Gospel Story Finder

My interest in the Church had been sparked the winter before, and with the help of a friend, I began receiving the missionary discussions at her home.
After my fifth discussion with the missionaries, I went to church. That Sunday was fast Sunday, and during the testimony meeting I had an overwhelming feeling of peace and warmth. I had never felt so much love in one room. That day, my testimony of the Church started to grow.
A few weeks later, I went to my first Mutual activity. The people there were so welcoming, and their actions set them apart from the other kids I knew at school. It was a fun activity that added to my fledgling testimony.
I had started to feel like I was on my way to building a strong gospel foundation, but my aunt’s visit really shook me up. Since I had promised to read her book, I did. I decided that reading the book couldn’t do much harm. Boy, was I wrong.
After reading the book I was confused and sad and didn’t know where to turn. To make matters worse, a friend of mine encouraged me to read more material that was critical of the Church. I found that much of the literature had little or nothing to do with the Church, and little of it made any sense. Now I had more questions than ever.
In search of some answers, my friend and I went to the temple visitor’s center. Two missionaries showed us videos and bore their testimonies. I asked them all the questions I had about the books I had read. The missionaries answered every single one.
Shortly after my experience on the temple grounds, I received my first priesthood blessing. The special feeling I had experienced in my first testimony meeting returned. I was awestruck by the power of the Spirit.
Finally, it seemed everything was getting back on track, except for one thing. My mom was trying hard to talk me out of going to seminary. Although it was difficult, I stood my ground. Seminary is important to me.
I can now relate to the pioneers who traveled across the country to Utah so they could practice their religion. I used to think, “Why would anyone give up that much just for a religion?” Now I know.
I know the Church is true, and I have been able to build my testimony ten times stronger through prayer and studying the scriptures.
Because of this trial of my faith, I have learned not to take the valuable messages of the gospel for granted. I can’t be baptized until I’m 18, and even though three years seems a long time to wait, I am happy to have the time to prepare. I cannot deny the feelings that the Church and the scriptures give me, and I cannot deny what I almost lost forever—my testimony of the gospel.

As a mission president, my husband talked to one missionary who was really depressed and struggling. My husband felt impressed to ask him, “So, Elder, what did you have for breakfast?”

“Ice cream.”

“What did you have for lunch?”

“French fries.”

“What did you have for dinner?”

“French fries and ice cream.”

“How long have you been eating just French fries and ice cream?”

“About a month.”

“Here’s your assignment: go home and eat something green—but not mint ice cream.”

“My husband believes that family home evening is a great time to train children to be leaders. He always has one of our children conduct. One of them will assign the prayers and choose the hymns. At the conclusion, the one conducting thanks all those who participated. Usually the person who gave the lesson is sincerely complimented. Then the closing song is announced and the name of the one to give the closing prayer.
“One morning the children’s father had to leave at 5 A.M. for an early meeting at the Church offices. Later he called when the children were just getting up and we all had family prayer with him on the telephone.”

In 1888 the Relief Society and the young women’s organizations of the Church became charter members of the National Council of Women and of the International Council. These two organizations were established primarily to promote women’s suffrage and to improve the lot of women and children everywhere.
During those years our delegates had their good days and their bad, depending upon circumstances, the leadership, and their attitude toward the Mormons.
In April of 1945 Belle Smith Spafford became the president of the Relief Society. Only a week or two after she had been sustained a letter came from the National Council of Women, announcing their annual meeting to be held in New York City.
Sister Spafford had attended those meetings before, and in view of her previous experience, she and her counselors carefully considered the invitation for several weeks.
They decided to recommend to the President of the Church that the Relief Society terminate its membership in those councils. They prepared a statement of recommendation, listing all of the reasons for so doing.
Trembling and uncertain, Sister Spafford placed the paper on the desk of President George Albert Smith, saying, “The Relief Society Presidency wishes to recommend that the General Board terminate its membership in the National Council and in the International Council of Women, for the reasons listed on this paper.”
President Smith carefully read the paper. Had they not held membership for well over half a century? he inquired.
Sister Spafford explained how costly it was to go to New York, the time it took, and described the humiliation they occasionally experienced. She recommended that they withdraw because “we don’t get a thing from these councils.”
This wise, old prophet tipped back in his chair and looked at her with a disturbed expression. “You want to withdraw because you don’t get anything out of it?” he questioned.
“That is our feeling,” she replied.
“Tell me,” he said, “what is it that you are putting into it?
“Sister Spafford,” he continued, “you surprise me. Do you always think in terms of what you get? Don’t you think also in terms of what you have to give?”
He returned that paper to her and extended his hand. With considerable firmness he said, “You continue your membership in these councils and make your influence felt.”
And so they did! Sister Spafford took the gentle correction from that wise prophet, and the day came that she was president of that organization.

