Gospel Story Finder

My father was an educated man and had many talents. He also had positive feelings about our Lord Jesus Christ. But from the time of my childhood, my father drank so much it seemed to me he was never sober. I remember that he had lost his regular job and would only work at temporary jobs a few days at a time, just enough to earn money for his liquor. His drinking affected me deeply, and I often prayed he would find the strength to quit.
And one day, four months before his death, he did. He stopped drinking completely and tried to start a new life. He was even going to get his job back. One night, several months after his death, I dreamed that my father was sitting on some kind of platform. He looked at me and smiled; his countenance shone, and he seemed to be very happy. With him were several others dressed in white whom I did not recognize. The dream impressed me, and I asked myself how my father could be in a state of peace and happiness when he had lived so irresponsibly on earth. He had left my mother with six small children and had done nothing to provide for us. When people would ask me about him, I would reply that he had been a bad father.
Then one night I had another dream in which I saw myself on the doorstep of our home talking to my father. He was drunk, seemed very pale, and was dressed in filthy clothes. I was screaming at him, asking him why he drank so much. I yelled at him to go away and leave us alone. All of a sudden I saw another man coming toward me. This man was also my father, but this time he was neatly dressed, his face was shining, and the look in his eyes was one of peace. Pointing to the other man he said, “That’s the man I once was; this is the way I am now.”
My joy at that moment was indescribable, for I knew this dream was the answer to my first dream—my father really had changed his ways before he died. He had won the battle he had been fighting with alcohol. He had repented
Since then, I have often rejoiced in the knowledge that my father is at peace and that he is progressing. I have also rejoiced in the knowledge that the way to true happiness for each of us is through faith and repentance. No matter how mired in sin and unhappiness, we truly can change our lives. The Savior’s atonement made that possible.

Not long ago I attended a family home evening with a family whom I love very much: a young husband and wife and their little daughter. As their bishop I had come to their home acting partly on a prompting from the Spirit and largely on a prompting from this young father’s concerned mother and sister, who were also present. The Lord had been working with this family to make big changes in their lives and bring them back to the blessings of the gospel and the Church. But something had happened that day.
For months this young father had been deeply concerned about providing for his family. His employment was expected to end soon, and he and his wife were in the midst of deciding whether to relocate their family to another state. That would mean significant changes for the family. Earlier that day this father learned that some greatly anticipated financial relief would not be coming; it was crushing news.
When I arrived at their apartment, I could see the deep discouragement in his face. The responsibility of providing for a family and the unwelcome news weighed heavily on the shoulders of this young father.
His wife had chosen a chapter of scripture for the lesson to address their concerns of feeling overwhelmed. The father read the entire chapter. You may recognize these words from Isaiah 55:
“Every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy … without money and without price. …
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord” (verses 1, 8).
And then the family discussed what those verses meant to them. The Spirit of the Lord filled that little apartment as this family home evening evolved into a family council. This young father shared his fears and concerns and desires, and everyone shared their love and concern for each other. They talked about what to do, what options they had, what actions to take.
It was a very open discussion. There were some disagreements. I felt impressed to simply listen and observe. Finally, in unity the husband and wife determined they should make the decision together with the Lord through prayer. I then offered words of support and encouragement.
I can recall few times when I’ve recognized the Spirit of the Lord more strongly than in that little apartment that evening with that humble, struggling family. It was a fulfillment of the Lord’s promise given to His disciples long ago: “Where two or three are gathered together in my name, as touching one thing, behold, there will I be in the midst of them—even so am I in the midst of you” (D&C 6:32).
Those words from the Savior are not just good advice or mere words of comfort. For the young prophet Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery, those words of the Savior set forth the doctrine and pattern for obtaining revelation and guidance and for making decisions in the kingdom of God.
The Lord was in the midst of that family council that night. They had invited His Spirit through prayer and scripture study. They were united in purpose. They were filled with love for one another. They brought their best ideas and experiences and laid them before each other and before the Lord and asked for His guidance. They made decisions in unity and then took action.

