Gospel Story Finder

“What do these scriptures teach us?” Daddy asked as he closed his Book of Mormon.
Four-year-old Tyler piped up, “Jesus said we should pray always.”
“That’s right, Tyler,” Daddy said. “Do you think you can have a prayer in your heart all day today? But don’t just pray for yourself; look for others who need blessings and pray for them, too. We’ll pray for them again when we have family prayer tonight.”
Mommy stood up. “It’s time to get the breakfast dishes done and for Daddy to go to his office.”
As Daddy walked to the front door, Tyler followed and grabbed his hand. “Daddy, I’ll try my best to find someone who needs my prayer today.”
Daddy gave Tyler a hug. “Good! I’m sure that will make Heavenly Father happy.”
Later that morning, Tyler went with Mommy to take books back to the library. He saw a lady holding a baby. The baby wouldn’t stop crying, no matter how her mom tried to soothe her. The baby looked as though she could use Tyler’s prayer. Tyler prayed in his heart, “Please, Heavenly Father, bless the baby to be happy and quiet.”
After lunch, Tyler went outside to ride his tricycle. The people who lived next door waved to him. Tyler saw Mr. Radcliffe helping his wife climb out of her wheelchair and into the car. “Heavenly Father,” Tyler prayed, “I like the Radcliffes. Please bless Mrs. Radcliffe to get well.”
That afternoon the doorbell rang. The piano tuner had come. Tyler liked to watch him use his tools to tune the piano. Tyler asked Heavenly Father to bless the piano man to do a good job.
Before Tyler’s bedtime, his family gathered for their evening prayer. “Did you find anyone to pray for today?” Daddy asked Tyler.
“I found three people who needed my prayers—a baby, Mrs. Radcliffe, and the piano man,” Tyler reported.
“That’s wonderful, Tyler!” Mommy said. “I’m sure Heavenly Father heard your prayers, and He will answer them.”
“Tyler, will you please say the family prayer tonight?” Daddy asked.
As Tyler prayed, he remembered to ask another blessing on the people who had needed his prayers that day.

Imagine that you are sitting in an elders quorum, high priests group, or Relief Society meeting. The teacher is just beginning a “Teachings for Our Time” lesson when President Gordon B. Hinckley walks into the room and takes a seat. Everyone turns and looks at the prophet, not knowing what to say. President Hinckley breaks the silence. He excuses himself for being a few minutes late and asks if he might share some counsel with the members in attendance.
Now imagine that the teacher nods in President Hinckley’s direction, smiles, and goes on with his or her lesson. A few members raise their hands and share lengthy comments and personal experiences—without any mention of the prophet sitting in their midst.
About 40 minutes later, you can bear it no longer. You raise your hand. When the teacher calls on you, you say, “Um, I wonder … could we hear from President Hinckley now?”
The teacher looks at the clock. “Oh!” he or she exclaims. “I had so much prepared. It seems like we never have enough time to cover it all. Well, uh … let me conclude, and then we’ll hear a few words from President Hinckley.”
After President Hinckley says a few words, the teacher thanks everyone for participating. Someone says a prayer, and everyone files out of the room.

One of my Faith in God goals is to learn more about the sacrament. So I asked my bishop if I could make the bread for the sacrament. He said it sounded like a wonderful idea. I learned to make bread, and I made the sacrament bread each week for five weeks. As I made the bread, I felt Jesus’s love for me. I felt different about the sacrament. I was more reverent in sacrament meeting, and I realized that the bread is just bread before it is blessed. But after it is blessed by the priesthood, it becomes the sacrament.
I could feel the Spirit telling me that Jesus really died for me and that He loves me. I am glad that we can partake of the sacrament each week and remember Jesus and the promises we have made.Nikelle Susan L., age 10, Utah