One hot summer day the circus pulled into a lot where there was no dust for the elephants to throw onto their backs to rid themselves of the flies that tormented them. Old Mom spied a gunnysack. Picking it up, she waved it around, and the flies flew away. Squealing with delight, Old Mom shimmied and swatted. Suddenly a young bull snatched the gunnysack from her. When Old Mom smacked him on the nose and he dropped it, a punk grabbed the treasure. Soon the sack was flying back and forth like a football. Fred heard the commotion and came running. He yelled for a boy to get each elephant a gunnysack. Within minutes the entire herd was squealing and swatting contentedly. Not one would give up his prize. Imagine the surprise of the circus crowd that night when Old Mom led the elephants into the ring, waving their limp brown flyswatters!

Would you ever believe that the quiet, grandmotherly lady in your ward first kissed a boy on a dare? Or that the smiling, old grandpa who’s been in your ward forever once drove his car into the side of a barn because he forgot that he had to hit the brakes instead of yell “Whoa”?
It’s probably difficult to imagine that the seniors in your ward ever did such crazy things—especially when the only thing you know about them is what bench they usually sit on during sacrament meeting. But that’s not the case for the youth in the Dalton Gardens Ward, Coeur d‘Alene Idaho Stake. They know all about the lives of the ward’s elderly members. Of course, it hasn’t always been that way. It wasn’t until their ward’s “Family History Can Be Fun” night that they began to learn about the older people’s lives.
But ever since then, their hearts have been turning—not only toward their ward’s seniors, but also toward their ancestors and toward each other.
All this turning began when the Dalton Gardens Ward youth took Malachi’s prophecy to heart and became excited about family history work (see Mal. 4:5–6).
They did this by filling out pedigree charts, having classes on the importance of genealogy, visiting with their ward’s senior citizens, and organizing a ward activity in which they acted out episodes from the lives of the grandparents in their ward family.
And what’s been the outcome of all this excitement? For one thing, the ward’s generation gap has narrowed.
“Now when you go to church, you see a lot of the young people going up to the older people in the ward and saying hi and maybe walking them to class,” says Russell Isaacson, a 16-year-old priest. “Before we might have just walked by them because we didn’t really know them at all, but now we see them as our friends.”
Desiree Wallace, 15, interviewed Virginia Gjevres about her life. Desiree found out about Virginia’s first teddy bear and her longing for a dog. And she learned that while Virginia was growing up she was so accident prone that everyone called her Calamity Jane.
“I didn’t really know Sister Gjevres before I interviewed her. I had only seen her at church. But now I just have this love for her, and I want to adopt her as my grandma,” says Desiree, who doesn’t have any grandparents living nearby.
As connections were made between the youth and the elderly in the ward family, it caused some to reflect on the importance of forming eternal connections with their own ancestors.
“The grandparents just really seemed enthusiastic about us getting to know them better. They looked so happy,” says Cassie Gatten, 15. “So it made me realize that when we do genealogy work for our ancestors who have died that they’re probably really happy about that too.”
Interviewing the grandparents about their lives, writing the scripts, finding costumes, and then having rehearsals to make sure everything was just right took a lot of time. But the youth said the time spent was worth it when they saw everything and everyone come together on the night of the activity.
“Sometimes I didn’t really feel like it was worth all the time it took to put this activity together. But then when I saw the final night and the looks on the faces of the elderly as they watched incidents from their lives acted out before them and as they realized that the youth in the ward care about who they are, it all seemed worth it,” Cassie says. “It also made me want to live my life in a way so that if someone were to write a play about me when I am old I wouldn’t be embarrassed by it.”
After acting out scenes from Reny Sampert’s life, Kim Pearson, a 17-year-old Laurel, and her group sang Reny’s favorite song, “O My Father.”
“When we were singing ‘O My Father,’ Reny got tears in her eyes, and you could tell she was really touched,” Kim says.
“This activity brought us so much closer to the older people,” says Amber Isaacson, 15. “A lot of people in the ward are related, but there are families like mine who are not, so it’s just really neat to get to know them like the relatives do.”
Even though Amber and her brother Russell don’t have any relatives in the ward, in doing this activity Russell has realized how much some of the ward’s grandparents have contributed to his life.
“Talking with the elderly in our ward helped me to understand that they are actually a part of me because they helped form the Church here in Coeur d‘Alene. And just to look at it today and see how I’m involved and see the key part they have played in my life makes me grateful that I was able to get to know them better,” Russell explains.
Learning about the grandparents in the ward has also given Russell some understanding about the effects that trials can have in a person’s life.
“Talking with Frances Young and learning about the different trials she went through in her life helps me to see how things like that have made her the great person she is today,” Russell says. “It’s just interesting how different experiences can mold a person.”
Cassie says she learned a lot of new things about the people she interviewed too, even though they were her own grandparents.
“A lot of what I learned about them was a surprise to me,” she says. “But in learning about their youth, I realized where some of their characteristics came from.”
Cassie has also learned that it is only by understanding her heritage that she is able to understand herself.
“It made me really want to figure out where I came from,” she says. “We’re made up of all these people and we don’t even know what they are, so how can we know what we are?”
Whether they learned more about themselves, about their ancestors, or about the seniors in their ward, one thing is certain for the youth in the Dalton Gardens Ward—their hearts have been turned.
“Doing this brought us so much closer to the elderly,” Amber says. “The older people were excited to share their lives with the youth, and we were excited to know about their lives. Everyone wanted to do a really good job with the skits because they had become such good friends with the elderly that they wanted their skit to be the best.”
Everyone in the ward took part in the activity. The Primary children sang, the Relief Society prepared food, the youth performed, and the older members brought their heirlooms to put on display.
A few hours before the activity started, all of the heirlooms were dropped off at the church, making several large piles of mismatched items. By the time everyone arrived, just a few hours later, the piles of items from various families had been organized into an old-fashioned bedroom, kitchen, and living room. All the mismatched items had come together to form a perfect display. And this is the way the activity affected the Dalton Gardens Ward. There was a group of people—some old, some young, some related, some not—that have now come together so well that no one would know they weren’t all from the same family.

