Gospel Story Finder

This story happened in the USA.
Charlotte hated loud noises! She didn’t like the way sounds pounded in her ears or echoed in her head. Even when she knew she was safe, she still felt tense when cars screeched, crowds cheered, or drums boomed.
And Charlotte really did not like fireworks!
Her family tried lots of things to comfort her when there were loud noises. Dad bought her special earmuffs to help block the noise. When there was thunder, Mom snuggled with her under the covers. Charlotte also prayed for help not to be scared.
All of these things helped. But loud noises still made her feel afraid.
“We are going to a special firework show at the park tonight,” Mom told Charlotte. “Do you want to come?”
Charlotte frowned. “But fireworks are so loud.”
“Now that you’re older, fireworks might be more fun to watch,” Mom said. “All of your friends will be there. We can even bring your special earmuffs. Do you think you can give it a try?”
Charlotte sighed. “OK. I guess I’ll try.”
The fireworks show at the park started off perfectly. Charlotte and her friends ran around on the grass, sharing treats and playing games. Soon the sky grew dark. Charlotte sat down and pulled on her earmuffs as she looked nervously at the sky.
BOOM! BOOM! CRACK!
Charlotte’s heart beat faster, and her chest felt tight. She jumped up and tried to get away from the booming all around her.
Mom ran after Charlotte and scooped her up. They sat back down, and Mom hugged her close. Tears fell down Charlotte’s face.
“I’m sorry that scared you,” Mom said. “I’m right here. Let’s focus on the colors so you don’t notice the sound so much. What do you see with your eyes?”
Charlotte took a big breath. “I see gold, and red, and green.”
“Now use your nose,” Mom said. “What do you smell?”
“I can smell the smoke and the grass,” said Charlotte. “And popcorn!”
“What other senses can you use right now?”
Charlotte closed her eyes. “I can feel them. When the fireworks explode, I can feel the shaking in my chest.”
“Can you taste anything?” Mom asked.
Charlotte stuck out her tongue. “l can’t taste the fireworks.” She laughed.
All of this made Charlotte curious. How do people make the different colors? she wondered. Why do fireworks explode? How do they make different shapes? Fireworks didn’t seem so scary now.
“Mom, fireworks are amazing!” Charlotte said.
As Mom tucked Charlotte into bed that night, Charlotte asked, “Why doesn’t Heavenly Father answer my prayers when I ask Him to make the loud noises go away?”
Mom thought for a moment. “Heavenly Father doesn’t always take away scary things,” she said. “But sometimes He helps us see things in a different way or gives us people who help comfort us.”
“Like how He helped me tonight!” said Charlotte.
“That’s right!” Mom smiled. “You went to the firework show even though you were scared. Then Heavenly Father helped you calm your fears. He also helped you see the beauty of the fireworks by using your other senses.”
Charlotte thought of the bright colors in the sky and smiled. She still didn’t like loud noises. They still scared her. But she knew Heavenly Father could always help her to be brave.
“Fear thou not; for I am with thee” (Isaiah 41:10).
Illustration by Adam Howling

On an afternoon in April 1989, Pablito, one of the many children who live in my apartment complex, came running to me for help. He had been robbed and mistreated by three thirteen-year-old boys, he said, and he wanted me to help him recover his watch and chain that they had taken. When I walked up to the boys, they did not run away as they normally did. I asked them to return Pablito’s watch and chain. They ignored me. I then searched them, but I didn’t find anything. They were upset because I had searched them, and as they left the complex, they insulted and threatened me. But I didn’t take their threats seriously.
Two days later, some friends of mine told me that several young men had been looking for me.
The next Monday, a group of about twenty-five young men came toward me. I could not imagine what was happening until one of them lunged forward and punched me in the nose. I tried to escape, but it was too late. It was impossible to get away from them. At first they hit me all over, but then they started to slash me with broken bottles. Suddenly I felt something cold in my left side. One of them had knifed me close to the ribs.
The attack ended, and the gang ran away as two police cars arrived. A friend helped me up, but because I had lost a great deal of blood, I was very weak and kept losing consciousness. In addition to the knife wound, I had gashes on my head and thigh, and my face was badly bruised and swollen.
I was taken in one of the police cars to a local hospital. Although the doctors there were able to stitch my wounds, they had to send me to a larger hospital for X rays to check for any internal damage.
After examining the X rays, the doctor said I needed emergency surgery so he could properly assess and treat possible damage to my internal organs.
While I was waiting to go into surgery, my father asked for a few minutes with me. The doctor told him to be brief. Then my father and another priesthood holder placed their hands on my head and gave me a blessing.
After I had been in the operating room for a while, the doctor came out and told my father, “The knife wound in your son’s side is very deep, but the blade did not touch any vital organs. I only had to clean out the wound. I don’t know what you did when you placed your hands on his head, but whatever it was, it worked.”
I was in the hospital for four days and then in recovery for three months—delaying my anticipated mission call. I quickly regained the blood I had lost, my wounds healed, and soon I could stand up and walk.
I know it was because of the power of the priesthood and faith in Jesus Christ that I am alive today. I know the Lord wanted me to serve where I am now, in the Venezuela Maracaibo Mission. I am grateful that he spared my life so I can work in his vineyard.

