Gospel Story Finder

Amanda Siler of Inkom, Idaho, sat in Sunday School with the other girls in her Mia Maid class—they were all writing down their goals. Amanda wrote, “To walk with my walker.” You see, when Amanda was seven, she developed a neurological disorder that affected her balance and caused her to lose all of her muscle strength and some of her motor control. Through the years, Amanda has worked hard to strengthen her body, and although life continues to be a struggle for her, she is always smiling.
The Young Women and their leaders saw Amanda’s goal, and after a lot of research and inspiration, they found a way to help their friend. They secretly ordered Amanda a special three-wheeled bike she would be able to ride on her own.
Last September the ward held a family activity night at a local park. Unaware of the surprise, Amanda and her family were asked to sit facing the group of Young Women. They sang her a song and then presented Amanda with a huge card that read, “Because We Love You.” The card had signatures from everyone in the ward and community who helped purchase the bicycle. Amanda’s friends helped lift her out of her wheelchair and placed her in the seat of the bike. There were many tearful eyes as Amanda rode more than half a mile that evening—with loving friends by her side.

I had been thinking about your genealogy for several weeks, and I felt that I should go to the address of your great-grandfather’s home to check the area.
After two hours on the high-speed train, I bussed to the city of Chi Kan, a place I had never been before. I fell asleep, and at the final stop the driver woke me up. I got off, looked around, and saw I was in a fishing village. I asked a young shop owner across the street for directions. He called a taxi for me and directed the driver to a place where an old man lived. When I arrived and asked that man where I could find the town’s genealogy record, he told me to walk a few blocks to a temple by the seashore.
At the temple, I saw a group of men having tea and chatting. They said that they were just starting an annual meeting of the Liu Shi family genealogy to prepare for a big conference in October. I explained that I was there to find family names for my friend.
“Usually no one is at this temple,” they said. “The door is locked except for the two to three hours when we hold the annual meeting. You are very lucky to meet us here.”
When I told the men I was looking for the name Liu Bei, they told me they had been collecting the Liu family genealogy for years and didn’t recall that name. One of the men kindly offered his genealogy records for me to take a look. They continued their meeting while I searched the records. After about 10–15 minutes, I shouted, “I found it!”
Shocked, they stopped talking and grabbed the book. I showed them the name, and they told me that it came from the family line of Mr. Liu Qiu Shan, who was attending their meeting that day. I purchased a copy of the genealogy book, which contained records going back 26 generations and 2,460 years of ancestors’ names on extended family lines.
Mr. Liu Qiu Shan later gave me a ride to the train station. He told me if I had come an hour earlier or the next day, I wouldn’t have found anyone or anything there. He said, “This place is always locked. It must be the ancestors’ blessing. It is truly a miracle.”

“My brother Brady and I didn’t have a bad relationship. The problem was, we didn’t have a relationship at all. Involvement in school and with my friends meant everything. I never spent any time with him. When I heard about the experiment, I immediately thought of Brady, and after praying about it I was sure he was the one. At first it was a chore; then it became a little easier; then I realized he is fun! I just had to make the first move. Now he comes to invite me to do things with him.”—Brittany Brammer