Today is one of those days when getting out of bed is nothing but a trial. Six o’clock is just too early for any sane soul to be up. Even the birds aren’t yet awake! And besides, it’s Sunday—a day when I should be resting from my labors. But I have to go to work, and needless to say, I’m not thrilled. But I’ll go, grudgingly. Just let me sleep ten more minutes.
My name is Jana, and that is the attitude I had on that certain Sunday morning. Even though I love my work as a nurse at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City, I just wasn’t in the mood to be there.
I staggered into the hospital promptly at 7:05; I was supposed to arrive at 7:00. Seeing the time on the clock in the hall, I panicked and pushed the elevator button several times, only to see that the elevator was on the fifth floor and not coming down. No time to waste. I ran up the six flights of stairs. By the time I reached the top, I was exhausted—huffing and puffing, my heart pounding in my ears in rebellion against the sudden exertion. I was relieved to know that I was in a hospital and if I had a heart attack, someone could save me.
I dragged myself down the hall, passing the clerk who looked up from her work and said without emotion, “They’ve started without you.” I smiled and stumbled into the report room where all the other nurses were gathered, none of whom glanced up at me. And even if they had done so, it wouldn’t have mattered. I was still alive, and that was all I cared about.
In the meeting I received a list of patients to care for and instructions for the day. Several patients were assigned to me, each with special problems and needs. I had baths to give, bed linens to change, equipment to monitor, temperatures to check, food trays to deliver, charting to do, medications to administer, bandages to change, tubing to check, sore muscles to rub, and to top it all off, doctors to please. I had no choice but to dig right in. Unfortunately, the work was not going to get done by itself.
In the midst of all the hubbub, a voice came over the intercom, “Any patient who would like to go to church, please notify your nurse.” Oh yes, I had almost forgotten; it was Sunday. I asked each of my patients if they wanted to attend the short half-hour meeting. No one seemed interested; most were too ill or too tired. That was how I felt too. Only one little lady, Mrs. Whitmer, an arthritis and bone cancer patient, answered my question with a quiet yes. This dear woman—who was confined to bed and in pain with every movement, every touch—desired to attend the meeting.
I requested that Mrs. Whitmer be wheeled to church in her bed. Then without delay, I hurriedly prepared her for the trip, combing her hair, washing her face, and changing her gown and bed linen. She grimaced with pain at every move, but she never uttered a word of complaint. No sooner had I finished sprucing her up than the brethren came for her, and off she went. I turned my attention to other patients without giving her another thought.
The day progressed, and finally my shift was over. I could relax! Before leaving duty I checked once more on the patients who had been under my care. Mrs. Whitmer had long since returned from church and was resting calmly—and so was everyone else, thank goodness. As quickly as I had sprinted to work that morning, I sprinted back to my apartment, ending another working day.
A few days later when I was working the evening shift, just as I was ready to sign off, the call light went on in room 4. “Oh boy,” I thought. “Why do they wait until I’m ready to leave before they call for me?” But I really didn’t mind. I went down the hall and groped my way through the darkness to the patient’s bedside. It was Mrs. Whitmer.
“Jana?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
She reached out and gently took my hand. In a quiet, quivering voice she said, “I just wanted to thank you for helping me get to church last Sunday. I haven’t been for awhile because I’ve been so ill, and you’ll never know how much it meant to me that day to go. When I partook of the sacrament …” There was a long pause; then in trembling words she continued: “I felt God’s Spirit, and I just knew that Christ is my Savior.” And with that she began to cry. I realized that I too was shedding some tears. This beautiful woman, as weak as she was, was stronger than I had ever been. She had a glowing testimony.
I couldn’t help but recall the times when I had only gone to church out of habit, never partaking of the Spirit, though I always partook of the bread and water. I also recalled the Sunday when I prepared Mrs. Whitmer for church and how hurriedly I had done so, as if it were a burden on me. Never would I feel that way again.
The two of us cried together that night, only for a few minutes, but it was long enough to share our souls. No other words were spoken; none needed to be. The tears and the touch of our hands had said it all.
I no longer live in Salt Lake, and I don’t know what happened to Mrs. Whitmer, but I’ll never forget her and her radiant testimony of Christ.

