Gospel Story Finder

We were driving through the majestic Swiss Alps on a family vacation when, without warning, our van lost all power. My husband, Floyd, pulled over to the side of the alpine road and tried to restart the engine. Suddenly there was a loud bang. “It’s okay,” Floyd said. “Just a backfire.”
But something made me look out the rear window. To my horror, I saw flames of fire coming out from under the van, spreading across the back of the vehicle. “There’s a fire!” I cried. Floyd reacted instantly. “Everyone out of the van—now!” he yelled, running around to open the side doors for us. Our two girls, ages sixteen and six, quickly climbed out of the van and ran down the roadside out of harm’s way. Our four-year-old son, shoeless and frightened, was next into his father’s arms. He was sent running away from the burning van which we expected to explode at any minute.
The baby and I were last. It seemed to take forever to unfasten the harness holding him in his car seat. Floyd helped us out, and we ran, too.
A cloud of oily black smoke was rising from the burning van as a young French couple stopped. The man ran to telephone for help. His wife helped me calm the children.
Next a truck driver stopped, and began to put out the fire with an extinguisher from his truck. Then he helped my husband rescue most of our baggage. The van continued to burn.
By now, farmers had wandered out of their homes to watch the excitement. Soon a large fire truck and police cars arrived. Quickly, the fire crew put out the blaze and retrieved the rest of our baggage.
There we were, our suitcases scattered beside the burned-out van, stranded at the side of a highway in Switzerland—a long way from our home in California. But we felt relieved and thankful to be safe and to have most of our baggage as well.
“Anyone here speak English?” my husband asked hopefully. There were only blank looks and a few shrugs.
Then a man and his son stepped forward. “You come to my house,” he said in halting English. “You come to my house.” He pointed across the valley to a small cottage. It took three trips in his little car to get all of us and our baggage there. Our new-found friend’s wife and family fed us, put our weary children to bed, and helped us sort and repack all our things.
The wife spoke perfect English, and we stayed up late into the night talking with our hosts, but it wasn’t until the next morning as we prepared to leave that we discovered they were Latter-day Saints, too. It made our host family even more special to us.
That day in the Alps was the most memorable part of our vacation. We will never forget our frightening experience. Nor shall we forget that Swiss family—brothers and sisters in the gospel whom we found by accident—and the love they showed for us.

When a new dean was chosen to fill the post I had occupied here at BYU, I was anxious for the future of that division. For a quarter of a century I had prayed and worked with this stepchild of the University—the Extension Division of Continuing Education. The Lord poured out his blessings upon it over the years to make it one of the most respected extension programs among the institutions of higher learning in this country. There were several promising young men as candidates for the deanship. We could have honestly recommended several. In the office of the new and young president of Brigham Young University we discussed the choice. Then I heard President Oaks say, “This is a most important decision. I think we should kneel in prayer and ask the Lord for guidance.” I knelt down with him and another Ph.D., Vice-President Thomas. The prayer was simple and direct. He asked for light and discernment in whatever course of action we were about to take. And when we arose, I knew by the manifestations of the Spirit that the Lord would not fail us. I didn’t see the name of the next dean written on the wall, but I felt good about whatever might be done. I knew that we would not make a bad choice. And isn’t this feeling the most important blessing that God could give anyone? When President Oaks mentioned a name, we all agreed. And there was a good spirit present.

Now I’m just simple enough to believe that the Lord will stand by that feeling which he gives us. The new dean may stay a short or a long time. The blessings we ask for come in unexpected ways, but if the will of the Lord is done what is there to fear?

About five years ago, two missionaries came to my home in Ecuador. I was impressed with their appearance and kindness and agreed to listen to their message. I found their message interesting, but I had some doubts about it. However, I completed the reading assignments from the Book of Mormon for each of our meetings and accepted the challenge to pray.
When they finished the six lessons, the missionaries invited me to be baptized. Although I prayed constantly to know if these things were true, I didn’t believe I had received an answer. I expected to see an angel, the gold plates, or some other heavenly manifestation.
One night I was reading something about Ezra Taft Benson, who was then the President of the Church. I felt a strong desire to know if he was a prophet. I no longer aspired to see a vision—I simply wanted a witness of the truth. After praying for some time, I heard a quiet, penetrating voice testify to me that Ezra Taft Benson was a prophet, and I felt a burning sensation in my chest.
I had obtained my testimony—not through an angelic visitation, but through the still, small voice. It was with great joy and gratitude that I accepted the invitation to be baptized.