A few days ago, my profession as a B-747 captain took me home on a flight from Dallas, Texas, to Frankfurt, Germany. It was a moonless night over the North Atlantic, and myriads of stars covered the sky. As I contemplated this awesome sight from the cockpit, my thoughts went to the many miracles I have seen in my life.
Forty-five years ago, shortly after the horrors of the Second World War, at age eight I was baptized in Zwickau, Sachsen, in eastern Germany. This came about because a white-haired, courageous, and caring lady shared the restored gospel of Jesus Christ with my grandmother and parents, and they did not hesitate to accept the challenge. How I love them for that! In 1952 my family had to leave that part of my homeland, expecting never to see it again. We went to Frankfurt, where I was ordained a deacon and taught by tough but loving leaders to appreciate the value of work and service.
At the same time, in the heart of western Germany, another marvelous lady, recently widowed, still in her thirties, was terrified by the difficulties of the future. She had two young daughters and felt left alone in a country without hope. Right then two young missionaries rang the doorbell and brought the message of light, truth, and hope.
I give thanks eternally to those diligent American missionaries and most of all to Sister Carmen Reich, who became my mother-in-law, for her faith, strength, and willingness to listen to the still, small voice. My life has been very different because of the miraculous insight of these great individuals.
In those years, many Saints left Europe to go to Zion. But then the Brethren taught us that Zion could be anywhere around the globe if we were willing to establish it. The Saints had faith and stayed, and Zion increased in beauty and holiness. Stakes were organized and strengthened. Nevertheless, Germany still had two completely different political systems divided by concrete-walled boundaries.
My eternal partner—my wife, Harriet—encouraged me never to lose hope that someday there would be one Germany again. How grateful I am for her, her love and partnership, and for our family.
In 1976, President Monson gave my country a blessing with promises far beyond logical or political reasoning. It was a prophetic promise which required modern-day miracles. And the miracles occurred.
In 1989 the Berlin Wall fell, and this week, four years ago, Germany was reunited. The borders were enlarged, and Zion was enabled to put on her beautiful garments. There are now two temples in Germany, five temples in Europe, and more to come. The kingdom of God is expanding rapidly into the eastern parts of Europe and even moving far beyond geographic or political boundaries of yesterday. Missionaries are now serving at places most of us have to look up in dictionaries or cannot find easily on maps.
I am grateful for the Saints in Europe, for their strong testimonies, which are visible in the conduct of their everyday lives. Their faith has given me comfort and security. Their examples have helped me to find and keep the right direction in days of challenge and questioning.
That dark night over the North Atlantic, safely directing our big jet to its destination, we had to be extremely careful and precise in creating the navigational basis by entering the geographic coordinates into the navigational reference system. It had to be true and valid because it was the foundation for all future decisions. In 1979, a flight started in New Zealand on wrong coordinates and crashed into Mount Erebus at the South Pole.
The gospel of Jesus Christ is the only true and valid basis for our lives. If we enter it into our system—into “all [our] heart, might, mind and strength” (D&C 4:2)—we will know how to choose the right and to whom to listen.
On long-range flights, the shortwave radio frequencies are often crowded, and static distorts the messages. The same is true for our lives. Everybody wants to get their message across. We have to train and condition ourselves to hear the still, small voice, never to be distracted or stop listening because of too much static on that sacred frequency. This can best be done by internalizing and acting according to the moral and ethical standards we receive from the scriptures and the living prophets.
From the Prophet Joseph Smith to President Howard W. Hunter, we are receiving updated sacred guidance according to our needs and readiness. The general conference messages by our prophets, seers, and revelators are given to us by the Lord in his own time, in his own way, and for a very special purpose.
Jesus Christ, the Son of God, made the miracle of forgiveness and redemption possible. This is truly the Church of Jesus Christ; it proclaims a gospel of joy, hope, courage, truth, love, and miracles. This I bear humble witness of in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Julie and Karen looked at the old clock and compared it with the other clocks on the wall. It looked about the same with its glass windows and ornately painted face, but it seemed to Julie that there was something special about this clock.
“Where did you get this one?” Karen asked.
“The Thompsons found it in the attic of the old house they just bought, and gave the clock to Mother. Isn’t it pretty?”
Karen looked at the old, old clock and reluctantly nodded her head. “I guess so,” she said.
“Someday I’m going to collect clocks too,” Julie explained.
Karen stepped a little closer. “I’d rather have something newer,” she said, still puzzled over Julie’s excitement.
“But just imagine the life this old clock must have had. It must be one hundred years old!”
Karen still couldn’t see why Julie was so excited. “It’s just an old clock,” she said.
“Oh, but listen to the music of the constant ticktock!”
“It’s just an old clock,” Karen repeated.
“Here,” Julie said, determined to make Karen see her point, “now listen to its beautiful chime.”
Carefully she opened the door and pulled the lever to sound the chimes. “Bong, bong, bong, thud!”
“Oh, no!” Julie cried. “What’s wrong?”
“Look!” Karen pointed to a paper caught in the bars.
Julie pulled the paper out and quickly unfolded it. The paper was old and greasy from the clock works. Mehn sind im kutschen haus was written there.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Karen said after trying to read it.
“Mother,” Julie called. “Look what we found in this clock.”
Mother took the paper. “This is written in German.”
“German? Do you think Dad could read it?” Julie asked.
“Well, he used to speak German.”
Julie waited impatiently for her father to come home.
“Dad,” she called, running out the door when his car pulled into the driveway, “can you translate this for me?”
“What is it?” her father asked as he took the paper.
“I found it in the clock Mother got from the Thompsons.”
“German, hmmmmm …” Father looked surprised. “It’s been a long time since I’ve used my German. Come in the house and I’ll see what I can do.”
Julie followed him into the house. “I just know it’s something exciting,” she said.
“Maybe it’s just a shopping list,” Father teased with a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, Dad,” Julie sighed. “It’s more than that. Someone had to put that paper in the clock for a special reason.”
“Well, let’s see.” Father sat down at the kitchen table and smoothed out the paper. “Hmmmm, this is interesting.”
“What does it say?” Julie could hardly stand still.
“It says, ‘More are in the carriage house.’”
“More what?” Julie asked.
“Maybe more clocks. That’s all it says.”
“It doesn’t say what carriage house either?” Julie asked hopefully.
“No,” he answered. “Not even a clue.”
“More are in the carriage house!” Julie repeated. “It really is a mystery!”
All night Julie wondered about the strange message, and by morning she had an idea. Hurriedly she dressed, ate her breakfast, and did her chores; then she went to Karen’s house.
“Come on!” she shouted when Karen answered the door. “We have a mystery to solve today!” Quickly she tumbled out the words to explain.
Karen was soon ready and they both were off to the Thompsons. They knocked on the huge wooden door and impatiently waited for someone to answer. Finally Mrs. Thompson opened the door.
Julie pulled the paper from her pocket and explained, “Yesterday we found this note in the old clock you gave Mother, and we want to ask you about it.”
Mrs. Thompson took the paper. “What does it say?”
“It’s German, and it means, ‘More are in the carriage house.’”
Mrs. Thompson explained, “We bought this house from a man named Schiller. His mother immigrated to the United States from Germany when she was only twenty. She learned to speak English, but she never could read or write it.”
Julie listened intently to what Mrs. Thompson said. “Do you think she wrote this?”
“Could be,” Mrs. Thompson agreed.
“What about a carriage house?” Julie asked.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Thompson began; then she stopped. “Wait, I’ll bet it’s that old building out back. Mr. Schiller said it had been damaged in a windstorm ten years ago, and no one has bothered to restore it.”
Julie and Karen jumped with excitement. “Come on!” they shouted.
Mrs. Thompson led them down a hall and out the back door to a building with only two walls standing. A little piece of roof was stretched between them.
If there were anything stored in there, it’s probably ruined now! Karen thought.
Cautiously the girls climbed through the rubble looking for a clue. They removed some of the fallen roof and pulled away the huge weeds that had grown up through the wood.
“Look!” Karen shouted.
Julie and Mrs. Thompson ran to where Karen had picked up a piece of fallen roof that revealed a trap door in the floor of the old carriage house.
“If you’ll hold that a little higher,” Julie said, “I’ll see if I can open the door.”
Mrs. Thompson helped Karen hold the piece of roof as Julie climbed under and lifted the trap door.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “Here’s a huge old trunk!”
“This must be it!” Karen whispered in amazement.
Cautiously Julie lowered herself into the hole and tried to open the trunk, but it was stuck.
“Dad’s home today. I’ll go get him to help us!” she said.
In a few minutes Julie was back with her father. Mrs. Thompson and Karen had moved the piece of roofing off the door. Julie’s father jumped into the hole and began to pry open the trunk with some tools he had brought with him.
Slowly the lid began to give, and then suddenly it flipped up. Julie’s eyes opened wide as she looked at four beautiful box clocks!
“Here’s another note in German,” her father said, pulling a yellowed paper from between the clocks.
“What does it say?” Julie asked excitedly.
Slowly Father translated. “When I came to this country, I brought many things that were strange to people here. My sons wanted me to throw them out, but I loved these old clocks far too much to throw away. They were my grandmother’s and my mother’s.
“I reasoned that whoever restored my brown box clock would find my message. It would undoubtedly be someone who loves clocks and will take care of them. So to whoever learns my secret, please give these clocks loving and tender care. Frau Schiller.”
“Well,” Mrs. Thompson said, “I guess this means you, Julie.”
“But it’s your …” Julie began.
“Oh,” Mrs. Thompson interrupted, “I never liked old clocks, and Karen has told me she doesn’t either. You are the one Frau Schiller meant.”
“Oh, thank you,” Julie almost shouted. “What a wonderful mystery this has turned out to be!”