In 2014, while serving a full-time mission, our family experienced an unexpected turn of events. When riding down a steep hill on a longboard, our youngest son fell and sustained a life-threatening injury to his brain. As his situation deteriorated, medical personnel rushed him into emergency surgery.
Our family knelt on the floor of an otherwise empty hospital room, and we poured our hearts out to God. In the midst of this confusing and painful moment, we were filled with our Heavenly Father’s love and peace.
We did not know what the future held or if we would see our son alive again. We did know very clearly that his life was in God’s hands and the results, from an eternal perspective, would work out for his and our good. Through the gift of the Spirit, we were fully prepared to accept any outcome.
It was not easy! The accident resulted in a two-month hospital stay while we were presiding over 400 full-time missionaries. Our son experienced a significant loss of memory. His recovery included long and difficult physical, speech, and occupational therapy sessions. Challenges remain, but over time we have witnessed a miracle.

Two hours after Jay arrived, I knew I didn’t like my cousin. Two days after he arrived, I didn’t like myself. I knew that this would be my worst Christmas ever, and I began fervently wishing for it to be over with and for Jay to be gone. More than anything, I thought about how ashamed of me my father would be if he found out that I was a weakling who couldn’t stop somebody from rubbing my nose in the dirt.
A month ago Aunt Edith had written that she and Uncle Harley and Jay were coming to spend Christmas with us. On the day they were to arrive, we waited expectantly on the porch as we watched a moving cloud of dust appear far down the road. Soon a shiny green car pulled up in front of the gate.
“A brand new Studebaker!” my father said, wonderment in his voice. Since the drought and the dust storms and the depression had started, we had seen little that was new, much less a new car.
During the handshakes and hugs, I noticed that Jay was almost as big as Uncle Harley, although my cousin had just turned twelve, not quite a year older than I was.
“Jay’s the biggest boy in his grade,” Aunt Edith announced proudly.
“Yes, sir, this boy’s going to be a football star,” Uncle Harley boomed, even prouder.
“I reckon Andy’s like his dad,” my mother said, chuckling. “John says he got his growth late, but there was plenty of it—six-four in his stocking feet.”
My father didn’t say anything, and I wondered if he was wishing that I was bigger so that he could act proud too.
Later, upstairs in my room, Jay wandered around, restlessly touching things.
“You any good at marbles?” he asked. He sounded as if he was pretty sure I wasn’t.
“OK, I guess,” I answered.
While he got his marbles from his suitcase, I drew a chalk circle on the worn linoleum floor. “You go first,” I offered, since he was company.
He won the first game. I won the next two.
He scooped up his marbles. “This sorry old floor is uneven, and you have an unfair advantage, ‘cause you’re used to it. Without an unfair advantage you wouldn’t have won, kid.”
“Nuts! You’re just a bad loser,” I returned.
Before I knew what was happening, he had pinned me facedown on the floor, and with his knee in my back, he twisted my arm up behind my shoulder blades.
“Say uncle,” he ordered.
“I won’t.”
“Say uncle, you redheaded, freckle-faced runt. Say it!” He twisted until hot pain seared my shoulder.
“Uncle,” I managed to gasp.
Shoving my nose hard against the floor, he released me. When we were standing, facing each other, he said calmly, “If you tattle, I’ll get you again.”
“I don’t tattle.” I could feel my face flame at the insult.
“Dandy little Andy,” he taunted, with a mocking grin.
Around the grown-ups flattery just oozed from Jay, and he was extra polite to me. But when we were alone, he was something between barely tolerable and awful. In his tolerable state he talked incessantly but brushed aside anything I had to say as if he were shooing away a fly. When he prodded the cow I was milking and she put her foot in the bucket, he jeered, “Dandy little Andy.” My arms were sore from his constant knuckling me with his oversize fist.
On Christmas Eve, when we were chucking rocks at a fence post, Jay threw one that missed its mark and hit the door of his father’s car. It left a big dent and chipped the paint. My father and Uncle Harley, approaching from the well house, saw the damage and both of us with rocks in our hands.
“Son, did you do that?” Uncle Harley sounded stern.
Jay looked him directly in the eye and replied so earnestly that I would have believed him myself if I hadn’t known better, “No, sir, I did not.” Then he glanced at me with a pained expression.
After that performance my “I didn’t do it” sounded like a guilty denial.
My father stood silent for a moment, then turned and strode toward the barn.
Despite my misery, Christmas day did come. Jay and I took the firecrackers Uncle Harley had brought for us to a bare spot of ground near the windmill and spent the morning blowing up tin cans. I was so relieved that this was the last day of his visit that I actually had a good time.
Late in the afternoon Jay tagged along when I went to the pasture to drive in the milk cows. I rounded up the cows and was headed back with them when I saw a firecracker arc and explode under the lead cow. She tossed her horns and ran bellowing toward the barn.
I turned and saw my cousin, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, a satisfied smirk on his face.
Then I smelled it—prairie fire! I whirled around to see flames beginning to lick through the dry winter grass.
I ripped off my plaid mackinaw and beat out the fire nearest me, but the ever-present west wind fueled new flames that raced along, devouring the grass. I knew that if I couldn’t stop the blaze, it could burn up three counties. As I ran up and down beating the growing line of fire, I became like a piece of machinery, with no thought of heat or smoke or time. I didn’t even wonder where Jay was. I had completely forgotten him.
Finally I became aware of my father’s voice. “Andy, it’s all right. The fire’s out.”
I saw my father, his eyes red-rimmed from the smoke, holding wet gunny sacks in each hand. Blackened grass surrounded us. We walked wearily to the dry creek bed and dropped down on a flat rock.
From farther down the creek Jay suddenly appeared, striding purposefully. “I was going for help, sir. After I saw Andy drop that firecracker, I—”
My father’s voice cracked like a whip, “Don’t bother with another one of your lies, Jay. Go along to the house.”
My father turned back to me and put his hands on my shoulders. He said in his quiet way, “You did a man’s job today, Andy. With everything the way it is, if all the winter grazing had burned, I don’t see how we could have held on to the ranch another year. I’m grateful to you.”
I understood then that in ways that mattered to my father, I stood tall.
The next morning as we waved good-bye to the occupants of the green car, I found myself suddenly thinking that this was my best Christmas ever.