“I prayed with such a tiny seed of faith, and still I felt Their love.”
Theo’s dad is diabetic and has relied on a dialysis machine (a machine that cleans blood for those who have damaged kidneys) for the past 18 years. Growing up, it was hard for Theo to think of what the future might hold for his dad.
“When I was just starting high school, his health declined to the point where losing him became a very real possibility,” Theo says. “There was no stopping the fear and sadness of knowing that could happen.”
On top of this trial, Theo didn’t feel worthy enough to pray. “Church just wasn’t as important to me as it should be,” he says. “I didn’t think I was in the right mind-set.”
But when the day came that Theo thought his dad was ready to go, Theo felt a clear prompting that he needed to turn to God.
On the day he thought his father would die, Theo decided to get on his knees and pray. “I began that prayer not expecting a response. But instantly I felt comfort and strength.”
Today, Theo’s dad is still alive and defying all medical odds. Theo recognizes how big of a miracle that is, especially since a lot of people don’t survive illnesses like these. Most of all, he’s grateful he felt God’s love. “Heavenly Father and the Savior are so generous. I prayed with such a tiny seed of faith, and still I felt Their love.”

You could say 17-year-old Chris S. of Florida danced his way into the Church, but that’s not totally correct. Actually, it was the people he danced with who introduced him to the gospel. Chris is part of a troupe that performs Panamanian folk dances, and two of his best friends, Rebecca and Joshua R., who are also in the group, invited him to come to church.
“One time we started talking about the Church, and I just told him more about it, and he seemed really interested,” Rebecca says. “I told my parents about it, and they said we should invite him to church.” So one day they invited Chris to come, and he accepted.
“I asked my parents, and they said I could go,” Chris remembers. He also remembers how well received he was. “I was kind of nervous. But once I came, everyone was so warm and welcoming. It was nice to be there, and I felt comfortable.”
Soon Chris began meeting with the missionaries. “When they came over, they taught me a lesson and gave me a Book of Mormon,” he says. “They told me to read and pray, and I did. I didn’t feel anything at first, but then later on as I prayed, I felt great because it was like something inside of me was really warm. I know that was the Spirit, and it was a great feeling.”
Chris continued learning and decided to be baptized. “After being baptized, I received the Holy Ghost, received the Aaronic Priesthood, and was ordained a priest,” he says. “I felt special knowing that I am in God’s Church and that He loves me.”

Third, sleep. Even this basic desire can be temporarily overridden by an even more important desire. As a young soldier in the Utah National Guard, I learned an example of this from a combat-seasoned officer.

In the early months of the Korean War, a Richfield Utah National Guard field artillery battery was called into active service. This battery, commanded by Captain Ray Cox, consisted of about 40 Mormon men. After additional training and reinforcement by reservists from elsewhere, they were sent to Korea, where they experienced some of the fiercest combat of that war. In one battle they had to repel a direct assault by hundreds of enemy infantry, the kind of attack that overran and destroyed other field artillery batteries.

What does this have to do with overcoming the desire for sleep? During one critical night, when enemy infantry had poured through the front lines and into the rear areas occupied by the artillery, the captain had the field telephone lines wired into his tent and ordered his numerous perimeter guards to phone him personally each hour on the hour all night long. This kept the guards awake, but it also meant that Captain Cox had scores of interruptions to his sleep. “How could you do that?” I asked him. His answer shows the power of an overriding desire.

“I knew that if we ever got home, I would be meeting the parents of those boys on the streets in our small town, and I didn’t want to face any of them if their son didn’t make it home because of anything I failed to do as his commander.”1

What an example of the power of an overriding desire on priorities and on actions! What a powerful example for all of us who are responsible for the welfare of others—parents, Church leaders, and teachers!