After Sister Teh and I dated for a little while, it became obvious that I wanted to spend eternity with her. Naturally, I made it a subject of earnest prayer and fasting. No particular change in my feeling followed. I did not feel a burning in my bosom. I did, however, continue to feel good about my decision, so I persevered. Sister Teh got the same answer, so here we are. Since that experience, I have arrived at many of my decisions in a similar fashion (see D&C 6:22–23).

“What special things, Kate?” Papa winked at Mama. “I thought I was to get flour and sugar and salt. Nothing special about that.”
“You know, Papa,” Molly burst out. “Get a bolt of the prettiest calico you can find! Mama’s going to make me a new dress, and shirts for John, and curtains for our new glass windows!” She stopped, and everyone was quiet as Papa gave thanks for the food.
“Papa,” John asked, taking a bite out of his corn bread, “do you remember the other two special things?”
“Let’s see,” Papa replied. “I’m to get some smooth boards to cover this dirt floor.” His eyes sparkled. “We’re going to be the first family out here to have a real wood floor!”
“And then, Frank, if there’s enough money left over, get that last special thing,” Mama said excitedly. “Bring home some oilcloth to cover the walls with and some pretty wallpaper to go over the oilcloth. Then we’ll have a real house, like the one we had back east.”
They all looked at the hardpacked dirt walls. Papa had tried to make them look nice by painting them with whitewash, but most of it had come off. “I think if we put oilcloth up first, the wallpaper will last longer,” said Mama.
The little sod house seemed even warmer as Papa laughed. “I’ll do the best shopping I can,” he promised, and his smile wrapped around Molly like a hug. “Now, Molly,” he said as they finished their squash and ham, “get out your favorite book. It’s your turn to read tonight.”
Early the next morning as the sky turned pink along the eastern edge of the prairie, Papa hitched the horses to the wagon. “I’ll be back in three days,” he called as he drove off.
Molly watched until Papa was out of sight and only the tall prairie grass waved back at her.
Molly and John carried water to the chickens. They collected buffalo chips to burn in the stove and helped Mama milk the cow. They gathered the eggs and shelled the corn. They studied their lessons—and they counted three days.
By dinnertime on the third day Papa wasn’t home. Molly squished her nose flat against the wavy glass window. “I still can’t see him, Mama,” she said.
“Don’t fret, Molly. Papa’s been to town many times since we’ve been here.” Mama’s voice was calm and quiet. “Don’t you remember he said it would take three full days? Now let’s put the lantern in the window so he can see the light shining out over the prairie.”
They had just finished their mush-and-milk supper when John shouted, “Listen! I hear the wagon!”
In a few minutes Papa was in the house. He gave Mama a big hug and picked up Molly and John. “Just wait until you see the special things I’ve brought!” he said, whirling them around the room.
Papa and Mama and Molly and John carried in the food supplies for winter. Then Papa brought in a big package. “Here’s your calico, Molly—the prettiest in the country, I’ll wager.” The calico was a soft blue, with little red and yellow designs scattered all over it.
“Oh, Papa,” Molly cried, “I’ve never seen such pretty calico!”
“Frank, it’s lovely,” said Mama. “Did it take you a long time to find it?”
“No,” said Papa, laughing. “I just matched Molly’s blue eyes.”
“And was there enough money to get the second special thing?” John asked.
“Wait and see,” said Papa. He came back with one wide, smooth board and laid it on the dirt floor. “There you are, Kate, the finest floor on the prairie!”
“But, Papa, that’s not big enough!” cried John.
Papa chuckled. “Don’t worry, John. The rest of the floor is in the wagon.”
“And the third special thing, Papa?” Molly jumped up and down on the board. “Did you get the oilcloth and the prettiest wallpaper in the country too?”
“I got the oilcloth and the best wallpaper you ever saw,” said Papa. He went to the wagon again and came back with two heavy brown packages.
Papa unwrapped a roll of oilcloth first. Then he opened a squarish package and held up a large dictionary. “Here’s the wallpaper. And it’s a brand-new 1870 edition, too,” he announced.
“Frank, I don’t understand. Where is the wallpaper?” Mama sounded puzzled.
“Just watch, Kate.” Papa’s eyes twinkled as he carefully fastened a piece of oilcloth over one of the hard-packed sod walls. Then he opened the dictionary and carefully cut out some of the pages with his knife. He took one of the pages and nailed it up, right through the oilcloth and into the sturdy wall behind it. He nailed up another, and another. Soon the wall was covered with pages. The white paper made the sod house look large and bright, and the words looked like tiny stripes across the wall.
“How beautiful!” cried Molly.
Mama looked at the wall without a word. Then she turned to Papa. “Frank, who else would ever have thought of papering the walls with a dictionary!” Mama’s eyes were bright as she hugged Papa. “You really did bring us something special!”
“And, Kate,” said Papa, “when we’ve learned all these words, we’ll just add more pages and keep on reading.”
Molly gave a happy sigh. “Papa,” she said, “now we have the prettiest calico, and the finest floor, and the smartest walls in the whole world!”

