Gospel Story Finder

As a young man Harvey worked in the grocery business and saved enough money to enter Brigham Young Academy in the fall of 1900. There were two courses of study: commercial and normal. Harvey entered the normal curriculum because it was less expensive. He also said that he entered the academy mainly because his friends were there. He breezed through the mathematics classes, feeling almost like he had studied them before. One of the other classes that he took was physics. He said that he understood the subject by just sitting in the class, listening to the teacher, and plying him with questions; but Harvey did not do any of the assigned work. In particular, he did not keep a laboratory journal. As a result he obtained an F grade.

Harvey later wrote the following in his autobiography:

It was the first and only grade failure that I ever received. This jolted my pride, and I think from then on I took my education seriously. I repeated the course the next year, obtained the highest grade in the class, A+, and was given my first paid job in the school, an assistant in the laboratory. During the following three years I taught physics and mathematics courses while carrying the regular college courses. At the end of these three years I graduated with a B.S. degree. The next year I was a full-time teacher at a salary of $750.00 a year.

By the way, there were only six students in the graduating class of 1907. Harvey ended up becoming president of the American Physics Society later in life and was the first LDS scientist elected to the American Academy of Science (in 1935).

Angelo kicked Lonnie in the chest and earned the point he needed to win.
“Match!” Mr. Haight, the coach, pointed to Angelo. Lonnie and Angelo sat down on the gym floor to watch two other green belts spar.
“Lucky kick.” Lonnie smiled at Angelo.
“I had to even things up.” Angelo grinned. “You beat me in the races at school today.” Lonnie was Angelo’s best friend, and they did everything together.
On the other side of the gym, the red belts were working on the demonstration they would give for the black belt ceremony.
“Soon we’ll be blue belts,” Lonnie said, but he was watching the red belts across the room.
“Yeah. We have the hours, the moves, and the test down for the blue belt,” Angelo said, “but I can’t wait till we’re red belts.”
“Oh, that’ll be easy,” Lonnie laughed. “We only have to earn the blue belt and purple belt first!”
Mr. Haight raised his hands in the air. “OK, enough sparring for tonight.” He waved everyone toward him and held up a piece of paper. “The tournament is two weeks away. This paper gives all the information you will need to have a successful tournament. Make sure your parents read it and sign it. Bring it back here next week.”
Angelo grabbed the paper and headed for the door. The tournament was the last thing he had to complete before becoming a blue belt! As he rode his bike home, he only wished his grandma could see him compete. Abuela Ana was serving a mission in faraway Romania.
Mom was stirring a big pot of chicken mole when Angelo sailed in and handed her the paper. “This is important. It’s about the tournament.”
“How was karate?” Mom smiled and took the paper.
“It was great! I lost one sparring match and won two.”
“Wow!”
“Yep. Now all Lonnie and I have to do is the tournament and we’ll get our blue belts.” Angelo opened the refrigerator.
“Did you know the tournament is on a Sunday, Angelo?” Mom said.
Angelo closed the fridge. “Sunday?” He frowned. His baptism wasn’t too long ago, and he had determined to keep the Sabbath holy.
“I know how much this means to you, Angelo, but Sunday … ?” Mom trailed off.
“I know, I know.” Angelo stomped off to his bedroom. Why did the tournament have to be on a Sunday? None of the other tournaments were. And if he didn’t go, Lonnie would be a blue belt and he would still be green.
Dad peeked into the bedroom. “Hey, Angelo. I heard about the tournament. Have you called Mr. Haight?”
Angelo brightened. “No. I’ll call right away.” He ran for the phone. Surely Mr. Haight would see his problem—maybe he’d even give him the belt without the tournament.
A few minutes later, Angelo shuffled back to his room.
“What did he say?” Dad asked.
“He said to get the belt, I have to meet all the requirements. I even told him Sunday was a holy day, but he just said the gym was booked on Saturday.”
Dad ruffled Angelo’s hair. “There will be other tournaments.”
Angelo looked up at Dad. “I know. But it might be months away. Lonnie will be a blue belt way before me. I might as well quit!”
“It’s your decision, Angelo.” Dad left, and Angelo lay down on his bed. He knew Mom and Dad didn’t want him to go to the Sunday tournament, but maybe he would go just this one time.
Angelo looked at the Dallas Texas Temple picture on his wall. Abuela Ana had given it to him on his birthday last September. Tucked into the corner of the picture was a photograph of his tiny abuela with a huge Romanian castle in the background. Angelo wouldn’t see her again until his next birthday.
He reached for the photograph and read the words she had written on the back.
“The work is hard here. We give lots of discussions, but no baptisms yet. Last week we went to the orphanages and arranged for children to have needed medical care. They were so grateful. I knew that whatever sacrifice I had made to come here was nothing. I’m following the Savior, so everything will be all right! Te amo, Angelo. I love you.”
Angelo turned the picture over and looked into his abuela’s smiling face. He knew he would not be going to the Sunday tournament. He smiled. “I am following my Savior too, Abuela Ana.”