When I first went into high school, some of the friends I made would swear or make inappropriate jokes. I politely let all of them know that I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and would appreciate it if they would not use that language around me. They all respected my values, and if they ever let a bad word slip out, they would quickly apologize for what they said.
Brooke O., 16, New Hampshire, USA

When our eldest son, Jason, was 11 years old, we had an experience we will never forget. It was Sunday, and as the rest of the family was preparing for church, Jason complained he was feeling ill. We decided to leave him home and promised we would telephone him later to see how he was doing. Our meetinghouse was not far away, and we could run home if he needed us.
Just before sacrament meeting began, I felt prompted to call Jason right at that moment. The telephone rang many times, but Jason didn’t answer. I assumed he was sleeping and did not hear the phone. Yet a nagging feeling told me something was very wrong. Since my husband was in the bishopric at the time and was already sitting on the stand, I left my other children in their seats and told them I would return in a few minutes.
The five-minute trip to our home seemed to take forever. Once there, I raced into the house, frantically calling Jason’s name. For what seemed like an eternity, there was no answer, and I could not find him. Finally, I heard soft crying as Jason cautiously crawled out from behind the couch in the family room. I put my arms around him and could feel him trembling as he related what had happened.
He had been lying on the couch when he had a feeling he should hide. He got up immediately and hid behind the couch. Just then, he heard someone come in the front door. Thinking it must be the family, he quietly peeked out from his hiding place. He was horrified to see an intruder, wearing a black ski mask and gloves, going through drawers. He listened as the stranger wandered throughout the house. At that point the phone began ringing, and the intruder left. Of course, the ringing phone had been my call just before I left the meetinghouse.
I will always be grateful for the promptings of the Holy Ghost that both Jason and I experienced that day. I am so grateful I was prompted to come home to be there when Jason needed me. Who knows what might have happened if Jason had been discovered by the intruder? Not only was he protected, but I believe the Spirit helped him heal from this traumatic experience. Today Jason is a courageous and strong missionary whose treasured companion continues to be the Holy Ghost.