When my younger sister, Dania, was diagnosed with a rare disorder, I wanted to do something to help her. Turner Syndrome is a genetic disorder where a girl is missing one of her X chromosomes, and that results in short stature, possible heart problems, and other difficulties. My sister was 11 when she was diagnosed, and she sees this as a blessing in her life and a chance to help other girls who have this syndrome.
My mom and I brainstormed ideas on what I could do to help, and we decided to sponsor a run for a society to help those with Turner Syndrome. I didn’t know where to start, but I gathered a group of friends together who helped me find sponsors and to spread the word around the community.
The response from community members was great—so many people were willing to help out. The event turned out to be fun and lively, and everybody had an amazing time. There were 12 girls with Turner Syndrome at the run, as well as many Church and community members.
I met so many wonderful people and heard their stories; I saw these people through God’s eyes. I learned that we really develop a love for those whom we serve, and I know that “when [we] are in the service of [our] fellow beings [we] are only in the service of [our] God” (Mosiah 2:17).
Makaila E., California, USA

A youth activity on a chilly night in January 2017 changed the Sorenson family forever. Terry and Jenilyn’s son Tanner was 14 years old. The combined activity was wrapping up. A leader was offering the last of the refreshments. Tanner, who was allergic to peanuts, grabbed a cookie and bit into it. He shouldn’t have. It was a peanut butter cookie.

“He was usually so careful,” Terry says.

Tanner managed to get home—his house was just down the street from their meetinghouse. But he lost consciousness quickly after. He stopped breathing. Paramedics and emergency room staff fought valiantly for him. But unfortunately their efforts were not successful.

Tanner passed away that night because of his food allergy.

Tanner’s family has felt many miracles, large and small, since losing their son. They hope increased awareness of food allergies is one of them.

“It’s not that these kids with allergies are irresponsible. It’s not that they aren’t paying attention. But they are kids,” says Tanner’s father, Terry. “It just takes one second of letting your guard down.”

“Dad, I don’t want to go,” Spencer said.
“You promised Grandpa you would help him today,” Dad said.
“I don’t want to go to the dump,” Spencer said. “Why doesn’t Grandpa put his garbage can on the curb like everyone else?”
“You promised you would go, so you need to go,” Dad said.
“This is silly,” Spencer thought. Why did he have to waste a day of his vacation at the dump?
A few minutes later, Grandpa drove up in his pickup truck. Two garbage cans were loaded in the back. Spencer climbed into the passenger’s seat.
“We have just a few stops to make before we go to the dump,” Grandpa said.
“This is going to take forever,” Spencer thought as he stared out the window.
Grandpa pulled into his neighbors’ driveway. The couple who lived there had been his grandparents’ neighbors for almost 50 years. Arlo and Wanda were always nice to Spencer when he came to visit. The front door opened and Wanda walked out.
“I wish you wouldn’t trouble yourself with this,” she said to Grandpa as he hauled her garbage can into the truck.
“No trouble at all,” Grandpa said.
“You have the kindest grandpa in the world,” Wanda said to Spencer.
“Give Arlo my best,” Grandpa said.
“I will. Thank you,” Wanda said. A tear fell down her cheek.
“What’s wrong with Arlo?” Spencer asked as they drove away.
“He’s really sick. Wanda has to do everything for him now. It’s a lot of hard work, but she doesn’t complain.”
A few minutes later they pulled into another driveway. A small woman was struggling to keep a garbage can from tipping over as she tried to move it from the garage.
“Minnie!” Grandpa jumped out of the truck. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just trying to help,” she said.
Minnie was another one of Grandpa’s neighbors. Grandpa took the garbage can from her.
“I think you’ve grown a foot since last summer, Spencer,” Minnie said, smiling at Spencer. “I’m sorry I haven’t brought over any waffles, but these old hands don’t do much cooking anymore.”
Minnie was an excellent cook and used to bring over a batch of waffles when Spencer and his family came to visit Grandma and Grandpa.
“That’s OK, Minnie,” Spencer said.
“I don’t know what I would do without your grandpa and grandma, Spencer,” Minnie said. “This world needs more people like them.”
Grandpa loaded Minnie’s can into the back of the truck, and soon they were driving down a long, dusty road outside of town. “This is our last stop,” Grandpa said.
“Who lives here?” Spencer asked.
“A new family that moved in a few months ago. They are having a hard time. I told them I would haul their trash for them so they wouldn’t have to pay for garbage service. At first they told me I didn’t need to.”
“Then why do it?” Spencer asked.
Grandpa smiled at Spencer. “Because I can,” he said.
Spencer stared out the window, thinking about what Grandpa had just said. He realized that Grandpa didn’t help people because he had to do it. He helped people because that’s the kind of person he was.
Grandpa parked the truck, but before he could get out, Spencer said, “You stay in the truck, Grandpa. I’ll get these cans for you.”
Grandpa smiled and let Spencer do the work. Spencer hauled the garbage cans to the road and then climbed back into the truck.
“Now we can go to the dump,” Grandpa said.
As they drove away, Spencer thought about all the people Grandpa helped.
“I guess helping people isn’t silly after all,” Spencer said.
Grandpa smiled. “No,” he said. “It’s one of the most important things we can do.”

Scouting also played an important part in Elder Ashton’s life. When he was eleven years old, his family moved to the Parleys area, where there were only six boys of Scout age. “You need twelve boys to create a troop,” he explained, “so we went to the Highland Park Ward and became part of their Scout troop. All six of us used to ride over there on three horses, and we thought of ourselves as the ‘mounted patrol’. I’m grateful that my parents arranged for me to become part of another troop, where I eventually became an Eagle Scout.
“A couple of times when we came out of troop meeting, our horses were gone, and we had to walk all the way home. Some prankish kids had cut our horses loose, and the horses headed on home. After the second time, we let people know that there would be an uprising if it happened again—Scouts or no Scouts.”

