “If he had a son, he wouldn’t let his father live on the streets and eat out of garbage cans.”
“It’s not really his son,” Dad replied. “The old man said that ‘his boy’ is like an angel, showing up just when he is most in need. When he’s starving, this boy shows up with food. When he was freezing, the boy brought the coat. Who could ask for more than that?” Dad said, gazing intently at Michael. “In my book, he’s a wonderful son.”
The next morning after breakfast, while Michael got ready for school, Mom said, “Michael, while you’re going by the park, would you care to dump those scraps for me? I’ve cleaned out the refrigerator, and the garbage man won’t come until Thursday.”
“OK, Mom,” Michael said. On the counter he found a neatly wrapped paper plate, piled with leftover food, sitting on Dad’s old work boots. “The boots too?”
“The boots, too,” Mom said. “Your dad is getting a new pair.”
Now both Dad and Mom knew! And better still, they cared too. Michael smiled to himself as he picked up the plate full of “scraps.” Who had ever heard of warm scraps from the refrigerator?