Illustration by Julie Rogers
My heart feels warm tonight. Broken, bruised, torn, certainly. But beautifully warm. I feel intense gratitude—gratitude so deep and encompassing that it seems a new hole has opened in my soul to make room, gratitude so filling and so personal that it won’t stop coursing down my cheeks in silent tears. My husband is breathing. I can hear it, deep and soft.
Just a couple of hours ago, I climbed into his hospital bed, ignoring the gentle kicks from our soon-to-arrive baby, and found a spot among all the wires hooked to his chest where I could rest my head. Listening to his heartbeat in my ear was an experience that will be burned into my memory forever.
His heart beats still. Not as well as it did before the heart attack. But it beats still.
The warm lights from the Christmas strands strung across the room make me feel cozy tonight in more than one way. Their soft glow creates a comforting atmosphere, but the real coziness comes from knowing that true friends were willing to drop their own Christmas Eve plans to come decorate when Brian moved from the intensive care unit. The three-foot (1 m) Christmas tree stands in the window as a symbol of their love.
How can I thank our friends? Will they ever know how much I needed them and how grateful I am? While my thoughts were turned to nothing but my husband, they were loving my children, scrubbing my house, restocking my fridge, doing my laundry, wrapping our Christmas presents, and bringing love to me through hugs, dinners, gift cards, cash, phone calls, texts, emails, messages, bags of cinnamon-scented pine cones, and a suitcase full of decorations. They cried with me and prayed and fasted. And in doing all of this, they gave me the most precious gift they could have given: their time. How I love them all!
I think I will sleep well tonight, for I am wrapped in a seemingly endless field of gratitude for all of them.
But mostly I feel gratitude to the Lord for my husband’s life—his deep breathing, his heart pumping blood, his living body and soul. His life is my Christmas miracle.

“Miss Flores, what this world needs is a way of making people happier and healthier. Families just aren’t what they used to be.”
With that, Governor Eulogio Rodriguez of the Province of Rizal, the Philippines, turned to his desk and his thoughts. He was quite surprised when, a few minutes later, there was a knock at his door and in came two young LDS missionaries. He was even more surprised when they explained a program that would increase the efficiency of his staff by making their families happier and healthier than ever before.
The elders told him about Health Awareness ’76, a health fair presented by the Church’s International Health Team in the Philippines Manila Mission. The governor was so excited with the idea that he called a staff meeting to present a preview of the fair, and in fact, directed all of his employees and their families to attend.
Health Awareness ’76, just an idea in the minds of 11 young health services missionaries in its beginning, exploded into one of the most dynamic ways of introducing the gospel of Jesus Christ ever seen in the Philippines. A vast amount of practical health information on nutrition, disease prevention, and child care was assembled in unique, eye-catching ways that stimulated the curiosity of both the professional and the layman. It was presented in Manila and in several other cities throughout the Philippines.
The enthusiastic response of the various government organizations and community leaders was overwhelming. Over 20 agencies contributed information and personnel for the fair. National and private corporations became so interested in the project that many of them donated equipment and professional assistance in demonstrations. Displays, films, lectures, workshops, and booths were set up to educate the people of the Philippines about hygiene, nutrition, and other important items of health care awareness.
A display called Careless Charley taught the value of personal cleanliness and proper food preparation and sanitation as a preventative measure against parasites. Nearly 92 percent of the children in the Philippines suffer from some type of parasite; most are preventable with good hygiene.
The mobile X-ray van of the Philippines Tuberculosis Society provided free chest X-rays and medical consultation. The Heart Center for Asia demonstrated mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and even a heart monitor was displayed.
Doctors James O. Mason and Isaac Ferguson flew from Salt Lake City to attend the health fair. In his opening statement, Dr. Mason, director of Church Welfare Services, pointed out that “the Church not only helps people prepare for eternal life, but it also helps them to be strong, healthy, and happy on earth.”
Public awareness of the Church’s concern for the health of its members increased when GTV-4, a national television station, devoted an entire 30-minute show called “Health Talk” to the Health Fair. During the interview, Miss Yvonne Nite, the hostess ot the show, asked Dr. Mason: “We’ve heard about your church’s beliefs regarding the use of alcohol, tobacco, and coffee. What are the medical reasons behind these beliefs?”
Dr. Mason’s impressive response was: “The Church believes in divine revelation from a Heavenly Father who loves his children. All revelation is given to us through a living prophet. It is interesting to note that 150 years ago, the Lord revealed to a prophet that alcohol, tobacco, coffee, and tea are harmful to our bodies. The scientists and doctors of today are only now discovering that these substances are dangerous.”
Aided by stupendous advertising and hundreds of hours of work by determined, excited proselyting missionaries, the total number who attended the fair at the Araneta Coliseum in Manila exceeded 15,000 in the first three days.
After only one week, the Philippines Manila Mission was flooded with referrals. In fact, one of the mission assistants exclaimed, “I just can’t believe it, over 12,000 referral cards after only two areas. What will the tour of the provinces bring?”
The health fair has prompted enthusiastic action by Church members in an effort to improve their standards of health. Members who discovered that their children were undernourished received instruction and counseling on nutrition from local government agencies as well as their Relief Society teachers. With the cooperation of the local health departments, thousands were immunized against cholera, typhoid, small pox, tuberculosis, and polio. Several active cases of tuberculosis and other respiratory ailments were discovered, and proper rehabilitative measures are being taken.
Thousands of garden seeds were sold to encourage home gardeners, and local wards and branches were planning their own welfare projects. Tiny seedlings began springing up in tin cans and flower pots all over Manila. Garden plots were cultivated where space was available, and families will save hundreds of pesos in food costs as they harvest their own tomatoes, lettuce, squash, and beans.
Thousands of seeds have been planted, but not only those that yield tomatoes, squash, or other vegetables. The Philippines Manila Mission and the Church will yet reap a bountiful harvest in terms of public appreciation, cooperation, and support, in increased member activity and productivity, and in converts who first learned that the Church existed when they attended Health Awareness ’76, the health affair of the year.