I think of an account I read about the wife of one of our early pioneers. Her name was Catherine Curtis Spencer. Her husband, Orson Spencer, was a sensitive, well-educated man. She had been reared in Boston and was cultured and refined. She and Orson had six children. After leaving Nauvoo, her delicate health declined from exposure and hardship. Elder Spencer wrote to her parents and asked if she could return to live with them while he established a home for her in the West. Their reply: “Let her renounce her degrading faith, and she can come back, but never until she does.” Sister Spencer would not renounce her faith. When her parents’ letter was read to her, she asked her husband to get his Bible and read to her from the book of Ruth: “Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God” (Ruth 1:16). Outside the storm raged, the wagon covers leaked, and friends held milk pans over Sister Spencer’s head to keep her dry. In these conditions, and without a word of complaint, she closed her eyes for the last time.

As a young missionary I was assigned as a district president to administer the affairs of the Church and preach the gospel in a group of fifteen small, scattered islands. We traveled almost exclusively by sailboat and learned to rely not only on the winds and the currents of the usually friendly seas, but especially on the love of our Father in heaven, as we sailed week after week and month after month from island to island to island. It was a glorious time, full of the normal challenges of seasickness, becalmings, strange languages, foods, and customs. But mostly it was a time of spiritual closeness to our Father in heaven, whose love and goodness so far overshadowed any temporary pain or problems as to make the latter shrink into obscurity.
On one occasion we received word that a missionary was very ill on a somewhat distant island. The weather was threatening but, feeling responsible, and after prayer, we left to investigate the situation. Extra heavy seas slowed our progress, and it was late afternoon before we arrived. The missionary was indeed very ill. Fervent prayer was followed by administration, during which the impression came very strongly to get him back to the hospital on the main island, and to do it now!
The weather had deteriorated to the point of a small gale. The seas were heavy, the clouds were thick, the wind was fierce, the hour was late, and the sun was sinking rapidly, betokening a long black night ahead. But the impression was strong—“Get back now”—and one learns to obey the all-important promptings of the Spirit.
There was much concern expressed and much talk about the darkness, the storm, and the formidable reef with its extremely narrow opening to the harbor we were attempting to gain. Some found reason to stay behind; but soon eight persons, including an ill missionary, a very experienced captain, and a somewhat concerned district president, boarded the boat and the spiritually prompted voyage to home base began.
No sooner had we made our commitment to the open seas than the intensity of the storm seemed to increase sevenfold. The small gale now became a major storm. As the sun sank below the horizon, bringing with it darkness and gloom, so also did my spirit seem to sink into the darkness of doubt and apprehension. The thick clouds and driving rain increased the blackness of our already dark universe—no stars, no moon, no rest—only turmoil of sea and body and mind and spirit. And as we toiled on through that fearsome night, I found my spirit communing with the spirit of the father of an afflicted child in the New Testament, as he exclaimed, “Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.” (Mark 9:24.) And He did, and He does, and He will. That I know.
As we rolled and tossed closer and closer to the reef, all eyes searched for the light that marked the opening—the only entry to our home. Where was it? The blackness of the night seemed to increase; the fierceness of the raging elements seemed to know no bounds. The rain slashed at our faces and tore at our eyes—eyes vainly searching for that life-giving light.
Then I heard the chilling sound of the waves crashing and chewing against the reef! It was close—too close. Where was that light? Unless we hit the opening exactly, we would be smashed against the reef and ripped and torn by that thousand-toothed monster. It seemed that all the elements were savagely bent on our total destruction. Our eyes strained against the blackness, but we could not see the light.
Some began to whimper, others to moan and cry, and one or two even to scream in hysteria. At the height of this panic, when many were pleading to turn to the left or to the right, when the tumultuous elements all but forced us to abandon life and hope, I looked at the captain—and there I saw the face of calmness, the ageless face of wisdom and experience, as his eyes penetrated the darkness ahead. Quietly his weather-roughened lips parted, and without moving his fixed gaze and just perceptibly shifting the wheel, he breathed those life-giving words, “Ko e Maama e” (“There is the light!”).
I could not see the light, but the captain could see it. And I knew he could see it. Those eyes long experienced in ocean travel were not fooled by the madness of the storm nor were they influenced by the pleadings of those of lesser experience to turn to the left or to the right. And so with one last great swell we were hurtled through the opening and into calmer waters.
The roaring of the reef was now behind us. Its infamous plan of destruction had been foiled. We were in the protected harbor. We were home. Then and only then did we see through the darkness that one small light—exactly where the captain had said it was. Had we waited until we ourselves could see the light we would have been dashed to pieces, shredded on the reef of unbelief. But trusting in those experienced eyes, we lived.
As I think back, I thank the Lord for that wonderful Polynesian captain who saved my life and the life of the sick missionary I was charged with. I am eternally grateful for his experience (much of which, I am sure, was not pleasant). I am grateful for his wisdom, for his eyes, for his not yielding to the fury of the moment, but steadfastly holding the true course to safety.
I felt at the time that he was more than himself—he was more than the sum total of all of his experience. In some marvelous way at that moment of desperate need, he drew upon a power and a strength from generations of faithful, seagoing people that only those who know Polynesians well can begin to understand. My admiration and love for him and all other faithful descendants of father Lehi knows no bounds.