The words God, Heavenly Father, and Jesus Christ were almost never mentioned in my home when I was growing up. My father didn’t really believe in God, and my mother didn’t attend the Christian church in which she had been baptized. When I was six, I wanted to go to church, but my parents decided not to allow me. To remedy my disappointment, I decided to hold my own church services on Sundays.
My knowledge of church and prayer was limited to what I knew from television and stories my friends had told me. The first thing I thought I needed was a Bible. I knew the Bible was a large book with a lot of important words and stories in it. We didn’t have a Bible, so I used the thing we had that fit the description best—the Encyclopaedia Britannica Junior. My congregation consisted of my stuffed animals and dolls. However, my church eventually dissolved, as reading from an encyclopedia can be very frustrating for a six-year-old. Though my church was over, my prayers to God continued.
When I was 13, my mother decided to return to her church. I went with her every Sunday for several months and soon joined the church’s youth group. I loved many things about this church, but I always felt like there was something missing. I continued to go until one day at a youth activity the other youth found out I was not a member of the church. The teenagers in the group began shunning me, and I eventually stopped going to church altogether.
Later, in high school, I took a comparative religions course. I learned a lot about many religions and realized there are a lot of good people with the best of intentions. But no religion ever seemed quite right.
I had convinced myself that no church was right and decided to live by my conscience, read the Bible (by this time I had bought my own), and do my best to live in accordance with the teachings of Jesus Christ. After all, no one in my family went to church, and they were all honest, good people.
In May of 2000, after seeing a movie about the life of Jesus Christ, I was so deeply touched that I earnestly prayed to God. I knew if I was patient, while continuing to do my best to follow Christ, I would receive answers to my prayers. I faced many tests in the months that followed. Through these tests, I became better at receiving the Spirit’s promptings.
Later that year I felt I should go to the visitors’ center at the Washington D.C. Temple to see the Christmas lights. I had been to the visitors’ center to see the lights before but had never inquired about the Church or its beliefs.
As I strolled through the visitors’ center, looking at the many displays, I thought of my cousin and another friend who were planning to serve missions for this church. I had studied about many religions but never this one. I was a little curious.
In my head I asked, expecting no answer, “Why in the world would those two men, or anyone for that matter, give up two years to serve missions—and at their own expense?” Much to my surprise, I received a humbling response. The soft whispers of the Spirit pierced my heart as my eyes fell upon a replica of gold plates. I was drawn to them. As I looked at them, I felt a powerful feeling of love, safety, and comfort, and in my mind I heard the words, “These are important. Learn about them.”
Immediately, I found a missionary and asked her about the plates. She told me about Joseph Smith translating the Book of Mormon. She also suggested I meet with the missionaries, but I declined.
The next day I went to the library to read all I could about the plates and the Church. I bought a copy of the Book of Mormon from a used-book store and began reading. I also read about the Church, but I wanted to learn more, so I decided to attend a church meeting.
I knew if I studied and prayed, God would confirm to me that this is the right church. So that’s what I did. I watched and waited patiently. And sure enough, my prayers were answered. On March 25, 2001, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
This is the Church of Jesus Christ. There are many good churches with many good people, but The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the church of our Lord and Savior, and it is the church with which our Heavenly Father is well pleased (see D&C 1:30). Our Heavenly Father loves us, has a plan for us, and will guide us back to Him if we earnestly seek Him.

One day I talked back to my mother. Each of us yelled at the other. Our words were hurtful. Later, I opened my scriptures and read about love. I decided to ask my mother to forgive me. She had left, and when she returned, she put a note on my pillow. She said she was sorry. She just expected me to help her more with household chores. After reading her message, I hurried to tell my mother how sorry I was and how much I loved her, while giving her a big hug. It was a wonderful moment. Since that time, the message of love revealed to me in the scriptures has stayed with me, and I have tried to avoid quarreling by speaking to her with kindness. Tell your mother you love her, and she will do the same. Control yourself when something she does irritates you, and instead think about all of her good qualities. Seek to know what she expects of you. I am certain that by your doing this, the situation will resolve itself.
Raquel L., 21, Bourgogne, France

Conversion didn’t come overnight for Elder Wakolo, and over the first eight years of the couple’s marriage, he met with many missionaries. “I completed the [missionary] discussions four times in eight years,” he said. “I have 24 missionaries.” It was a simple question from one of those missionaries about the name of the Church that changed his mind about baptism. “The Church needs to be named after its owner,” he said. “That was it for me.”