As a conclusion to that illustration, early in the morning following his nearly sleepless night, Captain Cox led his men in a counterattack on the enemy infantry. They took over 800 prisoners and suffered only two wounded. Cox was decorated for bravery, and his battery received a Presidential Unit Citation for its extraordinary heroism. And, like Helaman’s stripling warriors (see Alma 57:25–26), they all made it home.2

Concerned because Farmington’s boys were often getting into mischief, Aurelia asked Eliza R. Snow, the sister of Lorenzo Snow, if there should not be an organization to help little boys grow into good men. Sister Snow relayed the suggestion to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the governing body of the Church following the death of Brigham Young. John Taylor, the President of the Quorum, gave his approval, and Sister Rogers was called upon to organize and serve as the president of the first Primary in the Church. She wisely decided that girls should also be part of the organization, and the first Primary was held in Farmington Ward on August 25, 1878.

We’ll be there, Linus. We’ll share your lonely vigil in that ever-so-sincere pumpkin patch. We’ll wait with you and hope with you and almost believe with you. But the Great Pumpkin won’t appear. He can’t. He always spends Halloween with the Hales family in Vestal, New York.
He doesn’t rise from among the vines though. He hides slyly in the mounds of orange-yellow globes at one of the several nearby pumpkin farms, and the Haleses have to come search for him.
Today they’re at Jackson’s Pumpkin Farm in Campville. The open-air pumpkin market is decorated with pumpkin animals, pumpkin people, pumpkin houses. Pumpkins lie all about in great glowing heaps.
Holly, age 14, rolls out a huge, round, golden pumpkin and looks at it critically. It’s beautiful, but it’s not the one. Stephen, age 11-going-on-deacon, studies an elongated pretender with a touch of green in its yellow skin. It would make a fine jack-o’-lantern, but it’s not the Hales family pumpkin.
Dad and Mom rummage about in the towering stacks of autumn gold. Lots of wonderful pumpkins here, but not the one-and-only-authentic-no-doubt-about-it-can’t-miss-right pumpkin.
They take their time. It’s not something they want to be wrong about. It is Kristin who finally finds it—Kristin Lehtinen and her brother Duane, ages 14 and 11. It’s hiding under an obese, presumptuous fruit that’s trying to pass itself off as the perfect pumpkin.
The judges gather around and confer. They examine the candidate from all angles. Yes, this is it! If it’s not the Great Pumpkin, it’s certainly a great pumpkin.
Kristin and Duane are the heroes of the day. They’ve saved the family from the unthinkable disaster of taking home the wrong official Halloween pumpkin.
If you’re wondering why the heroes are not Haleses, it’s because the Haleses and the Lehtinens are good friends who often do things together. Today, October 12, the Lehtinens have joined the Haleses for a Columbus Day family home evening activity. And thank heavens they have!
And that brings us back to the family home afternoon in October. After buying their pumpkins, the Haleses and the Lehtinens moved on to their favorite cider mill for a jug of fresh-pressed cider and a bag of crisp, juicy apples. The local apples are justly renowned, and cider squeezed from them is the sweetest, tangiest nectar this side of heaven. A frothy cider toast is one family tradition the Haleses will drink to at the drop of a cup.
Trailing the deep fragrance of apples, they next drove to the farm of Brother and Sister Hogan to get some cornstalks. Then they went home to make great jack-o’-lanterns out of their great pumpkins.
They decorated their front door and porch with pumpkins, gourds, and cornstalks. Up and down the streets around them, people were doing the same. It’s a tradition the whole town shares. Ghosts appeared in neighborhood windows, and monsters emerged from the shrubs.
It was starting to look like another traditional Hales Halloween, and that suited everyone just fine. Because in the Hales home, family traditions are a family tradition.