Actually, I was the one who questioned at first. I was a teenager when my mother and brother met with the missionaries. I listened only halfheartedly. But when they joined the Church, I saw that the things they had learned agreed with what I’d been taught my whole life. After I joined the military, I sought out the missionaries, went to meetings, studied and prayed, and then went home to be baptized. The gospel made me happy, and the Spirit told me it is true.Nicole V., 20, Georgia

It was a gorgeous spring day about a week before school let out for the summer when my father and the house came barging back into my life. I intended to call my best friend, Marge, and go down to the corner for a pop before I started my homework. I picked up the kitchen phone and put the receiver to my ear without even realizing mom was on the extension in the bedroom. The first thing I heard was my father’s voice.
"Cathy is my daughter," he was saying. "I don’t think a week of her summer vacation is too much for me to ask."
"I know," mom answered, "but I have to leave the decision up to her …"
I hung up the phone quietly and went upstairs to my room. My school books were lying on my bed. I opened one and pretended to study, but my thoughts were far from algebra. My father wanted me to spend a week of my summer vacation with him. I didn’t want to. Why did he have to keep barging into my life and messing it up? I’d just get things straightened out, and suddenly he’d appear again to jumble them back up.
Mom tapped on my bedroom door. "Cathy," she called.
"Come in," I replied, pretending to be deeply engrossed in my studies.
Mom entered and sat on the edge of my bed. "May I talk with you a minute?"
"Sure," I said trying to sound nonchalant. "But I have a lot of homework to do."
"Your father just called," mom said in a voice that displayed no emotion. She always talked of him that way, trying not to prejudice me against him.
"Oh? What’d he want?"
"He wants to see you. He’d like you to come visit him for a week over summer vacation."
"What’d you say?"
"I said it was up to you."
I pretended to think for a moment, but my mind was already made up.
"I don’t think I can, mom. I’m planning on getting a job, and I don’t think anyone would hire me if right off the bat I said I had to have a week off."
"Yes, I can see that, but he does want to see you. Maybe you could work something out. Maybe go for a weekend."
"I don’t know …"
"Cathy, he is your father."
"I know he’s my father," I had to struggle to keep back the resentment that statement contained, "but I’m going to be really busy this summer."
"Too busy to go for even one weekend?"
I looked at mom. She could see right through my transparent excuses. "Well, maybe one weekend," I conceded.
"Fine, you pick the weekend, and I’ll call your father tomorrow to make arrangements."
I often thought it was odd that my father lived in the same city we did, and yet we never saw each other. But it was a big city, and we lived at opposite ends of it, and I really didn’t care if I saw him or not.
The house was the same as I remembered it, except for new furniture in the living room. But there was still the same stale odor of smoke. Though he never did it in front of me, I knew my father smoked. It was part of the reason why he had never taken mom and me to the temple. My father was just about the same too. He was still tall and thin with a receding hairline, except that what hair he did have was now speckled with gray.
"Hi, Cathy," he said when I arrived at the white Spanish house.
"Hi."
"You’ve sure grown up the past few years."
"Yes, that does have a tendency to happen," I replied dryly.
He laughed nervously.
"Can I put my stuff away?"
"Sure. Put it in the second room on the right down the hall. I should have dinner ready when you’re done."
I went to the room he indicated. It had green carpet and green, blue, and white striped wallpaper. It reminded me of a hotel room. I hadn’t brought much, so it didn’t take me long to unpack. When I was finished, I wandered into the kitchen. My father was taking a casserole out of the oven. "I’ve become a pretty good cook," he said.
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
We didn’t talk much during the meal. He made several attempts at conversation, and I answered as simply as I could.
"What are you doing this summer?" he asked.
"I’m getting a job."
"Oh? Where?"
"At the Chicken Barn. I’m waiting on tables."
"Going to make a lot of money, huh?"
I shrugged. "Just enough to help pay for my school clothes and cheerleading uniforms."
"You a cheerleader?"
"Yes."
"Well, I guess I’ll have to come to the Chicken Barn and donate to your school wardrobe."
I shrugged again.
"You’re pretty active at school, aren’t you? You starred in your school play last year, didn’t you?"
"How did you know?"
"Your mom told me."
"Oh?"
"I came and saw it. You didn’t know that, did you?"
I looked up startled. "You did?"
"Yes, opening night. You were really good. I even sent you some flowers. Did you get them?"
"They were from you?"
"Yes."
"I didn’t know that. The card wasn’t signed. I thought they were from Robbie Fletcher."
"Your boyfriend?"
"I wish."
"Are you disappointed they weren’t from him?"
I just shrugged once more. "I’m kind of tired tonight," I said. "Do you mind if I go to bed now?"
"Go ahead."
I’d just settled into bed when I heard a noise outside. I peered out the window and saw the silhouette of my father on the porch. In his hand I could see the glowing ember of a lighted cigarette. He never smoked in front of me, almost as if he didn’t want to admit to me that he did it. How dumb did he think I was. "What a hypocrite," I said to myself. Then I laid back down in bed.
When I woke up Saturday morning, there was sun streaming in the bedroom window. It took me a few minutes to remember where I was.
When I did, the brightness of the day seemed to dull a bit.
I found my father in the kitchen fixing breakfast.
"Good morning," he said.
"Hi."
"Here’s breakfast. I hope you like your eggs sunny-side up."
"That’s fine."
"What shall we do today?"
"I don’t know."
"We could run down to the amusement park."
"I’m kind of old for that," I said, determined to be as uncooperative as possible.
"Well then, how about going to the beach?"
"I’m kind of tired of that. Edward takes us there all the time." I hoped my reference to Edward would bite a bit, but if it did, my father gave no sign of it.
"Then I guess we can always just stay home and visit. I’d like that. This house is kind of lonely just me here. It’d be nice to visit."
"If you’re so lonely, why don’t you get married?" I asked bluntly.
My father was good at not acting surprised by my frank comments. "Well," he replied, "I guess I never met anyone besides your mother who I loved enough to marry."
All the bitterness I’d ever felt welled up inside of me, and it was impossible to keep it out of my voice when I replied. "If you were so in love with mom, why did you desert her?"
My father put down his fork and looked across the table at me. "I don’t know what your mother has told you about me and what happened …"
"She hasn’t told me anything. In fact, she’s bent over backwards to keep from portraying you as a villain."
"Well then maybe it’s time someone did tell you something."
I expected him to tell me a real sob story with him as a poor picked on man and mom the domineering nag of a wife, so I steeled myself to defend her. But I was surprised when he spoke.
"Cathy, your mother and I, we’re human."
All kinds of sarcastic replies raced through my mind like, "Oh, I’ve waited all my life to glean this bit of wisdom from you." But I kept my mouth shut and my father went on.
"We make mistakes. Some mistakes can be corrected quickly; others haunt you for the rest of your life. When your mother and I were married, we were young and naive. We still clung to some of those silly ideas about finding beautiful princesses and handsome princes and living happily ever after. We didn’t realize that everyone marries imperfect partners and the wise spend the rest of their lives working together to become better. We both expected love and each other to be perfect immediately. My idea of a perfect wife was one who left me alone to do whatever I wanted. Your mother wanted a husband who’d take her to the temple. I always said I would, but I wasn’t going to be pushed. I figured there was plenty of time for that, and there were still things I wanted to do first. Anyway, one day we discovered we’d pushed and pulled ourselves right out of each other’s lives." He paused and seemed to be thinking for a moment. Then he went on. "Oh, I guess if we’d been a bit more mature or if we’d really tried, we could’ve made things work. But it was easier to just call it quits. For a long time I blamed your mother, and by the time I realized how wrong I was being, it was too late; your mother had remarried. Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great that she’s found Edward. They seem to be happy enough."
"They are."
"Well, I guess what it boils down to is that you’re all I have left, Cathy."
I poked at my food.
"Hey!" he said. "Why don’t we go shopping. I’ll buy you a new outfit."
"You don’t have to do that," I said.
"I want to. After all, why should I make my contribution to your wardrobe through the Chicken Barn when I can give it directly to you?"
I laughed. "All right."
I watched my father that day as we shopped. I had always been under the impression that if I was around my father long enough, I’d see him sprout fangs and claws. He didn’t, and I realized that I had spent a long time looking at him through eyes tainted by bitterness and selfishness. As I pushed them aside, I could see my father as he was—a lonely man who’d made mistakes and was paying for them.
When we got home from shopping, my father excused himself to go outside. I knew he was going to smoke and watched out the window. There was a look of disgust on his face as he lit the cigarette. He smoked it hastily with short puffs. Then almost angrily he dropped it to the ground and crushed it out with his foot. I let the curtains drop then, so that he wouldn’t know I’d been watching.