President Angel Alarcón from the Puente Piedra stake in Lima, Peru, shared the following experience with me: “Each Saturday, the missionaries, the bishop, some leaders from auxiliary organizations, and I visit less-active members, nonmembers, and new converts from 8:30 a.m. till noon.”
At this point of his story, the words of the hymn came to my mind:
Dear to the heart of the Shepherd,
Dear are the lambs of his fold;
Some from the pastures are straying,
Hungry and helpless and cold.
See, the Good Shepherd is seeking,
Seeking the lambs that are lost,
Bringing them in with rejoicing,
Saved at such infinite cost.
(“Dear to the Heart of the Shepherd,” Hymns, no. 221)
Brother Vargas, whose home was located in an area of limited access, received a call one Saturday morning. It was President Alarcón, calling from his mobile phone, announcing his arrival. Brother Vargas then said, “I am surprised; it is very hard to reach my house.”
To which came the reply: “Well, I am at your door right now, and I wish to speak to you. We need you, and we invite you to come to our Church meetings tomorrow.”
Then the man, who had stopped attending church for many years, replied, “I will be there.” Thus, he started his journey back home.

As part of the ‘Rise and Reach’ summer programme, on three days in 2020 (15 August, 3 September and 24 October) a group of youth, young adults and missionaries of the Church in Walworth, London, undertook service projects for Thames Reach, at three of its sites. Thames Reach is a charitable organisation that supports homeless and vulnerable individuals, some with mental-health concerns, to access housing, training, and employment opportunities.
For various reasons, including the national lockdown caused by the COVID-19 pandemic, no gardening had taken place for a long time at the sites, and the gardens were much in need of attention. Thus, when the offer of help was made, Amy Dawe of Thames Reach readily accepted.
The tasks for the volunteers involved cutting back overgrown foliage, tree branches, weeding and litter-picking around the properties. On each occasion, the volunteers laboured diligently, the results being a very noticeable difference in the appearance of the gardens.
Amy was delighted with the results. She said the residents were very pleased with the transformation. Once again, they would be able to use and enjoy their outdoor spaces, thanks to the tremendous hard work of the group of Church volunteers.
Following the completion of the second project, Bishop Abdul Rollings-Kamara of Peckham Ward, received an email from the volunteers programmes manager of Thames Reach. She informed him that the volunteers had won a Volunteer Hero Award, in recognition for the work they had undertaken. This came as a surprise to everyone. A certificate of achievement was subsequently awarded, as well as a gift voucher. These were presented by Bill Tidnam, chief executive of Thames Reach, on 24 October.
Through their service, the volunteers have exemplified the Rise and Reach motto to ‘Go and Do’, by going out and doing good for their community. Although their service was unconditional, they received a wonderful and unexpected award. The bishop will put the gift voucher towards food for a foodbank.

My great-grandfather George F. Richards was a humble farmer who raised his family of 15 children on hard work and willingness to follow the Lord. When he was a young man of 23, he was, like all young men of his day, struggling to make a life for his family. He was just starting out. As sometimes happened in those days, he received a letter of inquiry from the secretary of the First Presidency about whether he was available to serve a mission. He didn’t then know his future. Like you, he arose early and faced the challenges of each day, working hard and rejoicing in each small success. Listen to his words and note the expressions of his young heart as he responded to the First Presidency:
I am 23 years of age, I have a wife and one child, have never been on a foreign mission. Financially, I am in poor circumstances at present, being in debt more than 400 dollars.
I have no ready means and all the property I have is a set of harness, wagon (both been in use more than five years), six head of horses, a cow and two calves and not quite two acres of land worth from seventy-five to one hundred dollars.
While I feel that I am poor, I do not wish to let that stand between me and my duties as a Latter-day Saint. That which I have is upon the altar and subject to the direction of those in authority, as is also my time and life if necessary.
Your obedient servant, George F. Richards. [1]
A few short years later, at age 45, he was called to serve as an Apostle. Soon after his call to the Twelve, George wrote a letter to his brother in response to his question—did he really need to serve a mission?
I can tell you your services will be needed…if when the occasion presents itself…when you could be more useful in the Lord's hands, some little thing such as a non-observance of the word of wisdom, a neglect of your prayers, or anything of the kind may block your way. It is by the observance of these little things that we show whether ours is an obedient and willful spirit….A straw thrown up indicates the direction of the wind, even so, the small things of our lives indicate largely our future destiny.
Later, he taught:
"We know better now than we [act]. Let us keep our covenants by keeping the commandments as fast as made known unto us, attending to the little things and prove our spirits to be willing. Obedience to the gospel, to simple things, shows our spirits.”