I remember him as being fifty years old, tall and strong. He wore coveralls and heavy work shoes and dark glasses all the time. A friend of my father’s, he lived alone but worked for us now and again. His name was John, and he had been blind for more than forty years.
John lived in an unfinished, one-room house with crooked walls and a very crooked chimney. The house was untidy and smelled of damp and decay, fried food, smoked bacon, coffee grounds, and coal and wood smoke. John had built the house—that accounted for the crooked walls and chimney. He ate mostly bacon and eggs; fried potatoes, bread and milk—that accounted for the smell.
Although John’s house was about two and a half kilometers from our house, and about the same distance from a small store where he bought his food, he could confidently walk those gravel roads at a pace that I envied.
He did a little carpentry work for people in town if they weren’t too concerned about the quality of the finished product. One summer he worked with my dad to build an automobile service station. John would walk to our house, work with my dad during the day, eat a lunch my mother prepared while he sat on a pile of boards, and then walk back to his home that night. Dad always watched until John was out of sight.
During the spring and winter months, Dad drove a school bus taking local children to and from school. His bus route took him past John’s house four times a day. He would honk the bus horn, the school children would wave, and John would wave back from his window as if he could see the students’ faces. When John would oversleep and not be at the window, or if there wasn’t smoke coming out of the crooked chimney, dad would stop and shout from the bus doorway, “John, how are you going to get things done if you sleep until midday?” John would come to the window and give some excuse about his alarm clock not going off, and dad would drive on.
Remembering the way my dad used to communicate with John has built a lasting appreciation in my mind for my father. Dad didn’t study any books, or listen to any college professors lecture on how to help blind people to be independent. He just used common sense and was sensitive to John as a person. Dad checked on John almost daily to make sure he was well, but I never remember him asking such questions as: “John, are you all right? Is there something I can do for you? Do you need anything? Can I take you somewhere?”
Instead dad would ask: “John, I’ve been preparing a talk. Would you like to listen and see what you think of it?”
“John, I’m going to be constructing a building. What do you think of doing it this way? Could you help me?”
Dad always asked for help from John, and he always got help; but in reality dad was not getting anything—he was giving. In every contact he had with John, dad’s message was: you are a person, you are important, your opinion means something, you have a right to be here; human dignity is eternal and essential.
In those days, when you could no longer take care of yourself, you moved into an “old folks’ home.” At age seventy-one and ill, John decided to move into such a care center, and it was like opening a new door for him. There he regained his health and met a happy woman whom he called Sunshine. Sunshine had never been able to walk. John, with his strong arms and legs, was able to help her get around, and she was able to see for him. John changed his lifestyle, became reconverted to the Church, was married in the temple, and lived a new and happy life for thirteen years before he and his dear companion passed away. No one was happier for John during those last years than my dad who showed me how to serve others as the Savior would have served—with love, compassion, and respect.