Allan sat on a bench outside his house. The sun was setting. Palm trees stood against the pink and orange sky.
He turned the page of the book he was reading. It didn’t have any pictures. But Allan didn’t mind. He loved reading this book!
His eyes skimmed across Papa’s neat writing. He remembered this part! It always made him laugh.
Just then, Papa came outside. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m reading one of your books.” Allan grinned. “I like the part about the coconut.”
“Oh, you mean my journals.” Papa sat beside Allan. “They tell the story of my life. But they are not just about me. You are in them too. And so is Mama, and your brothers and sister.”
“Like Nephi!” Allan said. “He wrote stories about his life, and he wrote about his family too.”
“Right!” Papa said.
“I like the parts about you best,” Allan said. “Like when you were a missionary here in Tahiti.”
“I like the stories about you best,” Papa said. “Did you know that we named you after Elder Bednar’s middle name?”
“You never told me that! I can’t wait to read that part.”
Papa smiled. “There are lots of stories in my journals. I’ve been writing in journals since I was eight.”
“Since you were eight?” Allan asked. “That’s a really, really long time.”
Papa laughed. “I’m not that old.”
Allan thought for a bit. “I’m turning eight soon,” he said. “Could I get a journal for my birthday?”
“Of course!” Papa said.
“Then I can write my stories so that someday my kids can read them.”
“That sounds like a great family tradition!” Papa said.

Glen Hoelscher, from St. Lawrence, Texas, recently returned from a mission to Tacoma, Washington. Glen, shown here with his mom, Doris, and his dad, David, grew up on a farm, and he and his father devised an unusual way of financing Glen’s work for the Lord. They used some of their farm land to grow watermelons specifically for the purpose of paying for Glen’s mission, figuring they’d have to sell eight melons for each day that Glen served.
Their efforts proved “fruitful,” and Glen was blessed with a bumper crop—one of the best he and his dad have ever had.