Another day of school had ended. It was September of my freshman year of high school. I made my way to the rack where I had locked my bike when I arrived at school that day.
As I walked toward my bike, I decided I would take my favorite path home along the top of a hill and down to where my house was located. The thrill of riding down a steep hill with the wind blowing through my hair and past my face was a stress reliever. I could just glide to the bottom of the hill without slowing down because there wasn’t a stop sign until the road leveled out.
I removed my bike from its chain and began to ride away from the high school. I had to ride only a block before I reached the street that would take me along the ridge of the hill. As I neared the intersection where I intended to turn, I felt an urge not to. I shrugged the feeling off, and I told myself that I was being silly. The strange feeling subsided after I made the turn, so I figured I was just being indecisive.
I neared another intersection that would provide an alternate route to my house. Again I experienced the same feeling not to proceed, only stronger. I felt pulled toward a zigzagging side street but didn’t want to take the extra time getting home. Once more, I shrugged off the feeling.
I reached the next street and turned to ride down the hill. I descended the hill, not touching my bike’s brakes at all to achieve a good speed. As I neared one of the cross streets toward the bottom of the hill, a car pulled away from the curb on the opposite side of the street and turned in front of my bicycle. He hadn’t even seen me coming. In one horrible moment, I realized why I had experienced those strange feelings. The Holy Ghost had been trying to warn me that I was in danger if I traveled the path I had chosen. I was now in immediate danger, and there was no escape.
The driver of the car now noticed me barreling down the street and managed to stop his car before the impact. At the same time, I was squeezing my brakes trying to slow down as much as I could before I crashed. I started to brace myself for the collision when a feeling came over me and caused me to relax.
My bicycle hit the car on its right front tire. I flew forward off the bike, and the left side of my face hit the windshield. My body did a somersault, and I landed sitting cross-legged on the roof of the car. My bicycle landed 20 feet behind the car.
The driver immediately got out of his car, helped me down, and called an ambulance. I remember blood dripping from my nose while I lay there on the pavement.
It didn’t take long for a crowd to gather around the scene of the accident. A family friend recognized me and sat down on the pavement to talk to me until police and paramedics arrived. She was amazed that I was laughing and talking normally.
My parents came to the hospital shortly after I arrived in the ambulance. After the doctors cleaned my face and took some X-rays, I was ready to go home—scratched, bruised, and sore.
As I discussed the entire episode with my parents, I realized how much I had learned that day. Despite my foolishness, my Heavenly Father did not desert me. I also learned the Holy Ghost’s promptings are adapted to the demands of the situation. It was because of my stubbornness and doubts that I failed to recognize those promptings for what they were.
I have a testimony that Heavenly Father continues to love us and help us. I pray every day I will be able to recognize the promptings of the Holy Ghost so I may know of my Heavenly Father’s guidance and help in my life.

When I was a mission president, one of my responsibilities was to interview elders and sisters who had completed their missions and were returning home. I always asked what they were taking home as a result of their mission. I didn’t want to know what was inside their suitcases; I wanted to know what was inside of them.
One elder said, “I am going home liking myself.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
He said, “All my life I have wanted to be someone else. I was envious of the guy at high school who was popular with the girls. I wanted to be him. I was jealous of the guy who owned the red sports car. I wanted to be him. I wanted to be the quarterback of the football team.
“And when I arrived in the mission field, I had the same problem. I wanted to be the assistant to the president or the elder who could always quote the right scripture at the right time. I was always wishing I could be somebody else.”
“However, as I have served these two years, I have realized who I really am. I am a son of God. I have a good relationship with my Savior and my fellowmen. I have a greater love for my parents and my family. And I realize that I have talents I can develop and share and that others have their talents. I’m grateful for what I’ve been given. I’m no longer envious of what others have that I may not have. I’m going home feeling good about myself.”
I too had a good feeling about this elder and what was inside of him. How happy I was that he had come to appreciate himself and make that appreciation part of his life’s philosophy. Over the years, it has been a joy to see how this young man has developed and matured by sharing himself and his talents with others.

Another way to spread happiness with her talents began to develop after she had a conversation with one of her friends in the hospital. She and a fellow patient laughed at their thoughts of “how you know you’ve been in the hospital too long.” These quips soon turned into a coloring book Brittany drew called Life Is Full of Color. Each page has one of Brittany’s drawings and a humorous blurb, like, “You know you’ve been in the hospital too long when you can work your own IV pump” or “… when your room at the hospital is more decorated than your room at home.” The coloring book was published and is now being given to children in the hospital. Brittany hopes it helps them know they’re not alone in their trials.