As I have traveled far and wide throughout the world fulfilling the responsibilities of my calling, I have come to know many things—not the least of which is that sadness and suffering are universal. I cannot begin to measure all of the heartache and sorrow I have witnessed as I have visited with those who are dealing with grief, experiencing illness, facing divorce, struggling with a wayward son or daughter, or suffering the consequences of sin. The list could go on and on, for there are countless problems which can befall us. To single out one example is difficult, and yet whenever I think of challenges, my thoughts turn to Brother Brems, one of my boyhood Sunday School teachers. He was a faithful member of the Church, a man with a heart of gold. He and his wife, Sadie, had eight children, many of whom were the same ages as those in our family.

After Frances and I were married and moved from the ward, we saw Brother and Sister Brems and members of their family at weddings and funerals, as well as at ward reunions.

In 1968, Brother Brems lost his wife, Sadie. Two of his eight children also passed away as the years went by.

One day nearly 13 years ago, Brother Brems’s oldest granddaughter telephoned me. She explained that her grandfather had reached his 105th birthday. She said, “He lives in a small care center but meets with his entire family each Sunday, where he delivers a gospel lesson.” She continued, “This past Sunday, Grandpa announced to us, ‘My dears, I am going to die this week. Will you please call Tommy Monson. He will know what to do.’”

I visited Brother Brems the very next evening. I had not seen him for a while. I could not speak to him, for he had lost his hearing. I could not write a message for him to read, because he had lost his sight. I was told that the family communicated with him by taking the finger of his right hand and then tracing on the palm of his left hand the name of the person visiting. Any message had to be conveyed in this same way. I followed the procedure by taking his finger and spelling T-O-M-M-Y M-O-N-S-O-N, the name by which he had always known me. Brother Brems became excited and, taking my hands, placed them on his head. I knew his desire was to receive a priesthood blessing. The driver who had taken me to the care center joined me as we placed our hands on the head of Brother Brems and provided the desired blessing. Afterward, tears streamed from his sightless eyes. He grasped our hands in gratitude. Although he had not heard the blessing we had given him, the Spirit was strong, and I believe he was inspired to know we had provided the blessing which he needed. This sweet man could no longer see. He could no longer hear. He was confined night and day to a small room in a care center. And yet the smile on his face and the words he spoke touched my heart. “Thank you,” he said. “My Heavenly Father has been so good to me.”

Within a week, just as Brother Brems had predicted, he passed away. Never did he dwell on what he was lacking; rather, he was always deeply grateful for his many blessings.