When I was in junior high school, I took a shop class where we would leave our written assignments in a box on the teacher’s desk. He would then grade and return them to that box the next day. One day, I turned in a major assignment, but the next day, my paper was not in the box with the other papers. When I asked the teacher about it, he said that maybe I had not turned it in. I assured him that I had, so he suggested that we look carefully at the papers still in the box. We discovered that another student had taken my paper (which was done in pencil), erased my name, and put his own name on it.

While I doubt that any of you would contemplate such a theft on this campus, what about other forms of cheating? Any time a student seeks gain or credit without having done the work or at the expense of other students who have done the work, he or she is failing to meet this first standard of being honest and fair in all of our dealings. Given recent articles reporting widespread cheating on campuses around the world, it is clear that many are falling prey to Satan’s temptation to “lie a little, cheat a little, and dig a pit for thy neighbor,” thus falling short of the Lord’s basic standard for honest interactions with others.

At the age of three, Zane insisted that he be allowed to ride in the rodeo against the 8–12-year-old cowboys, but since he was underage, he was only allowed to ride exhibition. Undaunted, he put on his hat, boots, rope, and spurs, and climbed aboard a cranky calf. Zane says that the next thing he knew he was on the ground and a clown was standing over him fanning him with a giant fly swatter. Apparently, he had ridden the calf almost to the whistle before falling off.

In the town of Nahualá, Guatemala, a miracle is taking place among a circle of attentive Indian sisters gathered in Relief Society: They are hearing the lesson in their native language of Quiché. The teacher, an Indian sister dressed in traditional Mayan corte and huipil (a heavily embroidered handwoven skirt and blouse), translates from Spanish into Quiché as she teaches.
In an area where opportunities for schooling are limited, particularly for women, this teacher learned to read through her own study and devotion. And she has also begun teaching another sister to read. Because of her hours of personal study, the spirit of learning pervades the whole Relief Society group. Together, the sisters of Nahualá are “feasting upon the word of Christ” (2 Ne. 31:20).