Gray dawn had come. Pacha, a mountain boy of Peru, went out from his thatched hut to the place where the llamas rested at night. His whistle was low, his voice gentle, “Come, llamas!”
The six long-necked, woolly animals rose slowly to their feet while Pacha explained the new day. “When the sun comes,” he told them, “we will go with Papá down the mountain—to the market fair in the valley.”
The llamas made no sound, but Pacha felt sure that they understood. As they marched in stately line from the stone-enclosed corral, he stroked their thick fur, calling each by name. “Ocle … Astro … Yana …” They were brown llamas with patches of yellowish white—all but Nubi, the smallest and youngest. Nubi was pure black.
Pacha loved them all. They were his friends, his companions. But he couldn’t help wishing that one of them was his very own. He wished it more than anything else.
A boy living farther up the mountain owned a llama. It had been given to him the day he brought his father’s string of llamas safely around a dangerous mountain landslide.
Ever since, Pacha had tried hard to think of something he might do—a deed so big and important that he would deserve a llama of his own. “I would choose you,” he whispered into the velvety ear of Nubi, the last to leave the corral. And Nubi’s small head gently nudged Pacha’s shoulder.
Outside the corral, the llamas formed a circle with their heads turned inward, waiting patiently for the loads to be tied to their backs. First Pacha and his father folded into a bunch the long, coarse hair that grew on each animal’s back. This made a soft padding for their loads, which today would be lighter. Instead of the usual dried corn and hard mountain potatoes, the woven carrying bags were filled with llama fleece.
“It is good wool. We can trade it for many things we need,” said Papá as he tied the last bag in place. Only Nubi carried no load. She was still too young.
The man and the boy now turned their faces toward the eastern sky, waiting for the sun. The wind was strong and cold! Shivering under his red and blue poncho, Pacha pulled the earflaps of his tasseled cap closer.
At last a rosy glow came up from behind the farthest snow peak. “It is time,” said Papá.
Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas.”
Ocli had been chosen leader because he could pick the best way. The golden bell on his neck tinkled. Although the trail winding down the mountain was rocky and very steep, the padded hoofs of the llamas never stumbled. Pacha stayed close behind Nubi, the last in line. Papá followed.
As they descended into the valley, the air grew warmer. Wildflowers bloomed purple and yellow and crimson. Then they saw the red roofs of the town in the valley, and soon they were making their way along a narrow, turning street. Their sandals slap-slapped on the worn cobblestones, and the hoofs of the llamas swish-swished.
An automobile, its horn blaring, crowded them. But the llamas strode on in perfect order, their heads high. Even Nubi stepped with pride and dignity all the way to the market fair in the center of town.
Pacha sniffed. “Mmmm!” How good the fresh bread smelled! “Mmmm!” How delicious it tasted when his father, smiling at Pacha’s eagerness, sold some wool, then bought a loaf.
Their next stop was a fruit stall, where they bought big, yellow-orange papayas. Farther on, they added sugar cane and rock salt to their purchases, also a shepherd’s knife for shearing the llamas and a round clay cooking pot.
Now they had only enough time to get the clothing they needed: white trousers and new caps—a red one for Pacha, a white one for his father.
“We will take the rest of the wool to our friend Don Jacinto,” said Papá, “then buy our clothes at the indoor market.” He led the way down another street to a building with arches and pillars before it.
After taking as many bundles of wool as he could carry, Papá carried them into the store, saying, “Stay with the llamas, my son.”
The llamas quietly folded their legs beneath them and lay down to rest. Pacha was about to do the same, when a boy in town clothes hurried up. “Haven’t you heard?” he cried. “Foot races! They start over there!” He pointed to a nearby fountain.
The first race was for boys their size, he quickly explained, and it would start soon. As he ran off in the direction of the fountain, he called back, “The winner gets a prize! A fine prize!”
Pacha’s thoughts were awhirl! He had never run a race, but he knew that his legs were strong from climbing mountains. To win a race and a fine prize would be something big and important for him to do. At last his chance had come!
Pacha’s heart thumped with excitement. He started running to catch up with the boy.
Then suddenly he stopped. The llamas! They wouldn’t understand being left alone. Something might happen to them. He couldn’t run this race, after all. A lump too big to swallow came into his throat. He started to run again, this time back to the llamas.
All six animals stared at him with dark, sad eyes that were full of questions. Pacha spoke soothingly. “Of course I wouldn’t leave you, llamas.”
He stooped and put his arms around black Nubi. He hugged and patted each woolly animal. Even when he heard the loud boom that signaled the boys’ race, he stayed with them. The llamas, comforted, softly hummed.
A man’s deep voice spoke. “Ah, Pacha, why are you not running with the others?” It was Don Jacinto. He had come with Papá from the indoor market.
Before Pacha could explain, his father spoke. “Pacha was left in charge of the llamas. He could not leave them, not even to run a race.” To Pacha’s amazement, Papá seemed very pleased that his son wasn’t trying to win a race. Pacha’s heart felt light again.
Don Jacinto had turned to look at the wool still tied to the llamas’ backs. His eyes fell on Nubi. “A fine black one!” he exclaimed. “When you have fleece from this llama, I will pay extra.”
Pacha’s father was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “The black one now belongs to Pacha. Her fleece will be his.”
At first, Pacha couldn’t believe what his ears had heard. Nubi his? A llama of his own?
Papá turned to Pacha. “Our llamas serve us well. In return, we must take good care of them, my son. Now that I’m sure you understand this, I give you Nubi.”
It took Pacha a while to find his voice. “Gracias, Papá. Oh, gracias!” he exclaimed. He looked up at Don Jacinto and said, “When Nubi is sheared, I will bring the black fleece to you.”
It was time to start the homeward march. The sun, warm now, would set quickly. The stinging chill of the wind would return. The travelers needed to reach their mountain home before the trail darkened. Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas!”
Ocli’s golden bell tinkled. The carrying bags, repacked with new possessions, swayed lightly on the animals’ backs.
Pacha, staying close to Nubi, thought over the happenings of the day. It had been a wonderful market fair, and he had learned something he would always remember: Small deeds can be as important as big ones.

