Gospel Story Finder

One of my haunting childhood memories begins with the howl of distant air-raid sirens that awaken me from sleep. Before long, another sound, the rattle and hum of propellers, gradually increases until it shakes the very air. Trained well by our mother, we children each grab our bag and run up the hill to a bomb shelter. As we hurry through the pitch-dark night, green and white flares drop from the sky to mark the targets for the bombers. Strangely enough, everyone calls these flares Christmas trees.
I am four years old, and I am a witness to a world at war.
Not far from where my family lived was the city of Dresden. Those who lived there witnessed perhaps a thousand times what I had seen. Massive firestorms, caused by thousands of tons of explosives, swept through Dresden, destroying more than 90 percent of the city and leaving little but rubble and ash in their wake.
In a very short time, the city once nicknamed the “Jewel Box” was no more. Erich Kästner, a German author, wrote of the destruction, “In a thousand years was her beauty built, in one night was it utterly destroyed.” During my childhood I could not imagine how the destruction of a war our own people had started could ever be overcome. The world around us appeared totally hopeless and without any future.
Last year I had the opportunity to return to Dresden. Seventy years after the war, it is, once again, a “Jewel Box” of a city. The ruins have been cleared, and the city is restored and even improved.
During my visit I saw the beautiful Lutheran church Frauenkirche, the Church of Our Lady. Originally built in the 1700s, it had been one of Dresden’s shining jewels, but the war reduced it to a pile of rubble. For many years it remained that way, until finally it was determined that the Frauenkirche would be rebuilt.
Stones from the destroyed church had been stored and cataloged and, when possible, were used in the reconstruction. Today you can see these fire-blackened stones pockmarking the outer walls. These “scars” are not only a reminder of the war history of this building but also a monument to hope—a magnificent symbol of man’s ability to create new life from ashes.
As I pondered the history of Dresden and marveled at the ingenuity and resolve of those who restored what had been so completely destroyed, I felt the sweet influence of the Holy Spirit. Surely, I thought, if man can take the ruins, rubble, and remains of a broken city and rebuild an awe-inspiring structure that rises toward the heavens, how much more capable is our Almighty Father to restore His children who have fallen, struggled, or become lost?

A lonely young Persian student was in Munich, struggling to find meaning to life in postwar Europe. He heard a knock at the door one day, and two Mormon missionaries stood before him. He was not the least interested in religion. The only thing that interested him about these two young men was their accent. He had mastered four languages, but English was not one of them.

He invited them in, but as soon as they began their discussion, he cautioned, “I don’t want to hear about God, nor how your religion got started. I only want to know one thing: what do you people do for one another?”

He waited as the elders exchanged glances. Finally, one of them said softly, “We love one another.”

Nothing the missionary could have said would have been more electrifying than this simple utterance, for the Holy Ghost immediately bore witness that these missionaries were true servants of the Lord. Shortly thereafter, he was baptized into the Church.

When he arrived at stake youth conference, Jade Meynders got out of the car, picked up his things, including his sleeping bag, and started walking down a dirt road cut through a thick forest. Those around him were dressed as if from a day long past—the girls in long dresses and bonnets, the boys in shirts with full sleeves and some in long-tailed coats, styles from 150 years ago.
As they walked, they noticed markers set up several yards apart with years painted on them. Each step took Jade back in time. “It really helped prepare my mind to comprehend and feel what was going to happen,” said Jade.
At the end of the road, the groups walked into a full-size replica of a pioneer town, complete with the Whitney store and the Grandin press, although those two businesses, significant in the history of the Church, were not originally in the same town. The Abbotsford British Columbia Stake was taking the youth back in time so they could witness several events from a variety of locations in Church history.
So when Jade and his friends entered the town, it really felt like they had stepped back in time to the 1830s.
The town was dressed with garlands and flowers. The teens, their leaders, and members of the stake who agreed to play the parts of prominent Church members in history gathered for a typical fair from pioneer times. The group played games, held competitions, and enjoyed entertainment. At the end of the day, the mayor gathered everyone together and organized them into families. Under the direction of their leaders, the “families” set up their camps in a nearby wood, which would be home for the next week.
“I finally understood what the early Saints lived through and how their testimonies were their only possessions that were certain,” said Alex Loewen. “It inspires me to keep a strong testimony and rely on the Lord like they did.”