I had a difficult childhood; my parents separated when I was still a teenager. This separation was a big blow to me and my three siblings, I being the eldest. Despite my mother’s meager resources, she did her best to provide for our needs. During this challenging situation, we learned to live with little, wake up early, appreciate life and people, and to think seriously about life and the existence of God: Does God really exist? If so, why did He allow us to live such experiences? We wondered what we did to deserve that. These questions went unanswered until I met the missionaries.
I brilliantly passed my baccalaureate exams in 2010 and gained admission to the faculty of psychology at a university in Abidjan. Despite our poverty, I had decided to take a chance with this as I could not accept the fact that my brilliant school career was going to stop due to lack of financial means. I contacted one of my uncles living in Abidjan, asking him to take me in to further my education. He was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-­day Saints; I had never heard of it before. What impressed me from the first moments in this home was the love and joy filled there. I had no difficulty fitting in. I grew up in a Christian sect; however, I had begun to lose interest because of everything that had happened to me. I found it unjust and I began to question the very existence of God. It was just at this moment of desperation that my host family asked me if I was ready to receive the missionaries. In fact, it did not interest me anymore, this matter of religion, but for the respect that I had for my uncle, I accepted.
After several unsuccessful visits and discussions with the missionaries, I came to recognize the fact that the Church was true, but I had a problem: The Book of Mormon. I did not accept the idea that there was another scripture besides the Bible that would testify of Christ. I had a keen interest in reading and my supposed broad knowledge of the Bible and other philosophical books did not facilitate my discussions with missionaries.
Finally, I began to read the Book of Mormon. At first, I read it just out of curiosity, but once I started, I could not find the strength to stop. After a full reading in a month, I began to feel something deep inside me, a warm feeling in my heart, a light in my mind, a transformation, a voice.
At night, I could not close my eyes because my mind was revealed about the sacredness of the Book of Mormon. I was baptized in February 2010. As a result, I served a full-time mission and married Prisca Ebi, a lovely daughter of our Heavenly Father!
I am grateful to the Lord for using the Akoi family in making me an instrument in His hands to do a lot of good for His children.
I testify that God is hiding in the Book of Mormon, and I invite everyone who wants to discover it to make it their personal experience to gain their own testimony.

Elder Carl B. Cook has also taught us well about Looking Up:

“At the end of a particularly tiring day toward the end of my first week as a General Authority, my briefcase was overloaded and my mind was preoccupied with the question ‘How can I possibly do this?’ I left the office of the Seventy and entered the elevator of the Church Administration Building. As the elevator descended, my head was down and I stared blankly at the floor.

“The door opened and someone entered, but I didn’t look up. As the door closed, I heard someone ask, ‘What are you looking at down there?’ I recognized that voice—it was President Thomas S. Monson.

“I quickly looked up and responded, ‘Oh, nothing.’ (I’m sure that clever response inspired confidence in my abilities!)

“But he had seen my subdued countenance and my heavy briefcase. He smiled and lovingly suggested, while pointing heavenward, ‘It is better to look up!’ As we traveled down one more level, he cheerfully explained that he was on his way to the temple. When he bid me farewell, his parting glance spoke again to my heart, ‘Now, remember, it is better to look up.’

“As we parted, the words of a scripture came to mind: ‘Believe in God; believe that he is … ; believe that he has all wisdom, and all power, both in heaven and in earth.’ As I thought of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ’s power, my heart found the comfort I had sought in vain from the floor of that descending elevator.

“Since then I have pondered this experience and the role of prophets. I was burdened and my head was down. As the prophet spoke, I looked to him. He redirected my focus to look up to God, where I could be healed and strengthened through Christ’s Atonement. That is what prophets do for us.”

“Thank you, President, I’ll be there tomorrow.”
What a great man, I thought to myself as I hung up the telephone. The president of the Mississippi Jackson Mission had just called me to serve a two-week mission in the Bossier City, Louisiana, area. What a way to find out what true missionary work is like, I said to myself over and over.
I spent the next twenty-four hours packing, praying, and preparing myself for everything I could possibly come in contact with during the next two weeks. I prayed that I would be helpful to the missionaries, Elders Abbott and Watkins, with whom I would serve.
Saturday came quickly. My family drove me to Bossier, where we ate lunch before I telephoned the elders to let them know I was ready. After what seemed like an eternity but was only ten or fifteen minutes, the two young men, only a few years older than myself, arrived in their mission car. I didn’t know what to do or how to act, but I timidly introduced myself to Elder Abbott. What a spiritual giant, I thought; I can’t possibly be of any help to him. And I wondered why I was there.
After meeting Elder Watkins, I had nearly convinced myself that I couldn’t be of help to either of them.
I said good-bye to my family, and before I knew it the elders and I were out on the streets knocking on doors. I was amazed at how eloquently the elders approached the people. After an hour of tracting, Elder Abbott turned to me and said, “You can introduce us at the next house, Brother McWhorter.”
“I can’t,” I said embarrassed.
“Yes you can,” he said. “You’ve got to think positively. There may be a potential convert to the Church living here.”
“Okay, I’ll try,” I answered.
I knocked at the door.
As the door opened I could feel my heart sink within me. The room was filled with drunken teenagers—I was only a teenager myself. As I introduced myself and my companions, they began mocking and tempting us. Why me, Lord? I silently asked.
I didn’t knock on another door the rest of the evening. Later that night I began thinking about my day as a “full-time” missionary. Why did I have such feelings? Why was I scared to talk to people about the gospel? How would I be able to serve a two-year mission if I couldn’t even stand up to people and share the truths of the gospel for two weeks? I decided that there was only one way to get help.
As I knelt down in humble prayer and poured out the desires of my heart to Heavenly Father, a peaceful, comforting feeling came over me. A still, small voice told me to search the scriptures. I began going through the pages of my Bible when I saw a verse outlined in red. It was a scripture I had marked in seminary class. As I read it, I knew my prayer had been answered. A warm feeling of insight and understanding came over me as I read: “For it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth” (Rom. 1:16).
Never before had this scripture meant so much to me as it did now. “The power of God unto salvation,” I said aloud. I need not be ashamed of the gospel because it is the very key to salvation. Without it, not one soul will ever progress after this life.
The next morning I awoke with a strong desire and determination to spread the gospel.
Today, already five of the people I helped teach in those two weeks have joined the Church. What a strength we can receive through listening to the promptings of the Spirit!
I vividly remember the feeling I had as the Holy Ghost bore witness to me of that important scriptural message found in Romans. And to this day when I am confronted with an opportunity to share the gospel, that same still, small voice whispers in my ear, “the power of … salvation, the power of … salvation.”