Rafael Mateo and his son, Whalincon (known as “Whally”), paused in the darkness of a stormy afternoon and eyed the rushing waters of the rain-swollen river. Rafael, first counselor in the branch presidency, and Whally, the branch elders quorum president, were returning home after a Sunday full of meetings at their chapel in San José de Ocoa in the Dominican Republic.
They were already drenched from trudging through the downpour and crossing the flooded Río Ocoa that created a dangerous barrier between the chapel and their home. During the dry season, the 6-kilometer (4-mile) hike descending from the chapel on one side of the valley then up to their home on the heights of the other side usually takes an hour. But when the river floods during the rainy season, Rafael and his family have to take a three-hour, 15-kilometer (9-mile) detour to find a place where they can ford the river with some degree of safety.
Rafael had completed the journey countless times before. He had crossed the river every day for 12 years to get to work. Being called two months after his baptism to serve as branch president, a calling he held for six years, only increased the number of trips. After that it was a call as elders quorum president. Then he was called back into the branch presidency.
But familiarity with the river didn’t diminish its danger, and the swift water of the flooded rivers could be as deadly as the wide river they fed. Not long before, an overflowing river had swept a neighbor off his feet, killing him in a mad rush down its narrow course.
Father and son hesitated at the water’s edge; then Rafael stepped in. The river was not wide, but because it channeled so much water, it was cut surprisingly deep. The cold, swift water first pulled at his knees, then his waist, and soon swirled about his chest.
Rafael knew he was in trouble. The streambed was slippery and uneven, and the powerful current threatened to steal his footing. Halfway across, he used all his strength to stay upright, and he found himself powerless to move forward or backward.
Just when he thought he was too weak to fight the flood any longer, he felt a push from behind that thrust him toward the opposite bank. It wasn’t until after he had reached the other side that he realized his savior hadn’t been Whally, who was still on the opposite side.
He attributes his rescue to the power of the same Savior who has helped him survive the threatening pull of other trials, both physical and spiritual.
“I’ve had to throw myself many times into the river up to my chest in the service of the Lord,” says Brother Mateo. “But I feel a great debt to the Lord. He has given me not only the opportunity to serve Him but the endurance.”
Like King David, Brother Mateo knows the Savior “took me, he drew me out of many waters. He delivered me from my strong enemy” (Psalm 18:16–17).
That testimony has carried him through trials more subtle than, but just as real as, crossing the river that stormy afternoon with Whally.

Joseph felt that if he went there, he would probably be killed, so on June 23, 1855, he rowed across the Mississippi River to avoid arrest. In a letter, Emma pleaded with him to return and surrender. Joseph also learned that some of the Saints were calling him a coward for leaving. “If my life is of no value to my friends,” he said, “it is of none to myself.” He returned to Nauvoo, and on Monday, June 24, he and the others charged in the case went to Carthage to surrender.

When they got to Carthage, they were released on bail until a circuit court judge could hear the case. Joseph and Hyrum went to talk to Governor Ford. While there, they were re-arrested on charges of treason.

Joseph and Hyrum were again jailed; John Taylor and Willard Richards went with them.

On June 27, 1844, shortly after 5:00 P.M., a mob rushed up the jail stairs to the room where the prisoners were being held. The culprits tried to break through the door, but were unable to. Shooting through the door, they hit Hyrum, who fell, saying, “I am a dead man.”

Joseph went to the window where he was shot twice from inside the building and twice more from outside. He fell out of the window to the ground and died. John Taylor was shot four times and lay under a bed, severely wounded. Willard Richards was not injured during the shooting.