Have you ever had a heart-wrenching question for God? Maybe a time when the gospel answers other people offered weren’t enough, or when usual sources of spiritual clarity—like scriptures and conference talks—were more confusing than helpful? I’ve experienced that before. Here’s what I learned from grappling with one long-held gospel question. I hope something in this story helps you in your quest for truth.
The root of my question had to do with God’s blessings. Matthew 7:7–8 says:
“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you:
“For every one that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.”
Here was my problem: It seems to me that God does not give us everything we ask for! Sometimes we put a lot of effort into something—almost as if we’re “knocking” as hard as we can—and rather than being met with an open door, we’re met with disappointment. How do we reconcile those mortal experiences with these prophetic words?
This question tasted especially bitter during the tougher seasons of life. Like when I experienced medical problems and hospital visits instead of the good health I prayed for. Or when I struggled with feelings of loneliness while watching friends and siblings find companionship. Even though I had plenty to be grateful for, questions about absent blessings remained heavy in my heart. Where was the simple “ask and receive” relationship the scriptures promised? During one period of time in particular, I felt especially betrayed by God. I found myself questioning if the scriptures were true, and if it was worth it to keep going to church and remain temple worthy.
I realized that I had a decision to make.
I would be lying if I said that I just decided to be faithful and that “gospel grit” alone got me through. The truth is that I was fortunate to have supportive friends and family members who encouraged my faith, even when they weren’t aware that I was struggling. I was lucky that my employment was a faith-tolerant atmosphere instead of a toxic one. And I was blessed with callings that helped me remain involved in my ward without being overwhelming. My heart aches for people who don’t have a similar combination of positive circumstances to help them get through periods of doubt. With all this help and a desire in my heart to understand the truth about God, I decided to remain active in the Church, even though it was painful at times.
Over time, I learned an important lesson: God had created me with two hands, each capable of holding something at the same time. Spiritually speaking, just because I had “picked up” a doubt or question in one hand didn’t mean that I had to let go of all the gospel truths I held in my other hand. It often felt like I was metaphorically holding on to the iron rod and pressing forward while dragging these questions behind me. But I didn’t really see an alternative. I didn’t want to ignore the questions I had, and I also couldn’t deny the spiritual truths I already knew. So, although it was exhausting, I found ways to honor both parts of my feelings.
For example, when Sunday Church meetings seemed incredibly draining, I decided to stay only long enough to take the sacrament, committing that I would always show up at least for that ordinance. When scripture study became a source of frustration, I decided to just read Psalms or other verses that were comforting to my soul. And please don’t get me wrong—I’m not suggesting that we adopt these as longtime habits or look for reasons to excuse ourselves from what prophets and apostles have recommended. But this allowed me, during that particular season, to remain close to God while exploring my questions with an open heart. The whole time, I pleaded in prayer for increased understanding.
Time passed. I got better at gripping the iron rod more tightly while holding my doubts more loosely. Church, scripture study, and prayer became easier to participate in once more. And eventually, a couple of specific life events helped lead me to the answer I was searching for.
The first event was an intense health challenge, including long periods where I struggled to digest meals, and food seemed like an enemy I was forced to live with each day. It was an extremely frustrating situation. Little did I know that this trial would help me recognize a precious truth. The second event that helped me discover my long-awaited answer was hearing a Church leader invite us to study the scriptures topically. As I thought about which topic to study, I felt impressed to study food in the scriptures.
As I used the Topical Guide to read every verse about food that I could find, I was led to Matthew 7—one of the chapters with the “ask and receive” promise that had always seemed so confusing. But this time, I was reading these verses with food and nutrition in mind. Verses 9–11 say:
“Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?
“Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?
“If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?”
I thought about how those verses describe God as a giver of nourishment. And then it dawned on me. All my life, I had read the “ask and receive” promise with a modern mindset. As I read about the child asking for a fish, I pictured my friend’s daughter begging for a pet puppy. But these verses aren’t talking about childish wants. They’re talking about essential nourishment—bread and fish, sources of food. These verses aren’t telling us that God will give us whatever we want and ask Him for. They are teaching us that God will give us whatever we need and ask Him for. He will always nourish His children, strengthening them enough to face the challenges that come their way.
After I made that connection, Matthew 7 finally fit in perfectly with my understanding of God and His plan of happiness. I have come to see that when the scriptures invite us to knock and promise that a door will be opened, the doorway they are talking about is not a magical portal to an easier life. Instead, it’s more like a doorway to a roadside soup kitchen, which will appear wherever we are along our mortal journey. If we enter that doorway, we will find the Bread of Life and Living Water, He who provided fish for His disciples and promises us an eventual land of milk and honey.
Years ago, Matthew 7 was a source of pain and confusion. But today, those same verses are a source of joy. Not only do they remind me of what I’ve learned about the nourishment that God and Jesus offer, they also remind me of what I’ve learned about grappling with gospel questions.
I still have unanswered gospel questions. And you know what? I bet I will throughout the rest of my life. But as I carry those questions, I will never give up holding on to what I know is true. I trust now more than ever that God will reveal His answers when we are prepared to receive them—either collectively as a Church or individually as His children. And most of all, I hope we can be compassionate to those around us who are struggling.
If you are struggling, don’t give up hope. Answers will come. One day, we will see all promises fulfilled. I look forward to the time described in Revelations 21:4, which says, “God shall wipe away all tears from [our] eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.”

Yvette gets up at 4:00 A.M. every day to study for school, which starts at 7:00 A.M.. Once, getting good grades seemed impossible to her. “When I used to study, I was never able to remember and understand the things I was studying,” she said. “When I had tests, I’d get very nervous and not remember anything. My father told me that before I study and before taking tests, I should pray. When I follow his advice, I always do better. Before I started praying about my studies, I was never one of the better students in my class, but now I’m in third or fourth place in the whole school.”