One day my family went to a reception. There was a canal behind the home where the reception was being held. After eating refreshments, my brothers, sister, and I went out to jump on the trampoline in the backyard. My mom told me to watch my two-year-old brother, Jadon. We were jumping on the trampoline when I realized that I didn’t know where Jadon was. I had a feeling that I should look over at the fence by the canal. I looked there and saw Jadon climbing over the fence, saying, “Water, water!” I ran over and picked him up. I told him how dangerous it was to go into the canal. I felt good that I had listened to the Holy Ghost.Nicole L., age 10, Idaho

Going to seminary often means you’ll have to give up something else you enjoy doing in order to find the time to attend. But it’s a sacrifice that’s worth making. Elijah Bugayong of the Philippines chose to make that decision during her last year of high school. Throughout high school, she had always been second in her class. She was determined to place first her senior year and had even considered foregoing seminary, which she had attended in the years before, in order to meet her goal.

Then one day her thoughts changed. “I [looked at] my study table,” she says. “I saw a pile of books near it, my quadruple combination together with my seminary notebook and manual. Deep inside I asked myself, ‘Which matters most?’”

Elijah found her answer in Matthew 6:33: “But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” She decided to faithfully attend seminary and find other ways to balance her time in order to work on her academics. At the end of the year, she was named valedictorian and even won a university scholarship.

Are ministers of other churches inspired of God? Of course they are, if they are righteous and sincere. Do they accomplish good? Certainly. In his journal, Wilford Woodruff records this incident before he ever heard about the Church:
“The people of Connecticut in those days thought it wicked to believe in any religion, or belong to any church, except the Presbyterian. They did not believe in having any prophets, apostles, or revelations, as they had in the days of Jesus, and as we now have in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“There was an old man in Connecticut, however, by the name of Robert Mason, who did not believe like the rest of the people. He believed it was necessary to have prophets, apostles, dreams, visions and revelations in the church of Christ, the same as the people who lived in ancient days; and he believed the Lord would raise up a people and a church, in the last days, with prophets, apostles and all the gifts, powers and blessings, which it ever contained in any age of the world.
“The people called this man, the old prophet Mason. …
“This prophet prayed a great deal, and he had dreams and visions, and the Lord showed him many things, by visions, which were to come to pass in the last days.” (Leaves from My Journal, Salt Lake City: Juvenile Instructor Office, 1882, pp. 1–2.)