A few weeks ago I spoke with a recent Brigham Young University graduate in New York City. During the conversation I detected a slight accent. I asked the young man if he was from another country. He said his homeland was Brazil, where he had spent the first 23 years of his life. Since few foreign converts are financially able or academically prepared to attend the university, I asked if he was a second- or third-generation member.
“No!” he responded. “I was a convert at age 17.”
I then asked, “How much education did you have at the time of your conversion?”
His answer, “I had completed the eighth grade.”
I was even more surprised. “How did you make it to BYU?” I inquired. “What motivated you to move forward with your education?”
In essence he responded, “The truths of the gospel and a mission experience convinced me of the importance of further study. Before my mission I learned about the principles of eternal progress. During the mission I had the opportunity to teach these principles to others. As I rubbed shoulders with other missionaries who had high educational aspirations, I became convinced of my own potential. When I returned from the mission field, I was determined to complete high school and move on to college. I earned a high school diploma within two years while working and saving and then applied for admittance to Brigham Young University. I was accepted. I have finished a bachelor’s degree and an MBA and now have excellent employment with a large multinational corporation that utilizes my talents in both the United States and Brazil.”
Simple but profound truths that we often take for granted had an enormous impact on the young Brazilian’s life. He took to heart the dictum to seek “out of the best books words of wisdom; seek learning, even by study and also by faith” (D&C 88:118). He believed the revelations that state: “It is impossible for a man [or woman] to be saved in ignorance (D&C 131:6); that “the glory of God is intelligence” (D&C 93:36); that
whatever principle of intelligence we attain unto in this life, it will rise with us in the resurrection.
And if a person gains more knowledge and intelligence in this life through his diligence and obedience than another, he will have so much the advantage in the world to come. [D&C 130:18–19]
Since the conversation, I have reflected again and again on the blessings of a testimony, of receiving “truth in the inward parts” (Psalm 51:6). In general we are aware of the eternal consequences of having gospel principles burned in our souls by the power of the Holy Ghost. The redemption of the soul and the inseparable connection of body and spirit coupled with eternal glory come to mind. These are of ultimate importance. But there are also more immediate blessings that flow from a testimony like that enjoyed by the young Brazilian. Not only was his eternal path changed forever, but so was his life in mortality. The motivation to improve his personal circumstances was a direct consequence of his conversion and faith. This motivation caused him to obtain an education that then led to employment well beyond anything he had dreamed of as a teenager in Brazil.

For Ann the problems faced by some of her fellow students are very real. “I bet if I wasn’t Mormon, it would be really hard. There is so much peer pressure. Sometimes they try to make the parties with drinking sound real fun, but to me it sounds childish. Being a member of the branch helps because we always have activities. With that and with student council and with other clubs, I really keep myself busy. I just wish other students would get involved because they always say it’s so boring, but they don’t get involved.”
Ann was a little worried about her graduation night. She and George and two of their friends were the only ones she knew of who were not going to a graduation party. They had chosen not to go because they were quite sure that there would be drinking at the parties. Even though Ann is president of the student body, she would not give up her principles for that night or any other.