I’d always been proud to live in Peggy’s Cove. Then she came. Each evening I stood in my backyard among the jumbled boulders and lapping seawater, watching the fishing boats come home. “How’s our own Peggy today?” the fishermen called as they unloaded their baskets of lobsters. “Waiting for your dad, aye?”
Then the other Peggy arrived. I knew something was up when Mom came bustling in, grinning as if Dad had caught a record lobster. “You know that lady from Saskatchewan who bought the gift shop?” she exclaimed. “She has a daughter your age named Peggy!”
“Peg—!” My swallow felt as long as a giraffe’s.
“You should get acquainted. What fun it will be to have a pair of Peggys in town!”
“Peggy’s Cove isn’t big enough for two Peggys,” I muttered.
Still, I walked into the gift shop a few minutes later and found the new owner bending over a box of Peggy’s Cove sweatshirts. She looked up. “Oh, you must be the other Peggy I’ve been hearing about.”
“I’m the Peggy,” I replied.
As if on cue, the owner’s daughter emerged from the back room, carrying a box of Peggy’s Cove stationery. I grimaced. Wasn’t it bad enough having another Peggy in town? Did she have to be beautiful as well?
She smiled sweetly at me with perfect white teeth. “I’m glad to meet you,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if there would be anyone my age here. I’ve never lived in such a small town.”
“Well, you and your mother might push the population past eighty. That’s almost too big for me.”
“You wouldn’t want it to get too big,” she agreed. “It’s such a beautiful place.” She flipped her long black hair toward the window. “The ocean is really spectacular.”
“Oh, it isn’t usually this nice,” I said, flipping my stiff brown hair that hardly moved. “Often it’s terribly foggy and cold.”
She laughed. “Probably not as cold as Saskatchewan. Have you lived here all your life?”
“All my life.”
Her deep blue eyes opened wide with interest. “Have you ever been lobster fishing?”
My dull, sort-of-brown eyes narrowed in contempt. “Of course. My father’s a lobster fisherman.”
“Wow! I’ve never even seen a lobster.”
How revolting! I thought. How could anybody even think about moving to Peggy’s Cove to sell Peggy’s Cove sweatshirts and stationery and knickknacks and never have seen a lobster?
That afternoon I took some plain white stationery and sat on the massive granite rocks between the lighthouse and the cove. The thrashing Atlantic Ocean groaned with me. “The most awful thing has happened,” I wrote to my best friend, Melissa, who had moved to New Brunswick. I told her the whole sad story, then added, “P.S. The next thing I know, she’ll be taking your place next to me in the church choir.”
On the outside of the envelope I quickly scrawled Melissa’s address and my return address—Peggy, Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia. That was all I needed.
I mailed the letter inside the lighthouse. The redheaded lighthouse—that’s what I call it because of its red top and white body—is no longer an operating lighthouse. In the summer it serves as the Peggy’s Cove Post Office.
On Sunday I was walking to the little white church on the hill, when the other Peggy and her mother drove by, smiling and waving. “Here comes my next choir partner,” I grumbled. But she never showed up. I guess our church isn’t good enough for her, I thought.
When I saw her washing the gift shop window the next day, I tried to sidle past without being seen.
“Peggy,” she called, “I saw my first lobster the other day. They’re interesting creatures, aren’t they?”
“I suppose. I didn’t see you in church.”
“Our church is in Halifax. But it must be nice to walk. Our Primary’s going to have an activity day here at the cove sometime. You’re welcome to come.”
“Primary?”
“It’s like a children’s Sunday School.”
“Oh.” Another strange thing from Saskatchewan. “Our church is having its own picnic soon.”
“Sounds fun,” she said. “I’d love to come. When is it?”
“I’m not sure,” I hedged. “I’d better go. There’s a letter I need to mail.”
The lighthouse was crowded with tourists when I walked in. The postmistress glanced up quickly. “Oh, Peggy, there’s a package for you.”
I leaped across the granite rocks toward home. My birthday present from Melissa, at last! I was passing Dad’s dory before I noticed the front of the package. The handwriting didn’t look like Melissa’s. Suddenly I prickled in a cold shiver. It wasn’t to me! It was addressed to the other Peggy. I stiffened in hot anger. How dare another Peggy get mail at the Peggy’s Cove Post Office! Why hadn’t Melissa sent me a present?
I crawled into Dad’s dory and moped. Peggy of Saskatchewan didn’t deserve to get mail here. She had no right to even live in Peggy’s Cove. Suddenly I opened the latch of a lobster pot and stashed the package inside. I would give it to her when I was good and ready. Or maybe I wouldn’t give it to her at all. She would never miss it.
The next night at dinner, Dad announced, “I’ve decided to do something different tomorrow for the last day of lobster season. That new Peggy down at the gift shop has never had a chance to go lobstering.” He looked at me. “She’s a cute little thing, aye?”
I shoved more potatoes into my mouth. “I’ve never noticed.”
“Well, anyway, I thought I’d take both of you out with me.”
I almost choked on my potatoes. “I doubt that she’d want to go.”
When the other Peggy arrived at the boat early the next morning, her usual cheery “hi” sounded a bit shaky. Her eyes darted nervously. She’s not used to being around smelly lobster bait, I thought smugly.
But suddenly she was fumbling with her small red backpack. “I need to give you something. I opened it by accident and thought it was so beautiful that I almost kept it for myself.”
She withdrew a small package. I grabbed it. Inside was a beautiful necklace. “I was right!” I said triumphantly. “Melissa wouldn’t forget my birthday.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, hunching her shoulders and looking down. “I should have given it to you sooner.”
By the time the boat had chugged out of the cove, she seemed her usual self again. She was asking Dad a stream of questions. I was more nervous than a lobster in a seafood restaurant.
“See that string of purple and white buoys?” Dad shouted above the wind. “Those are mine. They have my own color pattern to mark where I’ve dropped my lobster pots. We’ll haul up the line and see how many lobsters we’ve caught. Then we’ll rebait the traps with herring and drop them again.”
“Sounds like fun,” Peggy said.
“It’s a lot of work,” I shouted, pacing the deck.
“Two lobsters in this pot,” Dad called, winding up the line on a pulley.
The other Peggy wasn’t a bit squeamish about handling the lobsters. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it. “Look at how many we’re getting!” she shouted.
Dad was hauling up another pot. “No lobsters in this one. Looks like the trap’s broken up pretty badly.” He quickly found another pot to replace it. Opening the wooden trap door to hang the bait bag, he stopped short. “What’s this?” he exclaimed.
Peggy peered curiously inside the pot. “It looks like a package. Oh, my, it’s my package.” She grabbed it out of the pot. “This is what I’ve been waiting for to give Mom on her birthday. How did it …”
I turned. “I’m sorry. I got it by mistake. I was going to give it to you.”
“Lobster pot and all?” Dad asked sternly. He was giving me his “we have some serious talking to do” look while she ripped open the package.
I stared over her shoulder. “A hymnbook?”
“Yes,” she said. “Mom loves to sing, and there’s one song in here she’s always asking me to sing to her.”
As Dad dropped another lobster pot overboard, the other Peggy began to sing:
“‘I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here,
Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear …’”*
Sounds like something those Saskatchewan people would make up, I thought, trying hard not to like it. But the truth was, I did.
She looked up at me. “Do you sing, Peggy?”
“Well, yes. In the church choir.”
“You must have a beautiful voice,” she said. “Will you sing it with me?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” But I was already humming the tune under my breath.
As it turned out, we not only sang the song while Dad lobstered, but we sang it for our church picnic, her Primary Activity Day, and several church and community functions in neighboring coves. We even sang it at the lobster festival. We were billed as the Peggys of Peggy’s Cove. I rather liked the sound of it.
She’s going to teach me more of her songs.