After the martyrdom, John Taylor wrote, “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it. … He lived great, and he died great in the eyes of God and his people; and like most of the Lord’s anointed in ancient times, has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood. …” (D&C 135:3).

Young Eldon was blessed with a keen mind and insatiable hunger to learn. His schooling was interrupted by grain harvests and other farm work, but he managed to get through high school in Cardston and Raymond by helping in a butcher shop to pay for his board and through Calgary Normal School by working in a grocery store. On graduating from normal school, he was offered two jobs, one at Hill Spring and one at Rocky Ford, Alberta. Although the latter paid a higher salary, he chose the Hill Spring job because there was no LDS church at Rocky Ford. At 20 years of age he became a principal of a three-room school.

The students at Hill Spring had a reputation as rowdies, but Eldon was equal to the challenge. He was a firm disciplinarian, and he had the ability to make academic subjects fascinating. He also introduced boxing, wrestling, basketball, and other extracurricular activities; formed a Scout troop; and trained cadets. One young man later reported that President Tanner had been his schoolteacher, Scoutmaster, and cadet instructor as well as his boxing, wrestling, and basketball coach, all at the same time! His coaching produced several provincial wrestling championships.

“Come here, over by the light.” Kitty joined him by the window. “Do you remember this?”
He held out to her a piece of white cloth. When she took it in her hand, she saw it was a dress, a tiny frothy dress, all white, with many tucks and flounces; and across the yoke in front were red and blue marching figures. It was beautiful, and somehow, she knew it had been hers.
“You looked like an angel,” her father said softly. “Your hair was blonde then, and you were all dolled up in this dress and little white shoes and white socks with—I’m almost certain—red and blue stripes matching the whatsit on the dress. It was a Primary thing, Easter, I think, and you stood right in the front row and sang every song without missing a word—three years old and you didn’t miss a word—and me sitting on the back row blubbering when you sang that one about ‘I Am a Child of God.’ I was embarrassed like the dickens until I noticed that both of the men beside me were sniffing and honking too. Oh, your mother was so proud of you, and that dress! I guess she took a whole roll of film of you in that dress. Still has ’em someplace.”

One woman, Kelly, was so touched by the opportunity to buy items for teens and children that she told her member friend, “This idea is so unbelievably awesome! Everyone needs to know about these machines!” Kelly posted about the experience on her Facebook page. She became an incredible advocate for the Giving Machine initiative, prompting five families in her neighborhood to visit a Giving Machine kiosk, as well as family members in three different cities to visit their local Giving Machine kiosks.

This fact was brought forcibly to mind in August of 1958 when I was in Hamburg, Germany, attending a district missionary conference. Presiding at the conference was Elder Henry D. Moyle, then of the Council of the Twelve. We had a question-and-answer session, and one of the missionaries asked a question in which he referred to President David O. McKay as the head of the Church. Elder Moyle interrupted him and in a very forceful manner stated that Jesus Christ was the head of the Church, not David O. McKay. The significant point here is that Elder Moyle knew that Jesus is the Son of God, that he lives, even today, and that he stands at the head of this church.

I can remember in my high school in Portland, Oregon, two contrasting young people. One was a young man named Steve Troy. Steve as a freshman was six foot six, weighed 220 pounds. He was tall, had dark, curly hair, and was a marvelous athlete. In the course of his high school days, he was all-state in football, baseball, and basketball. I guess everybody would like to be a Steve Troy in high school. Then there was Robert Calderwood. Robert was five foot two, wore glasses, carried his briefcase to school, got straight A’s, and all of the other kids asked him for help with their homework. Do you have any Robert Calderwoods in your school?
Now it is interesting to see what happened to those two young men some years later. Both of them served in the navy. Steve Troy came back and, still a fine person, wound up working in a small shop owned by his father. The interesting thing is to see what happened to Robert Calderwood, the ugly duckling, who emerged some time later, graduated from college, and became a banker. The last I heard he was vice-president of one of the large banks in Portland and was married and had a fine family; he is a person who truly has emerged, who didn’t give up because he had been the ugly duckling at Franklin High School.