“Mom!” Claire pulled on her mother’s arm as they approached the church. “A girl who just went in is wearing my yellow dress!”
“Is she?” Mom said. “I suppose her mother got it from the exchange table at the Relief Society activity last week.”
“You took my yellow dress to the clothing exchange? I still wear that dress! It’s my favorite!” She pointed to the two butterfly-shaped barrettes in her hair. “I even bought these just to go with that dress!”
“I’m sorry, honey. I haven’t seen you wear that dress in a long time, so I thought you had outgrown it. I’ll be sure to check with you next time before I take any more of your things.”
“But what about this time?” Claire asked. “Tell that girl I want my dress back.”
Mom frowned. “Isn’t she part of that new family? I don’t think they have much money for clothes right now. Let’s think about this.”
Claire was angry as she sat in the chapel. “Why can’t we just get the dress back?” she wondered. “It’s my dress.”
During the sacrament Claire started thinking about Jesus. She had promised to always remember Him. “What would Jesus do?” she asked herself. “I don’t remember Him saying anything about clothes in the scriptures.”
When Sister Baxter got up to talk, she read a scripture that mentioned lilies. Then Claire heard the word clothe. Surprised, she looked up the verse. It read: “Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?”1 Claire leaned back on the bench to think. “So there is something about clothing in the scriptures. Maybe Heavenly Father knew that the new girl needed a dress. Mom said her family didn’t have a lot of money. But why my dress? And why my yellow one?”
Claire was still upset when she went to Primary opening exercises. And to make matters worse, the girl in her yellow dress sat right in front of her. Claire tried not to look.
During sharing time, Brother Mason’s class taught about Jesus’s Crucifixion. As she listened, Claire felt terrible about the way Jesus had been treated. Then Mark told a story that really made her sit up and take notice.
“Jesus had a special coat with no seams,” Mark explained. “The soldiers didn’t want to tear it up to share it, so they cast lots to decide who would get the coat.”2
“So Jesus did have some nice clothes,” Claire thought. “He knows how it feels to have somebody take our clothes.” She listened carefully to see what Jesus would do.
“In spite of how the soldiers had treated him, Jesus prayed for them,” Brother Mason said. “He prayed, ‘Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.’”3
“Forgive them?” Claire looked at the girl in the yellow dress. “Does that mean I have to forgive Mom for giving away my dress without asking?” But Claire didn’t feel like forgiving. “If I forgive her, I’ll never get my dress back.” Claire looked at the picture of Jesus. “But I want to do what Jesus would do.” She felt torn and realized that she needed help. She bowed her head and offered a silent prayer. “Please take the bad feeling out of my heart and help me to forgive,” she prayed. She looked at the girl with the yellow dress. “You didn’t know you were taking my favorite dress,” she thought. “I’m not angry at you.” She thought of Mom. “And you didn’t even know I still wanted it. There’s really nothing to forgive.”
Claire was surprised that deep down inside she meant every word. She went to class with a lighter heart. When the new girl was introduced as Megan, Claire invited Megan to sit by her. As the lesson began, she was surprised to hear yet another scripture about clothing. “‘Him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy coat also.’4 What does that mean to us?” Sister Rawlins asked.
“It means there’s something more I need to do,” Claire thought. “But what? I don’t have a coat to go with the dress, do I?” She pondered the question, and by the end of class she had an answer. After the closing prayer, she turned to Megan. “I love your dress,” she said.
Megan smiled. “Thanks. Yellow is my favorite color.”
“Mine too. And I have something that would go perfectly with that dress.” She pulled the two butterfly barrettes out of her hair. “Here,” she said, holding them out. “I want you to have these.”
Megan gasped and carefully took them out of Claire’s hand. “Thank you,” she said, clipping them into her hair. “You are so nice. I’m glad we moved here. Can I give you something in exchange?” She held out a woven bracelet. “I made it myself,” she said. “It’s a friendship bracelet.” Claire beamed. She was still smiling when she got into the car to go home.
“Well,” Mom said, “should we discuss the problem with the yellow dress now?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Claire said. “It’s been exchanged.”
“For what?”
Claire paused a moment, searching for the right words. “Well, when I was finally able to give it away, I got a happy heart in exchange.”
Mom nodded. “I’m so proud of you,” she said.
“And I got something else too.”
“What?”
Claire glanced down at the yellow bracelet around her wrist. “A new friend.”

Let me relate another example. At the funeral service of a noble General Authority, H. Verlan Andersen, a tribute was expressed by a son. He related that, years earlier, he had a special school date on a Saturday night. He borrowed from his father the family car. As he obtained the car keys and headed for the door, his father said, “Remember, tomorrow is Sunday. The car will need more gas before then. Be sure to fill the tank before coming home.”

Elder Andersen’s son then related that the evening activity was wonderful. Friends met, refreshments were served, and all had a good time. In his exuberance, however, he failed to follow his father’s instruction and add fuel to the car’s tank before returning home. He simply forgot.

Sunday morning dawned. Elder Andersen discovered the gas gauge showed empty. The son saw his father put the car keys on the table. In the Andersen family the Sabbath day was a day for worship and thanksgiving, and not for purchases.

As the funeral message continued, Elder Andersen’s son declared, “I saw my father put on his coat, bid us good-bye, and walk the long distance to the chapel, that he might attend an early meeting.” Duty called. Truth was not held hostage to expedience.