For most of my life, I’ve struggled with repentance. I knew it was important and that I should do it, but I didn’t fully understand it. And because it was something I didn’t do well, I felt discouraged whenever someone would emphasize its importance in a talk.
It got to the point where I even disliked hearing the word repentance because it reminded me of something I wasn’t doing. It seemed as though I was falling behind, and the longer this problem continued, the further behind I got.
Finally, I heard the following statement in general conference from then–Young Men General President Stephen W. Owen, and I began to think differently: “The joy of repentance is more than the joy of living a decent life. It’s the joy of forgiveness, of being clean again, and of drawing closer to God. Once you’ve experienced that joy, no lesser substitute will do.”1
Another general conference talk awakened in me a further desire to do better. President Russell M. Nelson said: “Whether you are diligently moving along the covenant path, have slipped or stepped from the covenant path, or can’t even see the path from where you are now, I plead with you to repent. Experience the strengthening power of daily repentance—of doing and being a little better each day.”2
As I did my best to follow this counsel, I found answers to concerns and gained a better understanding of the blessings of repentance. Yet I wondered what I still didn’t understand about repentance that was making it so hard.
As I prayed for help with repentance, I expressed to Heavenly Father that I truly wanted to change and was willing to change. I knew the Lord would help me. And indeed, He did help me change.
At first, sometimes the change wasn’t permanent and I needed to try again. But the efforts we make matter to the Lord. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “With the gift of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the strength of heaven to help us, we can improve, and the great thing about the gospel is we get credit for trying, even if we don’t always succeed.”4
Since gaining this understanding of repentance, I have felt more confident in my ability to follow this counsel given by President Nelson: “Nothing is more liberating, more ennobling, or more crucial to our individual progression than is a regular, daily focus on repentance. Repentance is not an event; it is a process. It is the key to happiness and peace of mind. When coupled with faith, repentance opens our access to the power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”5
When I made the decision to repent better, I had no idea it would have such a far-reaching and lasting influence on my life. The blessings that have come are real. I came to realize that the feelings of discouragement I had were from the enemy of my soul, who didn’t want me to repent. I also came to realize that I was not so much always falling behind through my failure to repent as I was sometimes simply forfeiting blessings I could have received if I’d made more of an effort to do the things I could be doing.
As I have continued to do my best to repent each day, I’ve felt God’s love and direction in ways I could have scarcely imagined before. I no longer feel weighed down by sin. I have come to recognize the privilege and blessing that repentance really is. I now understand what Brother Owen said: “Once you’ve experienced [the joy of repentance], no lesser substitute will do.”

From the first penny that I put in my mission savings jar, I knew I wanted to serve. I had saved money for 12 years when the announcement came that sisters could serve at age 19. Although I wasn’t sure if the time was right for me, the Lord answered my prayers, and I felt inspired to start my mission papers.
I wanted my mission call to be right for me and knew that being honest with my Church leaders, especially about my health, would be the only way to feel at peace. I have epilepsy, a condition that causes unpredictable seizures. Fortunately, my condition is completely controlled by medicine. Still, it was possible that my dependence on it could limit where I could be assigned to serve.
Imagine my surprise when I was called to serve in the Dominican Republic Santo Domingo East Mission! There was a problem though: I found out that my medication wasn’t available in the Dominican Republic. I was confused. Why would the Lord inspire Church leaders to send me somewhere that didn’t have my medication?
My family and I prayed together for an answer. I felt a strong conviction that the Lord really wanted me to serve in the Dominican Republic, so we went to work. My doctor wrote me an 18-month prescription, but our insurance would only pay for a year’s worth of medication, leaving us to pay for the last 6 months. As we moved forward with faith, we eventually found an affordable option.
When I was set apart, my stake president blessed me that my condition would not affect me during my mission—a promise that I can testify was fulfilled. Although I was stretched to my physical limits, I know that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, I was able to overcome the challenges I faced before and during my mission.

Sweat trickled down Randy’s back as he lugged the heavy wire cage onto the grass. “Boy, it’s hot for March, Honeybun, even for Georgia,” he said to the black-and-white rabbit. “You’ll be comfortable in the shade of this apricot tree, though, and you can munch some nice fresh grass while I’m at soccer practice.” Randy brought the hose and filled Honeybun’s dish with water.
“Isn’t that Jim’s rabbit?” Dad asked as he walked by pushing the lawn mower.
“Yes. I’m pet-sitting while he’s away this weekend. Honeybun’s going to win a blue ribbon for Jim at the county 4-H contest this summer,” Randy said. He petted the rabbit gently, stroking the soft fur on her flanks and lightly tickling her ears. She was happily chewing the long grass poking through the bottom of the cage as Randy left for soccer practice.
After practice, Randy went home with a friend and stayed until late in the afternoon. When he returned home, Dad was waiting for him in the front yard. “I just moved Jim’s rabbit back into the shade, Randy,” he said. “The sun had traveled to that side of the apricot tree long ago, and I’m afraid his rabbit was in the sun too long. She doesn’t look good.”
Randy ran to the backyard and crouched by the cage. Honeybun was lying on her side, panting. She stared at Randy listlessly. Every few minutes she struggled to get up, only to fall over again.
“Come on, Honeybun! Get up, girl!” Randy urged. He got some water from the hose and sprinkled the trembling form. Honeybun shuddered and lay still, barely breathing. “Oh, no,” Randy groaned.
Dad squatted down by the cage and shook his head.
Randy went into the house and lay on his bed. What if Honeybun died? How could he ever explain to Jim what had happened? He stared at the ceiling for a long time; tears began to slide down his cheeks.
Dad came to the door of Randy’s room. “I’m afraid that the rabbit’s dead, Son,” he said quietly. He put his arm around Randy’s shoulder, and together they went outside and buried Honeybun in the freshly plowed earth of the vegetable patch.
“Dad, would you tell Jim for me?” Randy asked. “I don’t think that I can do it.”
“You took the job, Randy. You’ll have to tell him.”
“Please, Dad,” Randy begged. “I just can’t face him. What if he’s mad? Maybe he won’t be my friend anymore.”
“It’s never easy to give someone bad news, Son, especially if it was your fault. But I think you need to tell Jim yourself.”
Randy turned away and got his bike and wheeled slowly out of the yard. He wanted to get away from everything, as far away as possible. As he rode, the breeze brushed back the hair on his forehead and dried the sweat on his neck. But it couldn’t blow away the terrible lump in his throat.
Randy slowed down as he passed the ice-cream store on Main Street. He dug into his pockets, but they were empty. Next door he saw Alec’s Pet Shop. Usually she had birds or kittens in the window. Randy’s eyes almost popped when he saw the new display. Several fat, sleek, black-and-white rabbits frolicked on artificial turf! A sign read: “Dutch Rabbits—$8.00.”
Randy began thinking, What if … ? Rabbits are rabbits, aren’t they? They don’t come when you call their name, or sleep on the end of your bed. Jim probably couldn’t tell the difference, and he could still win a blue ribbon.
Randy raced home and counted the money in his savings bank. There was the five-dollar bill that Grandma had given him for his last birthday, some quarters from his allowance, and a bunch of dimes, nickels, pennies. Altogether he had $9.49. Randy stuffed the money into his pocket and practically flew downtown on his bike. He felt sure that his troubles would soon be over.
“I’d like to see that big rabbit, the one over in the corner,” he told the shopkeeper. “Is it a male or a female?”
“That’s the only female,” he answered. “She’s a beauty.”
Randy tried to cuddle the rabbit, but quickly dropped it. “Ouch!” he cried. “This rabbit scratches!” The rabbit scooted across the floor and squeezed close to the wall. Randy took some pellets from an open bin and held out his hand. “Come here, Honeybun,” he called hopefully. The rabbit scrunched even closer to the wall and pressed her ears tightly against her body.
“She’s not very tame, is she?” Randy said aloud, thinking, She’s not at all like Jim’s Honeybun, who loved to eat from his hand and sit quietly in his arms to be stroked.
Randy and the shopkeeper finally cornered the big rabbit and got her back into the pen.
“Do you want to buy her?” the shopkeeper asked.
Sadly Randy shook his head. He knew that his wonderful idea wouldn’t work. This rabbit couldn’t replace Honeybun. He knew what he’d have to do. Telling Jim would be hard, maybe the hardest thing that he’d ever done, but it was the only thing to do. And he would offer the money to his friend so that Jim could decide whether or not to replace Honeybun. Randy climbed onto his bike and started home.