Once I got home, I took up weight lifting again, but with a considerably different attitude. I’d never looked on my weight lifting talent as a gift before. I hadn’t thought that training was a way of magnifying that talent. I began training with a new intensity. Also, I figured that as I continued to work hard, I would have more opportunities to meet people who didn’t have the gospel in their lives, and I could share it with them. And maybe my example could help someone.
It wasn’t easy to jump right back into lifting, but within seven months I won the National Collegiate Power Lifting Championship in the 198-pound weight class. The following year I won it again, and even managed to set two national records. It dawned on me that I hadn’t lost anything, but I’d gained a great deal. I’d learned about true happiness, determination, self-worth, and the belief in a divine purpose—and oh, yes—I’d learned what true power lifting really is.

Wendy Feliz, 14, and her twin brother, Wellington, do not have the luxury of being able to talk with their mother. Wendy and Wellington are both deaf.
Wendy and Wellington both know that their mother loves them. She takes excellent care of them and kisses them every day. But they can’t really talk to her in any significant way because their mother only speaks Spanish. Both Wendy and Wellington know American sign language and can read and write only in English.
A few months ago, Vanessa Bruno came into their lives. Vanessa had returned from her mission and had just been called as the Young Women president in the Manhattan Deaf Branch. Vanessa is originally from Colombia and, of course, speaks Spanish. Having lived in the United States for half a dozen years, she also speaks English. And she has learned sign language, so she can talk with Wendy and Wellington. As a new YW president, Vanessa was visiting every girl in the deaf branch. When she came to Wendy’s house, it soon became clear to everyone that Vanessa was something of a miracle. For the first time, Wellington and Wendy could talk with their mother. Wellington wanted to know why they were born deaf.
Vanessa said, “He began to ask questions about the family. Why are they deaf? Why was he losing his vision? Their mother began to explain that her father’s family have people that are deaf and blind. She said she was so grateful I was there because I can let them know how much she loves them and how grateful she is that the missionaries came to their house.”
Through Vanessa, their mother was able to tell them stories about their great-grandfather from Puerto Rico, the one who had 43 children. Wendy explains, “My mother spoke it in Spanish to Vanessa. Vanessa interpreted and told me the story. She changed it from Spanish to English and helped me write it down and everything. That’s the first time I had heard that story. Wow, I couldn’t believe it. I was quite shocked. I really liked it a lot to have Vanessa talk to my mother and interpret for me.”
Wendy and Wellington were baptized more than two years ago after being taught the gospel by missionaries. Wendy says, “I felt wonderful. I felt proud to be a daughter of Heavenly Father. I didn’t know that I was a daughter of God until then. I felt chills. All the sins in my life were just washed away.”
Through the gospel, Wendy is learning more about her family here on earth and about being part of a great eternal family in the gospel.