During the exodus of the Latter-day Saints from Missouri, ordered by Governor Lilburn W. Boggs, a man taunted Eliza R. Snow, saying, “Well, I think this will cure you of your faith.” She retorted, “No, sir, it will take more than this to cure me of my faith.” He humbly responded, “I must confess you are a better soldier than I am.” Later Eliza would write, “I passed on, thinking that, unless he was above the average of his fellows in that section, I was not complimented by his confession.”

When I was in the National Football League, I looked up to Gifford Nielsen, who had also played for BYU before going on to the NFL, eventually becoming a sportscaster and later a General Authority Seventy. I ran into him one day on a golf course, and he gave me advice that changed the course of my professional career.
We were sitting in a golf cart, just me and him, and after I told him about my plan to go into television like he had after I finished playing football, he gave me advice to not continue pursuing a career that would require me to be at the games on Sundays. That way, I’d always be able to have a calling on Sundays and serve in the Church.
It was that simple, but it was advice that I hadn’t thought about. And that changed the course of my life.

When Juan Hernández of Salt Lake City, Utah, looks back on his first visit to church, one word sums up his attitude: apprehension.
“My mom was the first to be baptized in the family. At the time, I didn’t know why. One day she asked me if I wanted to go to church with her to see what it was like. I decided to go with her just so she wouldn’t feel bad.” But thanks to the ward’s Aaronic Priesthood, Juan learned that there was something special about the Church.
One of the young men invited Juan to come to a Scout activity flying planes. Though he had no interest in attending religious meetings, flying planes with the Scouts sounded like too much fun to resist. On the day of the activity, Juan was surprised by how friendly and enthusiastic the young men were. “When we went up in the planes, I forgot that I barely knew these young men. Somehow I knew that they would be good friends to me,” Juan says.
Though Juan didn’t expect to be invited again, the young men surprised him by immediately treating him as a member of their troop. And the more he participated, the more he noticed how happy members of the Church were. Over time, he realized that it wasn’t Scouting that made them so happy—it was the gospel. Juan knew he wanted to be happy like they were, too.
Soon Juan, his father, and his sister took the missionary discussions and decided to be baptized. “All of the Aaronic Priesthood kids were there when my family and I were confirmed. Then my dad and I were ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood,” Juan says. “And when I passed the sacrament for the first time, they were all excited for us.” Because members of the Aaronic Priesthood saw an opportunity to reach out to Juan during his first visit to Church, they were able to better introduce Juan to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Scouting provided the activity that helped Juan to feel comfortable around members of the Church.
“I can see all that the Aaronic Priesthood has done for me,” Juan says. “It has helped me to love God and see the love He has for each one of us. I have learned to listen to the Holy Ghost. And I have learned about one of the biggest blessings of all—that if we live worthily we can be with our families for all eternity.
“Thanks to the leaders, my mom, and the Scouts, I could open the door to our Heavenly Father. That’s how my family and I found that piece that was missing in our life.”

Learning to discern the teachings of the Spirit is an important part of helping faith become a reality. My daughter Karen shared her experience. She said: “When I was just a little girl, I started reading the Book of Mormon for the first time. After many days of reading, I came one night to 1 Nephi 3:7: ‘I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.’” Karen continued: “I didn’t know this was a famous verse, but as I read that verse, I felt strongly impressed. I was impressed that Heavenly Father would help us keep His commandments, but the deep impression was really more of a feeling. I had seen my parents mark verses in their scriptures with red pencils. So I got up and searched through the house until I found a red pencil, and with a great sense of solemnity and importance, I marked that verse in my own Book of Mormon.” Karen continued: “Over the years as I read the scriptures, that experience was repeated time and time again—reading a verse and feeling deeply impressed. In time I came to recognize that feeling as the Holy Ghost. As a missionary I saw others read verses and feel deeply impressed to the extent that they were willing and able to change their lives and accept the gospel.”