I had made the commitment to date only members of the Church when I was 12. But when I turned 16, the members I knew didn’t start calling. In fact, no boys started calling. I went through high school wishing for dates and not getting any. I didn’t even get asked to the prom. So when Mark told me he liked me and wanted to go out, I jumped at the chance. But Mark wasn’t a member of the Church. I rationalized breaking my promise, though, because he was the only boy who would ask me out.
Mark seemed perfect in almost every way. He was three years older than me and shared a house with two roommates. He was very cute, fun, and full of ambition. Mark was my dream come true, a singer and dancer working on a music career.
Mark lavished me with compliments, and he introduced me to his friends and family, who were all welcoming and fun. We started to see each other every day. I had explained my standards to Mark, and he said he understood and respected them—at least at first.
But after a while he started to push me to do more with him physically. I resisted but gradually started to give in. I liked him, and the feelings he stirred in me were very strong. We weren’t doing anything too bad, I rationalized.
I started staying out late at his house, and we would always have fun. But then when I would get home, I wouldn’t feel as good. There was something nagging me in the back of my mind, and it kept tugging at my spirit. I was uncomfortable with how physical I was getting with Mark. And though I tried to rationalize, I couldn’t hide from that feeling.
I decided I had to break up with Mark. I talked to him, and he listened to me, telling me I should do whatever I was comfortable with. He did, however, beg me to stay his friend. I agreed.
I thought things were resolved. But they weren’t. After a week hanging out as friends, we started kissing and my problems all started again. I tried to keep myself occupied with other friends, but Mark made me feel wanted and special.
Then Todd asked me to go on a date with him. He was a returned missionary I had met at a student ward. He took me to dinner and then to the local fun center. I have never had so much fun at an amusement park in my life. By the time the place closed, neither of us wanted the date to end, so he took me to get ice cream.
Todd was great. We talked and laughed the entire date. He had me back home by 11:30 and asked if we could go on another date sometime. I felt wonderful. I couldn’t believe how I felt compared to how I felt after a date with Mark. After the date with Todd I felt happy and good about myself. After a date with Mark I felt depressed.
My date with Todd made me realize I hadn’t been feeling the Spirit when I was with Mark. I didn’t expect to have great spiritual experiences while dating, but I had wanted to have the Spirit there to prompt me. I noticed that, because of what we were doing, the Holy Ghost left whenever I would go see Mark. Having a good time with Todd made me realize how much I yearned to feel the Spirit always.
So I again broke up with Mark. It wasn’t easy, but I did immediately feel as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I was used to spending lots of time with Mark, and I still liked him. But I knew I had made the right decision. I wanted to have the Holy Ghost’s presence when I dated, and I was willing to do whatever it took to keep that influence in my life.
Even though I was able to feel the Spirit more often, my life wasn’t suddenly perfect, and the dates didn’t start pouring in. I left for college out of state, and Todd and I were not able to go out any more. And the dates haven’t picked up much at college. But I have been able to feel the Holy Ghost more often, and I am no longer fighting my conscience. That is a wonderful feeling worth the sacrifice.
I have found there is an entirely different spirit when you follow the commandments and date “only those who have high standards, who respect your standards, and in whose company you can maintain the standards of the gospel of Jesus Christ” (For the Strength of Youth, 7). I still have many good friends who are not members of the Church, but I have realized I only want to date people who have the same beliefs and standards that I do. After all, dating is already so complicated. Why add to the confusion?

President Hinckley described what happens to the heart of every missionary who commits his or her life and work to the Lord when he talked about his own missionary experiences. It was early in his mission, and he was discouraged. The work was hard, and the people were not receptive. However, there came a time when discouragement turned to commitment. For him, the beginning was a letter from his father in which he read: “Dear Gordon, I have your letter. … I have only one suggestion: Forget yourself and go to work.” In describing what happened next, he said: “I got on my knees in that little bedroom … and made a pledge that I would try to give myself unto the Lord.

“The whole world changed. The fog lifted. The sun began to shine in my life. I had a new interest. I saw the beauty of this land. I saw the greatness of the people. … Everything that has happened to me since that’s been good I can trace to that decision made in that little house” (in Mike Cannon, “Missionary Theme Was Pervasive during Visit of President Hinckley,” Church News, Sept. 9, 1995, 4).
President Hinckley continued by saying: “You want to be happy? Forget yourself and get lost in this great cause, and bend your efforts to helping people” (in Church News, Sept. 9, 1995, 4).