Kayla Walker followed in her father Kay’s footsteps as he approached the river. Their friend, Tim McCormick, also moved out onto the ice. But even though she was excited to make the crossing, she was a little scared. Their guide, Jerry McLeod, had already warned them both that if they felt the ice crack beneath their feet to spread out their arms to catch themselves from falling in completely. Kayla said, “He told us to try to stay above the ice. If you fall below, the current will carry you under the ice, and they wouldn’t be able to get you. That was sort of scary.”
Kayla stepped out on the ice. Exactly 150 years ago that month, the first pioneers to leave Nauvoo crossed on the ice of the Mississippi to the other side, leaving behind their beloved and beautiful city with the white temple shining on the hill. Kayla was reenacting that night with her father and a friend. (Any unauthorized activity on the river ice is prohibited.)
“I was wearing three pairs of pants, a turtleneck, and a sweater. Then I had on a big ski coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves. I had on two pairs of boot socks and hiking boots, and I was still cold. It was, like, minus-20 degrees. That’s why the ice was so thick. It was frozen 18 inches down. I could see cracks in it, but all you could see was more ice because it was so thick.
“It was dark. It was slippery, but we kept a steady pace. There was snow on top of the ice, so we did have some traction. We hit some slick spots where it was hard for me to keep up. I just didn’t want to stop. I wanted to get across. It took us 18 1/2 minutes.
“Brother McLeod’s wife met us on the other side in her van and drove us back home. I was very glad to get in that van with the heater on high and hot chocolate waiting. It was neat to think about my ancestors doing the same thing. Only they did it with long dresses and their children and some people who were sick. They did that, with no questions asked, because they believed in the Church. What a strong testimony they had. I think I would have gone hesitantly. I would have been asking, Why can’t I just wait? Just doing what they did so long ago was a big testimony builder.”
Kayla, 17, is a member of the Nauvoo Ward in Nauvoo, Illinois. She and the other youth in the ward have heard the stories about the pioneers who built their town at least a thousand times each. They all know that Nauvoo means the City Beautiful. And they know every street, every house, practically every flower and blade of grass in the city that they are helping to make beautiful once again. After all, many of their service projects and a lot of their summer jobs involve planting those flowers and mowing those blades of grass.
The city of Nauvoo today still occupies a gentle bend in the Mississippi River. It is a small town with only slightly more than 1,000 residents. In its day, 150 years ago, Nauvoo was a booming city of 10,000 residents. Now the streets of the old part of town on the flats are mostly filled with visitors. Pioneer homes, made of the local red brick, are slowly being rebuilt and repaired. When the youth are asked to come help decorate the Kimball home for Christmas, they immediately know it isn’t the home of one of the local ward members. It’s the home of Heber C. Kimball, an early leader in the Church.
Although there are no ghosts, it’s easy to feel the presence of those early settlers and how happy they were living gathered together, worshipping together, and just being where the Prophet Joseph was so they could see him and hear him often.
The Nauvoo teens know well the feeling of being in the presence of a prophet. They have had the last two presidents of the Church visit Nauvoo. Dustin Powell, 17, said about President Hinckley, “When the prophet came to speak, I was really paying attention to him. Everyone was more attentive. Everything was quiet so everyone could listen to him. I thought it was amazing.”
Trampas Powell, 16, added, “You just felt good to be where he was.”