Photograph courtesy of Ashley Tuft
Before I went through the temple, I didn’t know exactly what to expect. I read the booklet Preparing to Enter the Holy Temple and took a temple preparation class. That helped me be more prepared for receiving my own endowment. When I went to the temple for the first time, I was not nervous like I thought I would be, because I felt peace. The temple workers were all very friendly and made sure I knew where to go the whole time I was at the temple.
During the endowment, I made covenants with my Father in Heaven and in return was promised many beautiful blessings and gifts of knowledge. Like other ordinances, including baptism, the endowment ordinance is very symbolic. Before I went through the endowment session, a temple worker told me that I may have many questions by the end of the session. Because there are so many symbols, it’s impossible to understand everything at once. That’s why I think it’s so important to return to the temple as often as possible.
Since I’ve been to the temple, I’ve felt the Spirit more abundantly in my life. I’ve felt the words that I heard in the temple sink into my heart, and I know that if I do all that I covenanted with my Heavenly Father to do, then I will be blessed. This ordinance has helped me understand how much Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ love each individual person, because we are taught in the temple how to be happy.
Ashley Tuft, 20, Texas, USA

For 67 years, Marjorie Pay Hinckley kept pace with her husband, President Gordon B. Hinckley, as he traveled the world. On 6 April 2004, her mortal journey ended. Surrounded by family and loved ones, Sister Hinckley quietly passed from this world to the next due to causes incident to age. Born on 23 November 1911, she was 92.
Often expressing surprise at the course her life had taken, Sister Hinckley often joked, “How did a nice girl like me end up in a mess like this?” In an interview with Church magazines several months before her death, Sister Hinckley said, “Well, it turned out better than I expected. It has been a good life.” Known for her caring heart and quick wit, she told Church magazines, “If we can’t laugh at life, we are in big trouble” (see “At Home with the Hinckleys,” Liahona, Oct. 2003, 32–37; Ensign, Oct. 2003, 22–27), and at her funeral services she was eulogized as “charity personified.”
As evidence of the countless lives she touched, thousands attended a public viewing, some of them standing in line outside on a blustery spring day for more than three hours. Thousands attended the funeral held in the Tabernacle on 10 April, and tens of thousands more watched on television and by satellite broadcast.
“She conversed with kings and queens. She loved little children,” President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, said of Sister Hinckley’s ability to relate to people from all walks of life. “There was no flaw in her character. … Like the Master, Marjorie went about doing good.”
“She had such a good life,” said President James E. Faust, Second Counselor in the First Presidency. “All of us would benefit from following her faith, commitment, and devotion.”
During the funeral services, the Hinckleys’ five children—Kathleen, Richard, Virginia, Clark, and Jane—shared quotes from Sister Hinckley and gave expressions of gratitude to their mother. Clark Hinckley read a letter written by President Hinckley to his wife after nearly 60 years of marriage. “My darling, … I have known you for a long time … and it has turned out as I had hoped it would. … Now we have grown old together. … And when in some future day the hand of death gently touches one or the other of us, there will be tears, yes, but there will also be a quiet and certain assurance of reunion and eternal companionship.”
Sheri L. Dew, former member of the Relief Society general presidency and biographer of President Hinckley, said that while 12 million members together cannot take Sister Hinckley’s place, each would be praying that President Hinckley would have the strength to carry on. She said that each member would try a little harder in order to ease the prophet’s burden.

Having recently completed basic flying instruction in Phoenix, Arizona, I had certified after a few hours of solo flying to take my first solo flight across the state. This would entail a two-hour route from Phoenix to Tucson and back to Phoenix.
Excited by the anticipation of flying by myself 10,000 feet (3,000 m) above the earth and viewing the beauty of the clouds, mountains, valleys, and desert, I thought little of my inexperience and any possible dangers that might await me.
I checked the weather, filed my flight plan, and gathered a radio, compass, and basic flight instruments. As is common at this stage of flight instruction, I still lacked training in the use of advanced instruments. But the older plane I would be flying had none of the sophisticated instruments that would allow a pilot to fly without visual cues.
I was a little nervous taking off by myself in my small yellow single-engine monoplane, but the flight from Phoenix to Tucson went well. I was thrilled with my new aerial skills.
Elated and confident and with only 120 miles (190 km) to go, I took off from Tucson for Phoenix late in the afternoon. However, after I was barely airborne, I unexpectedly experienced strong wind currents that made it difficult to control the altitude of my plane. A dust storm suddenly engulfed me, and I could no longer see. Tossed side to side, I lost control and became frantically disoriented and afraid, realizing that I was dangerously close to the Catalina mountain range.
In a panic I thought of my life. I was engaged to be married the following month in the Mesa Arizona Temple. I had served an honorable full-time mission. I had always tried to obey the commandments and listen to the promptings of the Holy Ghost. If I ever needed divine guidance, it was now. Almost despairing, I uttered a silent prayer. The Spirit immediately whispered to me, “Rely on your radio, your compass, and your instrument panel, and drop your altitude.”
I quickly descended several hundred feet. Visibility was still poor, but below me I could make out a highway and railroad tracks. By using my instruments and following visual landmarks, I was able to finally land at the airport in Phoenix after a harrowing two-hour experience.
I will always be grateful for the promptings of the Holy Ghost and the promise in Psalms: “In the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge” (Psalm 57:1).