“Don’t forget this is fast Sunday.” Hearing my mother’s reminder was like hearing a judge pronounce “ten years to life.” Wandering out to the kitchen on a Sunday morning and discovering that the table was bare and there was no bacon smell made me want to crawl right back under the covers. How could a word like fast be associated with something that seems to drag on forever?
I remember fast Sundays spent pacing the kitchen floor as I tried to justify eating just a little something. “I need to take something for a headache, but I can’t take aspirin on an empty stomach.” When I persisted with my grumbling, good old Mom always said, “We don’t force anyone to fast around here. You are free to eat whenever you choose.” Sure. Eat while everyone else is fasting. And feel like a total jerk.
After a while, I learned not to complain and not to hover around the pantry. Instead, I’d go outside and mess around, or go to a far corner of the house and dive into the Sunday paper or a book—anything to take my mind off my stomach.
And so I fasted. At least I went without food and drink for two meals. I had been told I was old enough to fast, so I suffered through it, one Sunday a month. Rewarding? About like a forced run in gym class. It’s painful and unpleasant, and when you get through, all you have is the satisfaction that you toughed it out. Until—
Until one Sunday. I don’t know what got into me. (It certainly wasn’t pancakes! Might have been a past Sunday School lesson, though.) At any rate, I decided that I would really see if I could get something out of fasting besides killer breath. Why go through the discomfort and come away with nothing more than relief that it’s over?
So when I woke up that Sunday morning, I made a deliberate effort to be pleasant and patient. I didn’t prowl the kitchen, growling like an echo of my stomach. Yes, I spent some time reading the Sunday paper, but I also spent time (and effort) in the scriptures. When I went off to my room, it was not to sulk, but to pray—for patience, for understanding, and for an increase of testimony.
My mouth still tasted like something small and furry had hibernated in it. But mouthwash helped. My stomach still threw tantrums for a while. But then the hunger pangs faded into the background, partly because I was tuning them out, and partly because my body seemed to shift into another gear.
As the day progressed, I actually became happy. (No, it wasn’t delirium.) In fast and testimony meeting I found myself watching the speakers and listening to their testimonies, rather than watching the clock and listening to my stomach. Being there felt good. When dinner time finally arrived, I discovered that I was able to sit calmly. A new sense of self-control allowed me to eat reasonably, instead of giving way to the usual gluttony of the “feast of the fast over.”
On the fast Sundays that followed, I often had to relearn the same lessons. It’s so easy to let the stomach control moods, thoughts, temper. And it’s easy to go through the motions and discomfort of fasting without finding joy in it. But as I persevered, I continued to learn to actually enjoy fasting.
A few years later, in the mission field, proper fasting became even more important as I sought the blessings of the Spirit. Of course, I still had a missionary’s appreciation for food. In fact, one day our new zone leader leaned toward me over the lunch table, glanced down at my well-stocked plate, and said, “I’ll bet you really hate to fast, don’t you, Elder?”
My mouth was full of food, so all I could do was dumbly shake my head. But no. I no longer hated to fast.
Before I had really put myself into it, really looked for the rewards of fasting, I wouldn’t have understood what the Lord was talking about when he said:
“Verily, this is fasting and prayer, or in other words, rejoicing and prayer” (D&C 59:14; italics added).
But now I understand: There are rewards that go far beyond the meager satisfaction of just having endured.