In March of 1976, my wife, my two children, and I were baptized. We were very happy, feeling that we were starting a whole new life. That summer for our holiday, we rented a log cabin in Jotunheimen, one of the most scenic areas of Norway.
In a little sod-roofed cabin, surrounded by Norway’s highest mountains, my family and I had some wonderful days together. Although we lived almost fourteen kilometers from our nearest neighbor, we never felt lonely. We felt very strongly the spirit of the Lord with us. That summer we had an experience that even today makes me tremble with humility and gratitude for the great love the Lord has for his children.
Early one beautiful, cloudless morning, we started on a long hike. We saw deep ravines and snowy mountain peaks reflected in blue mountain lakes. The hike was a little more difficult than we had anticipated, but we enjoyed the solitude and the magnificent scenery. Three or four kilometers from our destination, we needed to cross a steep, narrow ridge called Besseggen to get to a mountain called Veslefjeldet. I felt we could cross it safely, but a still, quiet voice within me seemed to whisper that we should not go that way. I had been baptized only four months before, and was still unfamiliar with the promptings of the Holy Ghost, so I took no notice of the warning.
As we got closer to the mountain, I again heard the voice warning me, so I stopped and studied the map. If we did not make the short climb over Besseggen and Veslefjeldet, we would have to walk around a mountain and a lake. It would take until midnight to reach our destination. I thought about our tired legs and empty food bag and decided that we should continue the way we were going.
When we reached the foot of the mountain, the small voice clearly repeated, “Hans, you must not go over the mountain.” Again we stopped and looked up toward the narrow mountain ridge. The sun was shining and the air was calm, and I still saw no reason to heed the warning. We began to climb.
I led the way while my wife, Lise, came last, keeping the children safely between us. We experienced little difficulty climbing, yet I still felt that I was doing something wrong. Halfway up, we stopped to admire the view. On our left was a sheer drop of 150 meters, while on our right, the mountainside dropped away abruptly for 500 meters.
Lise and the children were excited about the stillness and the wonderful view, but I continued to feel anxious. Suddenly I felt a gust of wind from the north, and I heard a rushing sound that grew louder. Within minutes we were in the middle of a howling storm. I cried out to my family to lie down and hold on tight. We each clung desperately to the mountain, trying to dig our fingers into the earth, but the gusts of wind were so violent we were slowly being blown toward the edge.
Suddenly I understood what I had done. The missionaries’ words about the Holy Ghost’s quiet whisperings came back to me, and I realized that during the last half hour I had ignored the Holy Ghost three times. I prayed that the Lord would save my wife and children. Full of remorse, I cried for forgiveness.
Then, through the storm’s howling, I heard a deep and powerful voice within me telling me to go back down the mountainside. The voice warned me that he who does not obey the voice of the Lord shall be cast out from His presence.
Suddenly a calm stillness replaced the storm. Amazed, I pushed myself to my knees to give thanks and to acknowledge the Lord’s power. My wife and children shouted for me to hurry so we could climb to the top of the mountain. But now I knew better. We must go down, I commanded, immediately! Without knowing why, my family obeyed. As we reached the foot of the mountain, we again heard a rushing noise, and in a few moments the storm was gusting even stronger than before. I told my family what had happened to me on the mountain ridge. Together we knelt to thank the Lord for preserving our lives.
To this day, more than ten years later, I cannot think about this experience without great emotion. On that summer day, while I clung to a Norwegian mountainside, the Lord taught me and my family the value of listening to the whisperings of the Holy Ghost.

“As a young boy I was out on a farm … playing about … when I saw over the fence in the neighbor’s yard some broken-down buildings with the sheds caving in. … I imagined … that might be a castle I should explore, so I went over to the fence and started to climb through. Then I heard a voice as distinctly as you are hearing mine: ‘Harold, don’t go over there.’ I looked in every direction to see where the speaker was. I wondered if it was my father, but he couldn’t see me; he was way up at the other end of the field. There was no one in sight. I realized that someone was warning me of an unseen danger—whether there was a nest of rattlesnakes, or whether the rotting timbers would fall on me and crush me, I don’t know. But from that time on, I accepted without question … that there are processes not known to man by which we can hear voices from the unseen world, by which we can have brought to us visions of eternity” (Stories from the General Authorities, Mar. 1973, p. 12).

This is not an aristocracy of the haughty, the snobbish, and the arrogant, but of the humble and strong. They live lives of productivity and usefulness. Approximately 18,000 of them presently perform a matchless service as missionaries at considerable monetary sacrifice to themselves and/or their loved ones. In the last fortnight I have been privileged to meet with some 200 of them laboring in a foreign country. One of them, a tall, smiling young American with his plastic raincoat folded in his coat pocket, approached.

“Elder,” I queried, “how long have you been on your mission?”

“Since March,” he responded.

For no apparent reason I asked, “How long since you heard from your mother?”

He smiled broadly. “I got my second letter from her last week,” he said.

“How long since you’ve heard from your father?” I inquired.

He said, “I have not heard from him. I don’t know where he is. My parents are not members of this Church, and I come from a broken home. I had a paper route in my home town in the Midwest, and a family on my paper route, whom I hardly knew, felt sorry for me and invited me to live with them. The missionaries found this family, and they joined the Church and I joined with them. I began to save my money so that if called on a mission, I might be able to go. I worked hard and was able to save much faster than I thought I could. Two years after my conversion, I am serving as a missionary.”

These choice young people are not an aristocracy of the rich, but of those who are rich in the Spirit of God. It is not an aristocracy of the politically or socially powerful, but of those who have great moral influence. It is and would be of those who are the elect of God. It is an aristocracy of the young Saints of God, even as those who are on the stand this afternoon and who will be on the stand singing for us this evening.

Jesus spoke of them when he said: “He shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds.” (Matt. 24:31.)

Listen to the counsel of Paul to the Colossians: “Put on therefore, as the elect of God, holy and beloved, bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, longsuffering.” (Col. 3:12.)

How can the young elect of God, as well as those who are older, begin this herculean task?