I had always considered myself to be a “good listener” until that night. Being raised in the middle of a large family had forced me to do my share of listening just to keep the noise level low in my home. But I didn’t realize, until that night, that listening required more of me than just being quiet. I didn’t realize, until that night, how desperately someone could need to be listened to.
It had been a long day. In order for me to stay in school at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, I had to work part-time at night and go to school and study during the day. I was feeling tired and a little sorry for myself as I walked into the cafeteria late that night after a particularly hard day. The cafeteria was almost empty at that late hour.
I picked up my dinner tray and turned around to find a table. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a girl sitting alone at one of the tables. She was staring at her food with her head bowed. A large backpack, books, and papers were scattered all over the table where she was sitting. By all appearances, she obviously wanted to be left alone. There were plenty of empty tables and I started to walk toward one of them to sit down.
Suddenly I felt impressed to sit down next to the girl that I had noticed. Even though I was usually reserved, I found myself walking toward her table. I tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if I could sit next to her.
She silently and reluctantly agreed as she began to move her books and papers off the table. Her appearance and posture and manner all told me that she wanted to be left alone, and I wondered why I was being so intrusive.
Then we started to talk, slowly and cautiously at first. I felt strangely as if she were a lifetime friend of mine that I hadn’t seen for a long time, and I wanted to know all about her and what was happening to her. We both spoke freely, maybe even more freely than real friends because we had no images to maintain and no reputations to uphold.
The young girl told me about some extremely depressing things that were happening in her life at that time. We talked for hours. Then the tears came.
After several hours had gone by, she looked at me and said, “Tonight I was sitting here alone again, and I felt and really believed that I didn’t have a friend in this whole world. I couldn’t think of even one person that cared about me. I was sitting here thinking how I could end my life when you walked up and asked me if you could sit next to me. You’ll never know what you’ve done for me tonight. I’ve only known you for a few hours, but I know that you are my friend and that you care about me. There must still be a God that cares for me if you can care for me.”
Later we embraced and walked away in separate directions. I turned, suddenly remembering that I didn’t even know her name. But she had disappeared into the night.
As I walked toward home, I was feeling pretty good about myself knowing that I had heeded the impression to sit next to the girl. My problems seemed pretty small compared to hers.
Then suddenly I remembered all the times I had been similarly impressed to speak to someone, to spend time with someone, to telephone someone or to say an encouraging word to someone. I remembered the excuses of not wanting to be too presumptuous, or being too tired or worried about my own problems, or all the millions of reasons I had used for not heeding the promptings that I often received.
I suddenly wondered how many of those people I had neglected had needs as desperate as those of the young girl that I had just talked to.
Never before had I realized that to truly be a “good listener” I had to first learn to listen to the whisperings of the Holy Spirit. Alone, without the Spirit, I was unable to discern the real needs of the people around me. With the Spirit, I could listen with my heart as well as my mind.
I will probably never see that girl again, but I hope I will never again fail to listen to the impressions that the Spirit gives me.

The rest of the week was a buzz of activity. I aced my biology test, and Jill Langston won the election by seven votes. I stayed up late for the election dance, and Saturday night I worked until midnight on my research paper. By Sunday morning it was all I could do to keep my eyes open in fast and testimony meeting. I was leaning my head on the bench in front of me when somebody started talking about Brother Davidson. People were always talking about my dad. The woman was explaining how Brother Davidson was an answer to her prayer when he had gone over and helped start their mower and cleaned …

Suddenly I straightened up. Sister Long was speaking. And crying. And she wasn’t even talking about Dad. Nobody had ever called me Brother Davidson. I was just Kyle, Frank Davidson’s kid. And as far as I knew, I had never been an answer to anyone’s prayer.

A few moments later Christy Hudson was at the pulpit, dabbing at her eyes and fighting back tears. “I felt so alone,” she explained, “like no one cared and there was no one to turn to. I was angry with the Lord, the bishop, and everyone else for leaving me stranded. Then Brother Kyle Davidson, my home teacher, showed up with his friend Joel. They were like two angels. Nothing has seemed quite so dark and dismal since Thursday evening. I couldn’t ask for a better home teacher.”

My hand went to my eyes and I felt the lump in my throat. Dad reached over and squeezed my shoulder, and I knew he understood what I was feeling.

Thirty minutes later as I was leaving the chapel, someone called my name. I turned to face Steve Wellman. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you, Kyle,” he said quietly. “Sounds like I have a lot to learn. Let’s go early this month. I’ll make the appointments. You just tell me when.”

I looked over at Dad, and for the first time in my life I understood why Dad got all choked up and hyper about home teaching. It was then that I discovered that my home teaching families were not the only ones who had received the home teaching bonus deal.

After the boxes were prepared to go again, they were finally ready to be given to the coordinators at the hospice office, which was just down the street from the business where the boxes were being stored. But this time the youth decided that loading piles of boxes into a car for transport wasn’t such a good idea. After all, that was what had damaged many of the wrapping jobs the first time around. They decided that since the boxes had such a short way to travel, they would form a human chain from the location where the boxes were being stored to where they needed to go.

There aren’t too many LDS youth in West Plains, so they invited Primary children, adult leaders, and anyone else who wanted to help. They donned elves’ caps and spread out right through the heart of downtown West Plains. The boxes were handed from one person to another, and soon they were all safely at their destination, ready to be filled with food from the West Plains Ward and other community groups.