A boy in my class at school lost his home in a fire. His family was left with nothing and had to live in a hotel room. I felt terrible when I heard about it, so I gathered some of my books and dolls to give to the boy’s four-year-old sister. My mom bought crayons, paper, stickers, and other things for the children. When they saw the gifts, they were very happy, and I never felt happier myself than I did right then. I am so glad to be able to help others as Jesus did, because making others happy makes me even happier.

Socks. They seem such a trivial thing that most of us don’t think about them—unless we run out before wash day! For people who are homeless, however, a clean pair of socks can provide badly needed warmth and protection.
Youth and leaders from the Hewwood Ward in the Bennion Utah East Stake, needed a service project. Their local homeless shelter needed socks. So the youth got to work soliciting donations of new and gently used socks.
“I was surprised how many people helped us,” says Laurel president Christie Ballard. “It was really neat to see the face of the lady at the homeless shelter when we presented our donation.
All together, the group donated 1,122 pairs of socks. Whew!
Administrators at the shelter were shocked and overwhelmed at the work performed by the youth.
“We’ve never received a gift of this size or quality before,” said one administrator.

Keeping the journal has changed Robbie in profound ways, like helping him recognize personal revelation in his life, but also in smaller, everyday ways, like helping him reach out to others at school. Another entry in his journal is a good example of how reading a specific passage in the Book of Mormon prompted Robbie to change his behavior. The entry reads:
“Beware of pride. I just started 4 Nephi today, and I need to be careful of pride. And I need to try to befriend more people and talk to more people in school.”
So Robbie decided to sit by people at lunch who didn’t have anyone to sit with. He also made it a point to meet new people at school each week. From this experience, Robbie learned that “when you forget yourself, you can make a big difference in people’s lives.”

The family looked confused. My missionary companion and I had been teaching them the first discussion, and they didn’t seem to understand about the Holy Ghost. We talked about the Spirit and about how they could know the Book of Mormon was true.

As I related this experience to this family we were teaching, the Spirit touched me and I knew the truth of what I was saying. Almost trembling, I testified, “The Lord knows me personally! He was watching over me that day, and He continues to watch over me today. He is aware of my individual needs. He knows you personally too, and He will answer your prayers as you pray with faith.”

I went home that evening, grateful for the knowledge I had gained. By relating my experience, I was blessed to understand the Lord’s love for me. Truly a testimony is found in the bearing of it.

I was 22 years old when I faced the hardest decision I would ever make. The little blue plus sign did not seem real. I wasn’t ready to tell my family; instead, I turned to a friend. She accompanied me to a health-care unit to confirm my fears. My friend, trying to help, brought up abortion as a way to resolve my situation. She said that it could be my forever secret and that this way, I wouldn’t have to tell my family or the father of the baby.
Later, alone in my room, I thought about what my friend had said. An overwhelming feeling came, and I realized that I could not take this baby’s life away.1 I had made a choice that had led to this pregnancy, and now I needed to give this baby life so she could make her own choices.
Somehow I mustered the courage to tell my mom the news. Though disappointed in my actions, she supported me through everything. I also reached out to the father, who brought up adoption as an option. I hadn’t thought about it before then. Various choices swirled in my thoughts as my mom and I went to one of my first ultrasounds. The image on the screen showed my baby waving. In that moment, I knew that I needed to do whatever was best for my child.
I had fallen away from God for a long time, and I didn’t know if I even believed in Him anymore. But after that ultrasound, I fell to my knees and prayed, “What do I do, Father?”
My answer came slowly and softly, but at one point I shared with my mom the impression I felt: “This baby doesn’t feel like mine.” I began to look into adoption and eventually realized that this was the answer. I had felt the promise of Doctrine and Covenants 112:10: “Be thou humble; and the Lord thy God shall lead thee by the hand, and give thee answer to thy prayers.”
I once again prayed with all my heart when it was time to meet the adoptive family. The meeting went well, but additional confirmation came when my dad, who had not been fully supportive of the adoption, asked the potential adoptive family if they could really love the baby as their own. The adoptive father answered with such a strong conviction: “We are all God’s children. It doesn’t matter how our children come to us; they are ours, and we love them.” That was when everyone, including my dad, felt that this was the right thing to do.
Everything seemed to just fall into place. Their family and mine have grown to be one big family. We celebrate birthdays and holidays together and gather for Sunday dinners. Following my repentance and the strengthening of my faith, I was able to see my daughter sealed to her parents and older sister in the temple. I have seen God’s love for me as He has helped me through my struggles, and I have seen His love for my daughter in placing her with her forever family.
Making the choice was not easy, but God has strengthened me. I know “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me” (Philippians 4:13).