In concluding his funeral message, Elder Andersen’s son said, “No son ever was taught more effectively by his father than I was on that occasion. My father not only knew the truth, but he also taught the truth and lived the truth.”

Isabelle loved to pray! In the morning she said a “good morning” prayer. She thanked Heavenly Father for the sunshine and a new day.
At lunchtime Isabelle told Heavenly Father about her day so far. She prayed for help to be nice to her sisters when they got home from school.
At bedtime Isabelle’s family prayed together. They always started by talking about people who might need extra blessings.
Tonight Daddy said, “Please pray for Uncle Dan. He lost his job.”
Isabelle felt sad. She didn’t know a lot about grown-up work, but she knew that losing a job was bad. She loved her uncle. He made yummy popcorn. And last time he came over, he showed her how to do a cartwheel!
“I’ll pray for him to find a job,” Maria said. She was one of Isabelle’s older sisters. It was her turn to pray out loud for the family.
The next day, Isabelle asked Daddy if Uncle Dan found a job yet.
“Not yet,” Daddy said. “Sometimes prayers aren’t answered right away.”
“So should we keep praying for him?” Isabelle asked.
Daddy nodded. “That would mean a lot to Uncle Dan.”
Every day, Isabelle and her sisters prayed for Uncle Dan. They prayed for him to find a job. They prayed for him to have enough money. They prayed for him to feel loved.
Isabelle was glad she could help Uncle Dan with her prayers. Praying for him made her happy.
Her family helped Uncle Dan in other ways too. One day they helped Uncle Dan clean his house. Another day, Isabelle and Mommy stopped by to watch a movie with Uncle Dan.
Weeks went by. Finally Daddy had good news.
“Uncle Dan has two job interviews this week!” Daddy said.
Isabelle felt happy. She was glad she could pray for the people she loved.
What did Isabelle do to help Uncle Dan?
See Come, Follow Me for Enos–Words of Mormon.

After I was baptized and confirmed, I attended the little Matsumoto Branch of 12 to 15 active members. I made friends, and it was fun to attend every week. About a year later I graduated from high school and moved to Yokohama to attend the university. The nearest branch was the Tokyo Central Branch, which had more than 150 active members. When I attended this new branch, I felt like a country boy in the big city. I had a hard time making friends. One Sunday I stayed home from church. Soon I stopped attending altogether. I began making friends with my nonmember classmates, and the Church drifted further and further from my mind.
This continued for several months. Then one day I received a letter from a sister in the Matsumoto Branch. “I heard you have stopped attending church,” she said. I was surprised. Apparently someone from my new branch had told her I was not attending church anymore! The sister continued her letter by quoting Doctrine and Covenants 121:34: “Behold, there are many called, but few are chosen.” Then she wrote, “Koichi, you have been baptized a member of the Church. You have been called, but you are no longer among the chosen.”
As I read these words, I was filled with regret. I knew I needed to change somehow. I realized that I did not have a strong testimony. I wasn’t sure if God lived, and I didn’t know if Jesus Christ was my Savior. For several days I grew anxious as I thought about the message in the letter. I didn’t know what to do. Then one morning I remembered something the missionaries had taught me. They had asked me to read Moroni 10:3–5, promising that I could know the truth for myself. I decided that I must pray. If I felt nothing, I could completely forget about the Church and the commandments, and I would never go again. However, if I did receive an answer, as Moroni promised, I would have to repent, embrace the gospel with all my heart, go back to church, and do all I could to follow the commandments.
As I knelt and prayed that morning, I pleaded with Heavenly Father to answer me. “If Thou live—if Thou are real,” I prayed, “please let me know.” I prayed to know if Jesus Christ was my Savior and if the Church was true. As I finished, I suddenly felt something. I was surrounded by a warm feeling, and my heart was filled with joy. I understood the truth: God does live, and Jesus is my Savior. The Lord’s Church was truly restored by the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Book of Mormon is the word of God.
Needless to say, I prayed for forgiveness that very day and resolved to follow the commandments. I returned to church and promised the Lord that I would do whatever it took to remain faithful.

Orla Rode Nielsen, baptized in 1956, served as branch president twice in Århus before that unit became a ward. Kirsten Bokhonko, another longtime member, says that Brother Nielsen and his wife, Esther (now deceased), are the kind of people who made it a habit to do good for others quietly, in the background. When the Nielsens discovered a love of family history, they devoted much of their own free time to helping more than 30 other members compile their family history. Brother Nielsen still goes to the city archives almost every day to gather information. “I love it. When you get started, you can’t stop.” From the time he joined the Church, he has felt that way about the gospel. On the day he was baptized, he sang all the way home for happiness. “Since my baptism I have never doubted.”