Conner was learning so many new, wonderful things, but he had a hard time understanding a key principle. “There’s just so many people,” he says. “How could God know everything about me?” So he asked the missionaries.
Sister Jin and her companion prayed to know how they could show Conner that Heavenly Father cares about him personally. Inspiration hit. Conner had recently shared with them how he felt homesick for China and missed his favorite Wuhan noodles.
The missionaries prayed, asking Heavenly Father to help them find these noodles. A couple hours before their next lesson with Conner, Sister Jin and her companion felt impressed to walk to an area they didn’t regularly visit. Not long after they got there they were approached by a Chinese family. It turned out they were from Wuhan, too!
Sister Jin told them about Conner and how he missed his homeland. The family went to their car, pulled out a bag full of Wuhan noodles, and asked Sister Jin to give them to Conner.
Later, during their lesson with Conner, Sister Jin told him, “Conner, Heavenly Father knows you and He loves you, and He even knows what your favorite food is.” Then she handed him the bag.
“When she gave me the bag of noodles, it was very special,” Conner says. “I really felt the Spirit and knew in that moment that God really knows me.”
Conner was soon baptized and sealed to his family in the Salt Lake Temple. “I have a great family. I don’t say that a lot in front of people, but it’s true—it’s always a party! I feel like I chose this family. I waited a long time for them. Everything is so good now.”

One day, 14-year-old Mosiah Cooper of Tokoroa, New Zealand, was a busy teachers quorum president. The next day, due to a diving accident, he was completely paralyzed—barely able to blink, and breathing only with the help of a machine. It was doubtful that he would live, but with the fasting and prayers of his fellow Scouts, ward, and family, Mosiah survived.
Not only has he survived, but thrived. He can get around on his own in an electric wheelchair. He studies, learns, and designs on a computer he operates by blowing into a special instrument attached to his head. Seminary is held in his house so he can easily attend.
Mosiah will always be grateful to those who have done so much to help him. Members of the community have cooperated to provide him and his family with special equipment for his special needs. He feels that his faith in God, and the faith of others, saved him and made his life as full as it is today.

The day school was out at the beginning of each summer, our family went to our ranch in Wyoming. It was there with my parents and brothers and sisters, and a few cousins mixed in, that I learned about family loyalty; love and concern; birth and death; that one must finish a job once it is started; and, to quote my father, “There are only two things important—the family and the Church.”
One year my father was waiting for us as we arrived. He said he had a big job for my brother Clay and me to do that summer. I was about twelve at the time, and my brother was two years older. Pointing to the field by the side of the house, my father said, “Do you see all of these lambs in that field? I’ll share the money we get for the ones you raise when we sell them in the fall.” Well, we were excited. Not only did we have a significant job to do, but we were going to be rich! There were a lot of lambs in that field—about 350 of them. And all we had to do was feed them.
However, there was one thing that my father hadn’t mentioned. None of the lambs had mothers. Just after shearing, there was a violent storm that chilled the newly shorn sheep. Dad lost a thousand ewes that year. The mothers of our lambs were among them.
To feed one or two baby animals is one thing, but to feed 350 is something else! It was hard. There was plenty of grass, but the lambs couldn’t eat the grass. They didn’t have teeth. They needed milk. So we made some long, V-shaped feeding troughs out of some boards. Then we got a great big tin washtub, ground up some grain, and added milk to make a thin mash. While my brother poured the mash into the troughs, I rounded up the lambs, herded them to the troughs, and said, “Eat!” Well, they just stood there looking at me. Although they were hungry and there was food in front of them, they still wouldn’t eat. No one had taught them to drink milk out of a trough. So I tried pushing them toward the troughs. Do you know what happens when you try to push sheep? They run the other way. And when you lose one, you could lose them all because others will follow. That’s the way with sheep.
We tried lining up the lambs along the troughs and pushing their noses down in the milk, hoping they’d get a taste and want some more. We tried wiggling our fingers in the milk to get them to suck on our fingers. Some of them would drink, but most of them ran away.
Many of the lambs were slowly starving to death. The only way we could be sure they were being fed was to pick them up in our arms, two at a time, and feed them like babies.
And then there were the coyotes. At night the coyotes would sit up on the hill, and they’d howl. The next morning we would see the results of their night’s work, and we would have two or three more lambs to bury. The coyotes would sneak up on the lambs, scatter the herd, and then pick out the ones they wanted and go after them. The first were those that were weak or separated from the flock. Often in the night when the coyotes came and the lambs were restless, my dad would take out his rifle and shoot in the air to scare them away. We felt secure when my dad was home because we knew our lambs were safe when he was there to watch over them.
Clay and I soon forgot about being rich. All we wanted to do was save our lambs. The hardest part was seeing them die. Every morning we would find five, seven, ten lambs that had died during the night. Some the coyotes got, and others starved to death surrounded by food they couldn’t or wouldn’t eat.
Part of our job was to gather up the dead lambs and help dispose of them. I got used to that, and it really wasn’t so bad until I named one of the lambs. It was an awkward little thing with a black spot on its nose. It was always under my feet, and it knew my voice. I loved my lamb. It was one I held in my arms and fed with a bottle like a baby.
One morning my lamb didn’t come when I called. I found it later that day under the willows by the creek. It was dead. With tears streaming down my face, I picked up my lamb and went to find my father. Looking up at him, I said, “Dad, isn’t there someone who can help us feed our lambs?”
After a long moment he said, “Jayne, once a long, long time ago, someone else said almost those same words. He said, ‘Feed my lambs. … Feed my sheep. … Feed my sheep.’” (John 21:15–17.) Dad put his arms around me and let me cry for a time, then went with me to bury my lamb.
It wasn’t until many years later that I fully realized the meaning of my father’s words. I was pondering the scripture in Moses that says, “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of [all mankind].” (Moses 1:39.) As I thought about the mission of the Savior, I remembered the summer of the lambs, and, for a few brief moments, I thought I could sense how the Savior must feel with so many lambs to feed, so many souls to save. And I knew in my heart that he needed my help.