First, by their example of obedience to the commandments of God, thus enjoying the personal guidance of his Holy Spirit.
Second, by sharing their special knowledge as missionaries.
Third, by responding to the high level of expectancy of their parents and Church leaders.
Fourth, through the giving of themselves. A very special young friend of mine served as a missionary of this Church in Japan. His dedication to missionary work and the Japanese people was so complete and full that, rather than spend all of the money his parents sent to him, he unselfishly made a regular contribution of part of his money to help another local Japanese missionary. His parents sent him extra money so that he could buy some camera equipment available in Japan to record in pictures a few of the great experiences he was having. Rather than buy the camera equipment, which would have served him well for a lifetime, he chose rather to send the money back to his parents. In time, as with most missionaries, the clothes of my young friend became threadbare and thin. In order for him to be able to come home, it was necessary for him to buy a second-hand suit from one of the other elders. His regular denial of himself, in order to share his substance with the local Japanese missionary, was a very closely guarded secret. He is a good example of the young elect of God of this Church, as are hundreds of thousands of others.

I desire to leave my witness of the divinity of this great and ever-advancing cause made possible by the obedience, sacrifice, and faithfulness of the elect of God.
I know that God lives. I know that this is his work. I know that he inspires his great prophet President Spencer W. Kimball. I know his path is the only way to peace and happiness here and hereafter, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

I wanted to visit Salt Lake City and surprise my good friends Elder Kimball and Brother Lamar Williams. Finally, in the spring of 1969, eight years after my baptism, I visited Salt Lake City and met with Elder Kimball. He was delighted and spent the rest of the day with me.
While in Salt Lake City, I went to a salon for a haircut. I shared my testimony with the barber, who was a convert himself. One gentleman, waiting for his turn, overheard me and told me about his travels to India. He paid for my haircut, invited me to dinner, and drove me to Brigham Young University. I was impressed by the campus. I mentioned that I wanted to continue my studies here but could not afford it. The man offered to pay $1,000 for my tuition. I was surprised and immensely grateful.

Outside, the typhoon was raging. But inside, there was a calm, peaceful spirit.
Gathered in their small Philippine home in December 1987, the Paronda family was kneeling in prayer. Brother Ruben Paronda, normally soft-spoken, had to raise his voice almost to a shout as he prayed. Even so, his wife, Nelly, and their children had to strain to hear his words above the pounding rain and the relentless howling of the wind. The prayer was filled with pleadings to the Lord to calm the storm.
The town of Tigaon, Camarines Sur, Philippines, is in the typhoon belt—and the Paronda family has seen many storms. But this time they were more desperate than ever for the storm to stop. It was keeping them from traveling to Manila to be sealed in the temple. And this was the second time their temple trip was being threatened.
Eleven months after the jeepney accident, they had finally saved enough money again to make the trip. Then the typhoon hit! Their home and store were spared, but their crops were destroyed. Streets were flooded, and travel was impossible.
Surrounded by chaos, they still felt that their most urgent need was to get to the temple immediately. “We were in a hurry to be sealed,” explains Brother Paronda. Unfortunately, in only two or three days the temple would close for several weeks.
Finally, during the night at the height of the storm, the family knelt in prayer. “We asked the Lord to stop the storm so we could go,” says Brother Paronda. “Heavenly Father answered our prayer. The storm stopped during the night, and we had good weather for our journey.”
The next day, they rented a jeepney (their own was still not in running condition), and Brother and Sister Paronda and the eight children crowded inside for the fifteen-hour trip. After driving through the night, they arrived at the temple the day before it was to close. Immediately they changed into white clothes, and everyone who was old enough (father, mother, and six children) received the temple endowment.
Then the parents were sealed to each other, and the children were sealed to them—including their son Alan who had died twelve years earlier as an eight-month-old baby. “Even though Alan isn’t living with us at this time,” says Marilyn, “we know that someday we will be together again. He is still a part of our family.”
“I am so grateful,” says Sister Nelly Paronda, “that my whole family can now be together forever.”
When they left the temple that day, it was late. And they had had no rest from their journey. “But we did not feel tired or hungry,” says Marilyn. “We felt very happy that the Lord had answered our prayers.”
The following day, they attended the temple again. Later, the oldest son, Noel, was sealed in the temple with his wife and children. And family members have returned to do ordinance work for grandparents and great-grandparents.

“Recently, at a speaking engagement, a woman approached me and told me that she had read my bio over and over again.
“Puzzled, I asked, ‘Why?’
“She told me that she had four young children at home and she felt guilt for being a working mother. Reading in my bio that I had worked outside the home gave her peace.
“I looked her in the eyes and asked,
“‘Do you know how to receive personal revelation?’
“‘Yes,’ she responded.
“Then I told her, ‘Every time someone says something that is hurtful or makes you doubt what you’re doing, just remind yourself: I know how to receive personal revelation for myself and for my family.’
“God knows you. He knows your situation. He knows your heart. Trust in the Lord, learn to hear His voice, and then go forward with confidence and relief. He needs you in His work.”
President Camille N. Johnson, Facebook, July 15, 2023, facebook.com/RSGeneralPresident.

In one ward several years ago, the MIA workers all wondered how the young men’s president was able to be so organized and never forget any commitments or meetings or tasks that needed to be done. He was a real example of time management and personal organization. One day he disclosed to the MIA group that he was really quite poor at remembering and found a pocket calendar to be extremely helpful. His philosophy was that a dull pencil helped to maintain a sharp mind. He used his pocket planner as a planning, remembering, and organizing device, much the same as described above. His pocket calendar supplemented his memory so that he would not have to retain all of his commitments mentally and, therefore, would be free to think and evaluate.