The group attracted a bit of attention from passersby, who were invited to join in. They didn’t have many takers, but several people did find out where they could donate food to go inside the boxes.

“Doing a project like this really makes you feel good,” says Heather Camier, a Beehive. “It’s great to work together as a group for a good cause. It’s the best this time of year; it really makes it feel like Christmas.”

Countless were the reports we heard of those who were touched in some way—either directly or indirectly—by the events of that day. Rebecca Sindar was on a flight from Salt Lake City, Utah, to Dallas, Texas, on the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Her flight, like all others in the United States at that time of tragedies, was interrupted; the plane was grounded in Amarillo, Texas. Sister Sindar reported: “We all left the plane and found televisions in the airport, where we crowded around to see the broadcast of what had happened. People were lined up to call loved ones to assure them we were safely on the ground. I shall always remember the 12 or so missionaries who were on their way to the mission field on our flight. They made phone calls, and then we saw them huddled in a circle in a corner of the airport, kneeling in prayer together. How I wish I could have captured that moment to share with the mothers and fathers of those sweet young men as they saw the need for prayer right away.”

Eleven-year-old Ashley slowly made her way down a crooked path that wound through the frosted hush of the October woods. She paused in a little patch of misted light that sifted through the leafy gold canopy, softening the early morning chill. She rubbed her arms, shivering at an inner cold that the sunlight couldn’t reach, the same cold that had frozen her father’s face in a mask of sorrow.
Ashley couldn’t see the unhappiness on her father’s face, because she had been blind since birth, but she could hear it in his voice and in the silence that had replaced his laughter when her mother died. It had been almost a whole year, but still—
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden burst of wings. Something or someone had startled a large bird nearby, and it erupted skyward.
A moment later a gentle voice said, “It’s me, Ashley—Michelle.” Ashley felt Michelle’s hand slip about hers. “You should have waited for me at your cabin.” Michelle’s voice was as light and airy as the wind-spun autumn leaves that danced in the yellow wood. “I was on my way to get you.”
“It’s OK,” Ashley said. “I know this path almost as well as these trees do. I’ve been coming here every day for the past two weeks.”
Michelle glanced about at the golden silence. “It is pretty,” she admitted, “but well—since you can’t see, what is it that—” The sadness she saw in the dark, sightless eyes made her pause.
“You said that there are lots of yellows here at this time of year,” Ashley explained. “Remember when I asked you what yellow looked like? You told me it was a happy, warm color—like the sun, like a smile.” She reached through the blackness of her world and touched a yellow aspen leaf. “That’s why I come here. I keep hoping that somehow it will help me feel happy so that I can help my father smile again.”
Michelle squeezed Ashley’s hand. “It is beautiful here. But even if you could see, I don’t think all the yellows in the world could mend a heart for more than a moment.”
Ashley leaned against a leafless tree, feeling as empty as the branches above her. “You’re happy, Michelle. Why? I mean, you lost your brother in that millpond accident just last summer. And then your father’s fruit crop failed because of the late freeze, and he had to sell half his land.”
“I guess our testimonies keep us happy,” Michelle said thoughtfully.
“Testimonies?”
“Knowing that God lives,” Michelle returned simply, “that He loves us, that He allows us difficulties in our lives to help us grow. My mother says that a candle shines brightest in the blackest night.”
I know a lot about the blackest night, Ashley thought as the two girls started down the path in a rush of tumbling leaves. What she wanted to know more about were testimonies. “Tell me more,” she begged.
“They’re growing things, Ashley,” Michelle explained. “A testimony starts small, like the first light at dawn, then gets bigger and warmer like the sun at noonday, like the brightest of autumn leaves. But you have to work at it,” she added as the pair walked toward her farmhouse for a day of play. “You have to feel your way along like you do in these woods, only with your heart. All of it.”
“Will you help me get one, Michelle?”
Michelle stopped and faced her friend. “I can’t give you a testimony,” she answered kindly. “All I can do is share mine with you, and—” Michelle’s voice relayed her sudden idea. “Maybe there is a way I can help you, Ashley! Tomorrow is Sunday, and someone very special is coming to speak at our meetinghouse.”
“Who is it?”
“A prophet, Ashley. A prophet of God.”
Later, as Ashley waited impatiently for her father to return home from his job at the factory in Harperville, she listened to the wall clock tick like a tired heartbeat. At length she heard the rattle of a flatbed wagon and the snorting of spent horses outside. A few minutes later her father stood in the doorway.
“Hi, Ash, it’s me.” Papa’s voice sounded tired. “It was a long day, hon.” He sat down beside her and sighed wearily. “A long day.” He regarded his daughter in the ruddy haze of late-day window light. “What is it?”
“It’s a meeting, Papa! Tomorrow morning at Michelle’s church. Someone special is coming to talk to them. Will you take me, Papa? Please.”
Papa sighed again. “On my only day off? Not tomorrow, sweetheart. I’m so worn out I could sleep on a fence post for a week! I need tomorrow to—”
“Please, Papa?” Ashley implored again.
“Not tomorrow. Another time maybe.”
Papa patted her head, rose to his feet with a tired grunt, and disappeared into his room. “Wake me when the clock chimes again, and I’ll fix us something to eat,” he called back.
That night Ashley prayed that her father would somehow change his mind about the meeting, then drifted off into a troubled sleep.
Early the next morning, Ashley felt someone gently waking her “Ash? If we’re going to make that meeting on time we’d better get ourselves ready.”
Ashley sat up. “Papa! But I thought you were too tired.”
“It’s hard to believe,” Papa replied, “but when I woke up this morning, I felt more rested than if I had slept for a week of Sundays. So are you going to get up, or grow old in bed?” Papa ran his hand through the girl’s tangled hair, then left the room.
For a moment Ashley just lay in bed, reflecting on an answered prayer. She felt as if something was glowing inside her like the dawn’s first light streaming unseen through the curtains on her bedroom window.
At church, Ashley sat with Michelle on one side and Papa on the other, listening to a prophet’s voice. Ashley didn’t have to see the man behind the pulpit to know that he spoke with authority. She could feel it. The comfort, peace, and sweet assurance of his voice settled over her like the patchwork comforter her mother had made for her. He spoke with penetrating assuredness of the living God, the resurrection, and the reuniting of loved ones in the world to come.
Papa’s hand found hers, and squeezed it. Tears filled her sightless eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She felt her father’s body shake with emotion and knew that he was shedding tears of his own.
At that moment Ashley knew what yellow autumn leaves looked like. They were bright and beautiful, and they glowed—like her testimony. Like happy months and years ahead. Like a certain little cabin by the October woods, now even on the darkest of days.