When Church leaders told Jirí in 1988 that renewed effort on his part could change the government’s decision to grant the Church official recognition, he did not hesitate. Although he was putting at risk his family’s safety, his job, his freedom—possibly even his life—he said, “I will go! I will do it!” Embracing his wife, he said, “We will do whatever is needed. This is for the Lord, and his work is more important than our freedom or life.”

After Brother Snederfler submitted that request, the suspicion and persecution he and other Church members had endured for so long became even more severe. However, “the Saints continued in courage and faith,” says Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who, accompanied by Elder Hans B. Ringger of the Seventy, had made repeated requests over several years for formal recognition. Elder Nelson adds, “Ultimately, after periodic fasting and prayer and complete compliance with all requirements, that glorious announcement of recognition came. How I admire the Snederflers and all these stalwart members who endured so much interrogation and risk!” (Tambuli, May 1992, 14–15).

Over the next few years, Jirí renewed efforts to gain official recognition for the Church. And all active Church members in Czechoslovakia contributed their faith, fasting, and prayers. For two years, the Czechoslovak Saints had two monthly fast Sundays: they fasted on the first Sunday of each month, along with Church members worldwide—and they also fasted on the third Sunday of every month for freedom of religion.

During a visit with the Communist government’s secretariat of religious affairs in 1987, Elder Russell M. Nelson was informed that the official leader of the Church in Czechoslovakia—the Church’s official liaison with the government had to be a Czech citizen. Elder Nelson and Elder Hans B. Ringger called Jirí Snederfler to be that Czech leader.

Of course, Jirí was more than willing to accept the assignment; he had already made countless petitions to the government over the years and had been regarded as a troublemaker and an enemy of the state. Now, by the secretariat’s own decree, he—a Czech citizen—would officially represent the Church in the eyes of the Communist government.

When accompanied by Elder Nelson and Elder Ringger, Jirí was received kindly. But when he was invited to come alone to a meeting in December 1988, “the officials of the secretariat showed their true faces,” he says. “They tried to intimidate me into withdrawing the Church’s petition for official recognition. They even used threats, telling me what might happen to the Church members if we continued to pursue it.”

At that moment, Brother Snederfler fearlessly opened his mouth and expressed his outrage at the way the Church had been treated during the preceding four decades. “I lost my patience and told them they had only two alternatives in order to get rid of us: either grant us official recognition and permission to worship publicly—or eliminate, lock up, or kick all of us out. I knew I could have landed straight in jail for saying that! But surprisingly they started to treat me with courtesy. Perhaps they were afraid the Church would publish in the free world how the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia was illegally oppressing religiously inclined citizens. Be it as it may, I know I was under the protection of God.”

For the next year, Jirí found himself near the top of the secret police’s list of people dangerous to the state. “I had grown used to that for the past 40 years anyway,” he says. But although he was interrogated monthly by the secret police, he now also dealt monthly with the secretariat for religious affairs. He used those frequent opportunities “to let them get used to the idea that we would not withdraw our cause.” On 17 May 1989, he submitted a renewed official request for recognition. When he received no reply, he wrote letters of complaint and began making weekly visits to the secretariat.

Then came that remarkable day of 17 November 1989—the beginning of the nationwide “velvet revolution” against the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia. “That was a signal to us to intensify even more the pressure regarding our petition. The secretariat for religious affairs referred me to the ministry of culture, who referred me to the state department, who claimed not to be able to do anything without a decision of the cabinet. There was chaos. Nobody knew anything; nobody was responsible for anything. Then the secret police ceased to exist, the secretariat for religious affairs was eliminated, and the power of the Communists was broken.”

In January 1990, Brother Snederfler submitted the Church’s petition to the new administration’s minister of culture, who was overseeing the registration of churches and religious societies. After hearing Jirí’s account and reading the documents, the minister of culture “immediately wrote a petition recommending that the government grant the Church official recognition and permission for public activity as soon as possible. He wrote that the new government had a moral duty to rectify the injustice done to our Church by the Communist regime, which had ‘illegally and criminally abolished the activity thereof.’”

On 6 February 1990, Elder Russell M. Nelson, Elder Hans B. Ringger, and Brother Snederfler met with the vice chairman of the new government; that afternoon they retraced Elder John A. Widtsoe’s steps up Priests Hill near Karlstejn Castle, and Elder Nelson reaffirmed the dedication of Czechoslovakia for the preaching of the restored gospel.