I was born on a farm in Iowa, USA. When I was three, my parents traded some old windows and doors for two goats. The goats were so small. A woman brought them to my house in a dog crate. They were beautiful. I named the white, black, and red one Alice. My mom named the tan and black one Tawny.
Mom and Dad helped the woman load the doors and windows into her truck. She was going to turn them into artwork. I watched the goats nervously look around our yard. All of a sudden Alice took a running leap and jumped right over our pasture fence. Tawny looked from us to Alice and decided to leave too. She sprang over the fence like she could fly!
We tried to round them up by bribing them with sweet feed. But the two goats just trotted down the road. They disappeared into a cornfield. We were all scared that they wouldn’t be able to find their way back to their new home. I thought they would be lost in the hundreds of acres of corn that surrounded our house.
I told my mom that we should pray. We had read in the scriptures where Amulek said to “cry over the flocks of your fields” (Alma 34:25). I knew Heavenly Father was watching over our goats.
After I took a nap, I woke up and looked in our yard. Alice and Tawny were there. They had found their way back! I know Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers. Sometimes it’s even quickly and in the way we hope!

We live in an environment where there is much of litigation and conflict, of suing and countersuing. Even here the powers of healing may be invoked. As a young man I worked with Elder Stephen L. Richards, then of the Council of the Twelve. When he came into the First Presidency of the Church, he asked me to assist him with a very delicate and sensitive matter. It was fraught with most grave and serious consequences. After listening to him discuss it, I said, “President Richards, you don’t want me; you want a lawyer.” He said, “I am a lawyer. I don’t want to litigate this. I want to compose it.”
We directed our efforts to that end, and wonderful results followed. Money was saved, much of it. Embarrassment was avoided. The work was moved forward without fanfare or headlines. Wounds were closed. The healing powers of the Master, the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ, were invoked in a delicate and difficult situation to compose what otherwise could have become a catastrophe.

Are there any toads where you live? We have lots of them around our house. My dad works at a laboratory where they try to learn how to help farmers grow food better. Sometimes he takes my brothers and me on Saturday mornings out to see the fields he studies. There are long ditches that bring water to irrigate the crops, and sometimes they are full of tadpoles. We usually catch a few of them and bring them home with us. The first time we did this, we put them in an aquarium in our family room. They really liked it there—except for one thing. Our fighting fish bit off their tails and then ate them up!

Over the 2020 Christmas period I was given an opportunity to participate, as a service missionary, in Cardiff Stake’s ‘Help for Refugees’ projects.
Necessities were packed and prepared for approximately 150 refugees at the local centre. When delivering the packages, it was very heartwarming to see the reactions of those involved, as to what was being delivered to the centre and the sheer amount. There was even a box of cuddly bears for children.
I am grateful to have had the opportunity to work alongside so many caring and compassionate people. It was a joy, that couldn’t be found anywhere else, such as when young men are so happy to see nappies for their children, and to hear their expressions of thanks.

There’s something different about Kory Cecil, Melissa Hinson, and Stephanie Shaw of Davidson County, North Carolina. Everyone in town notices it. Could it be that they’re the only LDS girls in their high school?
They were nominated to be the representatives of the sophomore, junior, and senior classes, respectively, on the homecoming court. When they were presented to the public, the whole town got an earful of the girls’ church activities and positions, on the loud speaker. It prompted at least one friend to tell Melissa she wanted to hear more about the gospel.

It was the time of year for school to start, and I was feeling sad, so Ed took me down to the junkyard to cheer me up. He was sad, too, but for a different reason. He had to go to school and didn’t want to; I wanted to go and couldn’t. It didn’t seem fair to me at all. I thought my talking was coming along pretty good, but Mama said, “First time anyone says anything to you, you’ll get nervous and stutter. Then they’ll tease you and you’ll stutter worse and pretty soon you’ll hate school. I’ll get you some ABC’s to study at home, and if you work hard on talking plainly, you can go next year.”