As a missionary in Germany in 1967, I attended a few lectures at a Catholic theological seminary on what we called Diversion Day. There I heard about the writing style in the Bible known as chiasmus. My companion and I purchased a book that the professor had mentioned. We studied the book carefully and reread the entire gospel of Matthew with this tool of literary analysis in mind. Only after this effort and careful study was I awakened early one morning by the words, “If it is evidence of Hebrew style in the Bible, it must be evidence of Hebrew style in the Book of Mormon.” I wondered why no one had ever seen this feature in the Book of Mormon before; yet with faith that it might be so, I got out of bed and began reading where my companion and I just happened to have left off the night before. In a few minutes I discovered the classic chiastic passage in Mosiah 5:10-12, and soon after encountered several others. I never would have found this on my own. I don’t know that the Book of Mormon is true because I find these things; rather, I can find these things because I know that the record is true. As President Packer has cautioned, we should not say “I know the gospel is true, however . . . .” Rather, “I know the gospel is true, therefore . . . .”

My employer transferred our family to Beijing just a few years after I had finished graduate school. As I arrived to develop clients for our consulting firm, business leaders from the United States and Europe advised that, to be successful, I would need to take Chinese executives to karaoke bars and consume a lot of alcohol. I chose not to do that, and yet our firm still succeeded.

You may be tempted to break the Word of Wisdom to fit in socially, to try something new, or to obtain a work promotion. You may think that just a little sip will not hurt. I assure you that it will—spiritually, and perhaps physically as well. I testify the Lord will bless you with “wisdom and great treasures”20 as you choose to be peculiar in joyfully living the Word of Wisdom.