On 21 February 1990, the new administration passed a resolution granting the Church’s request, effective 1 March 1990. The news was broadcast nationwide in newspapers and on radio and television. “Finally, 40 long years of struggle for official recognition and public activity in Czechoslovakia had come to an end!” says Brother Snederfler.

Consider the experience of Admiral Chester W. Nimitz. When he graduated as an ensign, he was given an old, decrepit destroyer as his first command. It was named the Decatur. It was all he could do to prepare the old destroyer for sailing and on one of its first voyages, Ensign Nimitz ran the ship aground. It resulted in an immediate court martial. Had Chester Nimitz not been the kind of man he was, that defeat could have ruined his career. But what did he do? He put that defeat behind him and went on to becoming the commanding admiral of the greatest sea force ever assembled in this world—the Pacific Fleet. He showed everyone that one defeat could not keep a good man down.

I swim on a winter swim team at the Lexington Aquatic Academy. Our team practices all winter and has weekend meets. Right at the beginning, I told my coach that I could compete in the meets that were held on Saturday but not those held on Sunday.
In March we had the last meet of the season, the Kentucky State Championship. The relay race was scheduled for Sunday. A couple of the team members who usually swim the relay were ruled ineligible. The coach asked my mom if I could swim just that one race on Sunday. Mom told him that it was my decision. When he asked me, I remembered something my dad had told me during a family home evening lesson. He had said that it is easier to decide how to handle a situation before you are actually faced with it. That way, when you have to make a decision, it will be easier to do the right thing. I had made the decision not to swim on Sunday before I joined my team. That made it easier for me to tell the coach that I couldn’t swim the relay.
I thought the coach would be mad at me. But at the end-of-the-year banquet, he presented me with a plaque engraved with the words “Christian Attitude Award—John Netherton 1999.” He told the team how proud he was of me for having standards and then sticking to them even when others tried to convince me to do something “just this once.” A couple of families called my mom to tell her about all the nice things that the coach had said about me. We weren’t at the banquet to hear him because it was on a Sunday! One mom even asked my mom where we went to church.
I am grateful for gospel standards and for the chance we have to be an example when we try to follow the teachings of Jesus.

There was Ted, for instance, who had been the great guilt-inflicter during those Halloween nights when we used to smash pumpkins just because we didn’t have anything better to do. “Sure, go ahead and destroy some kid’s pride and joy,” he’d object, as my braver friends and I left to tromp through the dark neighborhoods, hot on the trail of Mr. Jack-o’lantern. Ted’s unusual sensibility had always puzzled me. After all, I was nearly four months his senior, and I thought that kind of judgment belonged to older people who were married and had children of their own.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when Bryce, the bold one, let out a scream and jumped off the cliff. It wasn’t a graceful takeoff, but it got the job done. I watched him flip like a fish as he fell through the sky, and I heard the distant splash when he hit the water. “You’ve got to try it!” he yelled as he pulled himself into the boat. It was a direct challenge.
I looked around and found my three buddies smiling at me. My stomach went sour. It was then I realized that jumping from a 90-foot cliff wasn’t such a hot idea. But how could I pull out now? They’d never let me live it down.
Just when I was about to jump, I was interrupted by Kelly, who barked out an obscenity and took off. We never saw him hit the water, but heard him crying as the others pulled him into the boat.’ His knees had slammed together upon impact, and he would be in a cast for the rest of the summer, following surgery on both knees.
The three of us who remained were now scared to death, but we wouldn’t admit it. I remember thinking about my acceptance to BYU, and about my plans to serve a mission after my freshman year. For the first time that day, I began to think of the consequences of making the jump. What if I became seriously injured? Was impressing my friends really that important?
“Fifty percent chance you make it and fifty percent chance you get hurt,” Bryce impatiently yelled at me from below. That was comforting.
I slowly walked back from the edge, then raced toward it, lifting my body off the ground as I soared into the warm sky. I looked immediately down and found the water racing toward me. I waved my arms to maintain balance.
My entry into the water was like an explosion, and I heard my back snap. As I sank through the water, I became aware that I couldn’t move my body. I felt as though my lungs would explode as I slowly floated to the surface, only to hear my friends laughing at the expression on my face.
Ted was the first to realize I was in pain, and he told the others to stop laughing as I was pulled into the boat. I mentioned something about the pain in my back as they laid me down next to the already-injured Kelly, and I was soon whimpering right along with him.
Kelly and I watched in bewilderment as the remaining two contemplated their own jumps. Despite unfavorable odds, each of them made the leap—successfully.
Since no doctors were within 100 miles of us, I decided to finish the trip with my friends. I lay in a tent for two days, shocked at my stupidity. I was only 18, yet I had risked my life for the sake of “entertainment.”
The doctor who examined my back said I had a compression-fracture which would cause arthritis throughout my life, but I still considered myself very lucky.
For nearly four years I had wandered carelessly through a world of smashed pumpkins and crazy dives. I hadn’t stopped to consider what effect my actions were having on other people, or on myself. I had been a thrill seeker who never had to face the consequences until that fateful day when I’d almost given my life just to impress my friends. It took a crash through Lake Powell’s waters to plunge me from my fantasy world into a world of reality and responsibility.