All of a sudden I felt anxious for school to start so I could get on with my project for Grandma. Mama was glad I had something to keep me busy and helped me find plenty of scraps of heavy material to stitch together for the mattress. She was true to her promise about the ABC’s, too, and took me to the store the first day everyone else was back in school. She hesitated a little over the cost, and Mr. Younger said, “I have another set I can let you have for less because the box got lost when they were displayed in the window, and I had to put them into another box.”

Mama said that would be fine, and he climbed up his ladder to get the box off a high shelf. It had a picture of a beautiful lady in a wide-brimmed hat, and I liked it better than the proper box that only had a picture of the ABC’s that were already inside. The letters were printed in black on blue cards, and some of them had faded in the window, but that didn’t matter. Mr. Younger said there were four sets: lower and upper case in printing and cursive, with extras of the most-used letters.

“She can make words until the cows come home,” he said.

That’s exactly what I intended to do. I didn’t know what he meant by cursive and upper and lower case, but I knew right where I was going to hide the box in the loft so no one else would find it and lose any letters.

The days went fast while the others were at school. I made words with my cards the same as the ones in the nursery rhyme book and practiced copying the letters on a piece of blackboard I’d found at the junkyard. When I got tired of that I’d come down from the loft and sew on the quilt pieces until Caroline and Ed came home.

To make sure I could go to school the next year, I practiced talking while I sewed. I learned to say things like, “Peter Piper picked a peck of prickly, pickled peppers,” or “Bumpy rubber buggy bumpers.” Sometimes I could say them better than Ed.

Raúl and his family live in the small Paraguayan town of Piquete Cué. In the nearby town of Limpio, there is a beautiful LDS meetinghouse where a ward meets. But each Sunday, Raúl and his family pass the Limpio Ward meetinghouse on their two-hour bus ride to the town of Villa Hayes. There they attend a tiny branch that meets in a small rented house. Why don’t they go to the ward that is so much closer to their home?
“Because,” said Raúl’s father, Luciano, who works as an industrial engineer, “there are so few members in the Villa Hayes Branch that they really need us there.” Brother Aquino is first counselor in the branch presidency. Sister Aquino has been Relief Society president and now teaches a Primary class.
Raúl attends Primary and loves to learn more about the Book of Mormon. “I don’t know how to read it yet,” he said. “But my mamá and papá read it to me.”
Raúl often bears his testimony in sacrament meeting. He told the branch members recently that he’d had a headache, but when he prayed, it went away.
He also remembers the time his dad was seriously sick. Raúl’s mother thought he was going to die. She rode a bus to where the missionaries lived to ask them to give him a blessing. They weren’t home, so she left them a message. When they arrived several hours later, Raúl’s father was so sick that he could hardly talk. The missionaries gave him a blessing, and within half an hour, he was up and feeling much better.
“I really want my eighth birthday to come so I can be baptized,” Raúl said. “And I want to be a missionary.”
Raúl already is a missionary. “I know that the Book of Mormon and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are true,” he said. “I would tell the children all over the world to love everyone—especially the children in the streets who don’t have a home. They make me cry a lot. Be thankful to Heavenly Father and also to your parents. Love the Church, take the sacrament, and always pray.”
Then Raúl climbed up his favorite tree. From his leafy perch, he waved good-bye.

We are assembled here together in the shadow of one other story of hope and healing. In 1836, a young lady by the name of Mary Fielding joined the Church in Toronto, Canada with her brother and sister. They moved to Kirtland in 1837 to join the Saints. Her life was one of continuous trial and lasting faith. She married the prophet’s brother, Hyrum, and raised his young children after his first wife died in childbirth. She survived heartache, persecution, terrible illness, and fear for her life and the lives of her children during the months of Liberty Jail and as she fled from Missouri to Nauvoo. She endured the shock of the vicious murder of her husband in Carthage Jail. She tolerated ridicule and hardship as she traveled west with the Saints to the valley of the Great Salt Lake, a trip that established a legacy of healing that would transcend and bless future generations. Even cattle were healed from the precipice of death by her faith in God and trust in the restored priesthood even though some who held that priesthood contributed to her difficulties. She did the best she could to raise a son she shared with Hyrum, but who experienced unspeakable horror at the tender age of five years old when his father left this mortal existence. It wasn’t many years after arriving in Salt Lake that she finally succumbed to prolonged illness. Mary was taken home to her dear husband and to the Savior who gave her hope. The sacrifices of her consecrated life were now finished.