Some 50 years ago I received an invitation to meet with President J. Reuben Clark Jr. (1871–1961), a counselor in the First Presidency of the Church, a statesman of towering stature, and a scholar of international renown. My profession then was in the field of printing and publishing. President Clark made me welcome in his office and then produced from his old rolltop desk a large sheaf of handwritten notes, many of them made when he was a law student long years before. He proceeded to outline for me his goal of producing a harmony of the Gospels. This goal was achieved with his monumental work Our Lord of the Gospels.
In my library is a personally inscribed, leather-bound copy of this classic treatment of the life of Jesus of Nazareth. As I have perused its pages, I have paused at the section entitled “The Miracles of Jesus.” I remember as though it were yesterday President Clark asking me to read to him several of these accounts while he sat back in his large leather chair and listened. That was a day in my life never to be forgotten.
President Clark asked me to read aloud the account found in Luke concerning the man filled with leprosy. I proceeded to read:
“And it came to pass, when he was in a certain city, behold a man full of leprosy: who seeing Jesus fell on his face, and besought him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.
“And he put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will: be thou clean. And immediately the leprosy departed from him” (Luke 5:12–13).
He asked that I continue reading from Luke concerning the man afflicted with palsy and the enterprising manner in which he was presented for the attention of the Lord:
“And, behold, men brought in a bed a man which was taken with a palsy: and they sought means to bring him in, and to lay him before him.
“And when they could not find by what way they might bring him in because of the multitude, they went upon the housetop, and let him down through the tiling with his couch into the midst before Jesus.
“And when he saw their faith, he said unto him, Man, thy sins are forgiven thee” (Luke 5:18–20).
There followed in the scriptural account snide comments from the Pharisees concerning who had the right to forgive sins. Jesus silenced their bickering by saying:
“What reason ye in your hearts?
“Whether [it] is easier, to say, Thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, Rise up and walk?
“But that ye may know that the Son of man hath power upon earth to forgive sins, (he said unto the sick of the palsy,) I say unto thee, Arise, and take up thy couch, and go into thine house.
“And immediately he rose up before them, and took up that whereon he lay, and departed to his own house, glorifying God” (Luke 5:22–25).
When I had read these scriptural stories aloud, President Clark removed from his pocket a handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes. He commented, “As we grow older, tears come more frequently.” After a few words of good-bye, I departed from his office, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his tears.
As I reflect on this experience with President Clark, my heart fills with gratitude to the Lord for His divine intervention to relieve the suffering, heal the sick, and raise the dead. I grieve, however, for the many, similarly afflicted, who knew not how to find the Master, to learn of His teachings, and to become the beneficiaries of His power. I remember that President Clark himself suffered heartache and pain in the tragic death at Pearl Harbor of his son-in-law Mervyn S. Bennion, captain of the battleship West Virginia. That day there had been no ram in the thicket, no steel to stop the shrapnel, no miracle to heal the wounds of war. But faith never wavered, and answered prayers provided the courage to carry on.

Recently we talked with a young mother who was having a problem managing her five children. She was expecting the sixth. We all know that the burdens can become difficult. Things were not smooth in her home. There was a tendency to shout and scream at the children and try to get them to follow orders. It was overwhelming. My wife and I stopped her recital of troubles and said, “Let’s take a little perspective of your circumstance. Think back on what you wanted to be a few years ago. If you were thirty-five years of age right now and you weren’t married, what would you rather be in all the world?” She said she would rather be married and have a family.
“So you happen to have the exact circumstances you most of all desire. Now analyze what your training and background has been. You were trained as a schoolteacher. If you were hired to take care of other people’s children, you would work it out very well to manage five children. You have a knowledge of psychology and how to control difficult situations. Just put that to work. You will find that you have full capability to deal with all your problems.”
So we are able in many difficult situations to find our way and overcome what would otherwise be discouragement.

During the Mexican Revolution, Catherine left her home on fifteen minutes notice. She buried her silver and dishes and left a cake baking in the oven and chickens frying on the stove. Taking only one roll of bedding and one trunk of necessities, Catherine quietly closed the door on the fourth home she had been driven from because of her religious beliefs. As they drove away, two daughters stood up in the back of the wagon and began singing “Count Your Many Blessings.” (Hymns, no. 202.) Lula saw her mother, tears rolling down her cheeks, take one last look towards her husband’s grave, then smile at the children.