After they interviewed and baptised six people at the first branch, Elder Toa and Elder Nalin headed to Saetsiwi, an isolated area tucked high in the mountains. They had no way to contact the Saetsiwi Branch president but knew he was expecting them at some point, so the missionaries drove their truck as far as they could then continue on foot for the remaining 3-hour trek. When they finally arrived, the branch president was nowhere to be found. The elders had hiked all that way in vain.
Then the big rain fell. Everyone in Saetsiwi knows that when it starts to rain hard, getting off the mountain is treacherous. Elder Toa and Elder Nalin rushed back to their truck, knowing every second counted before the local rivers swelled and became impassable. They made it to the truck in time to drive through the first and second rivers, but they knew the third river would be a challenge.
Sure enough, their truck got stuck partway. They tried to push it—no luck. They called the district president, and soon help arrived, but the truck still wouldn’t move. The river rose and flowed so swiftly that the helpers had to get out and move to safety. Then, Elder Nalin spotted something else that worried him. He saw that the waters in next river over—which converged with this river—had become torrential and threatened to break through.
In his mind, it seemed to Elder Nalin that an invisible force was holding that third river back, as though buying time for them—but he knew it wouldn’t be for long. The torrent was racing.
Elder Toa and Elder Nalin are examples of the finest possible young men from Vanuatu—responsible and excellent in every way. To them, a truck is of almost incomprehensible expense, especially in a country where families can barely afford to educate their children, much less buy a vehicle. The elders were determined to preserve the Church’s truck at all costs, but now the water was up to its door handles. They called their mission president and asked, “What should we do?”
President Messick’s response was: “Thank you for calling. Now get out of the truck and save yourselves. I don’t care about the truck; I care about you.”
As they rushed out of the truck, Elder Toa climbed into the back seat to grab their scriptures and the 114 interview papers they needed for the baptisms. He couldn’t see them anywhere. Then a voice yelled, “The water is coming! Get out of the truck!” and Elder Toa slipped out of the back door just as the truck was swept downstream.
As soon as the elders realised that their scriptures and the 114 interview papers were still in the truck—which was now well out of sight—they used the power of the priesthood and commanded the truck to protect their precious documents. “That’s what you can do with the priesthood,” the young men said later, with absolute confidence. “You can command.”
Elder Toa and Elder Nalin managed to pull themselves out to safety, and there by the side of the river, they knelt and prayed. As they prayed that the truck would be safe and that their scriptures and interview papers would stay dry, the missionaries felt a peaceful assurance that all would be fine. Then they walked the rest of the way off the mountain.
The next day, the elders received a call from the district president. Saetsiwi’s branch president had found their truck, 250 meters downstream. When the Elders arrived to retrieve it, they discovered not a dent or a scratch on the body of the vehicle, despite its journey in the river, past trees, rocks, and debris.
The inside of the truck wasn’t so fortunate. It was drenched. The engine suffered electrical damage, and everything in the cab—pamphlets, manuals, books—was soaked beyond repair, except for the Elders’ scriptures and the 114 interview papers. These sat in plain sight above everything else, completely dry.
While the truck was being repaired, Elder Toa and Elder Nalin resumed their tour on foot. At their next stop, they interviewed and baptised 48 candidates before continuing right across Tanna Island. “When you get tired of walking,” one of them told a fellow missionary, “You walk with your heart.”
Their hearts and a priesthood miracle helped these faithful elders reach and bring all 114 candidates safely into the Church of Jesus Christ.

Several years ago there were three young American sailors stationed aboard a ship somewhere between Hawaii and Japan. Observing the beautiful deep blue sky above the sun-drenched Pacific Ocean, the three of them simultaneously concluded that this would be a wonderful opportunity to acquire a world-class suntan. After all, there was not a cloud in the sky and there was absolutely no pollution to block the sun’s ultraviolet rays.
They located some nice soft bath towels and staked out a place on the upper deck where the sun’s rays would be unobstructed. They remembered some good counsel from someone who had told them that in order to get the best results, you should turn over every few minutes like a grilled chicken on a turning spit. If you lay on your back a few minutes and then on your stomach a few minutes, you avoid the peril of becoming severely sunburned. The counsel was good, but it applies best when you don’t stay out too long, especially the very first day. Well, “boys will be boys,” and these young teenage sailors fell asleep during the rotation process as the warm summer sun slowly turned their skin from pasty pink to bright red.
When they awakened, they began to sense they were in real trouble. Their skin had been so badly sunburned it hurt to put on their shirts, it hurt to move, and it even hurt to breathe. With considerable difficulty they made their way to the lower deck to visit the ship’s physician. He gave them some anesthetic ointment which provided a degree of temporary relief from their pain. He suggested that they might be suffering from first-degree burns in a few areas and that they should probably stay in bed for a few days.
These three medium well-done musketeers proceeded to a captain’s quarters to report their plight and to request a few days sick leave as recommended by the doctor. They had anticipated some sympathy from the captain, but his reply was totally unexpected. With considerable agitation he said: “Your request for sick leave is denied. When you signed up for the U.S. Navy you agreed to keep yourselves in good physical condition, to be combat ready at all times. You are now the property of the U.S. Navy. If we had an emergency aboard ship, none of you would be in a position to help. Instead of giving you three days sick leave, I sentence you to three days in the brig for misuse and abuse of government property.”

I chose a place in the hills on the moors called Saddleworth Dovestones, where I would not be disturbed. I took my lunch, scriptures, and my journal and headed out, climbing to the top to offer the desires of my heart to my Father in Heaven. As I prayed, I listened very carefully for an answer, maybe a peaceful feeling or a burning in my bosom, but I felt nothing.
As I walked back, I noticed a series of rocks on the ground carefully placed to spell out the words “Truth Will Prevail.” “Curious,” I thought, but nothing more. However, when I told my mother, she said simply, “That’s your answer.”

The reality of the virus hit me even more when my little family came down with flu-like symptoms. I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s just the seasonal flu that usually goes around,” but we ended up getting tested as a precautionary measure. Our results came back positive: my husband, my 18-month-old daughter, and I all had COVID-19.
The news of our positive results affected us mentally, especially for my husband and me. It felt like our symptoms grew worse and that our recovery took longer the more we dwelled on the fact that we were infected with coronavirus. Focusing on our sickness built up more fear, which crippled us mentally, emotionally and spiritually—we had no room for faith. After two weeks of being down with the virus, we realized that we weren’t showing faith in Jesus Christ because we let fear in the way by focusing on being sick. So, to counteract that, we started shifting our focus to the Saviour and the power that comes from acting on our faith in Him.
The minute we chose to have faith in Jesus Christ and to act on it, our mentality and attitude began to change, and our actions started to align with our faith. We prayed with real intent and kept expressing in our prayers that we have faith in Jesus Christ and in His ability to heal us physically. We started reading more of the scriptures and quoting scripture around the house and to each other.
We started to be a lot more optimistic, and we continued to build on hope. We didn’t feel any more fear or worry. We were happier around the house and enjoyed each other’s company. When we really started to show our faith in Jesus Christ by doing these things, we noticed that our recovery started to pick up and we were able to fully recover shortly after.