After that it seemed that Brad, Chris, and I were always over at Willard’s place. We worked in his garage, sipped soda drinks sitting on his front step, and talked about sports. We even teased him about his smoking. We told him that every time he smoked a cigarette he was throwing away thirty minutes of his life.
He chuckled and shook his head. “I’ve been at it too long to stop it now.” But after that we noticed that when we came, he would throw his cigarette away.
Then one afternoon as we sat in his garage, he seemed more nervous than usual. He kept rubbing his hands on his pants, scratching the back of his neck, pacing the floor, and shuffling his feet.
“What are you thinking about, Willard?” Brad asked.
Willard shook his head. He tried to smile, but his attempt was more like a grimace. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I threw away my cigarettes. I haven’t had a smoke for a couple of days. But I don’t know if I can keep it up.”
For a moment the three of us were quiet. Then Chris jumped up. “You’ll make it, Willard. You just need something to take your mind off it. Do you chew gum?”
“I could chew nails right now.”
“You need to stay busy too,” I offered. “I have an uncle that quit smoking. He said the only thing that saved him was to stay busy. He worked himself until he was exhausted.”
For the rest of the day we stayed with Willard and helped him forget about smoking. It was almost ten o’clock when we left him, but he’d gotten over the urge to smoke. As far as we knew, he never used another cigarette.

Many years later this boy again visited the Islands in the company of a member of the Presiding Bishopric, Bishop Charles W. Nibley, who later became a member of the First Presidency. As they landed in the harbor at Honolulu, many native Saints greeted them. They brought lots of leis and all kinds of beautiful native flowers. Both of them were loaded with leis upon leis. The young man, who was now an old man, had more than anyone else. A great Hawaiian band was playing a welcome to them and even played Mormon music.
Then Bishop Nibley explained in his journal one touching little incident:
“It was a beautiful sight to see the deep-seated love, the even tearful affection, that these people had for him. In the midst of it all I noticed a poor, old blind woman tottering under the weight of about ninety years, being led in. She had a few choice bananas in her hand. It was her all—her offering. She was calling, ‘Iosepa, Iosepa!’ [means ‘Joseph, Joseph!’] Instantly, when he saw her, he ran to her and clasped her in his arms, hugged her, and kissed her over and over again, patting her on the head saying, ‘Mama, Mama, my dear old Mama!’ And with tears streaming down his cheeks he turned to me and said, ‘Charley, she nursed me when I was a boy, sick and without anyone to care for me. She took me in and was a mother to me!’”
Bishop Nibley continued:
“O, it was touching—it was pathetic. It was beautiful to see the great, noble soul in loving, tender remembrance of kindness extended to him, more than fifty years before; and the poor old soul who had brought her loving offering—a few bananas—it was all she had—to put into the hand of her loved Iosepa” (Life of Joseph F. Smith, pp. 185–86).

In the early years of our marriage, Sister Meha and I were not blessed with children. We desired to start a family soon after our sealing in the Laie Hawaii Temple. We lived in Temple View Apartments, where most of our neighbors were expecting children. Naturally, as students we were both busy with classes, working at the Polynesian Cultural Center and fulfilling church callings. When would we ever find time to have children? We waited and waited. A year before graduation an offer came from Bro. Barney Wihongi, principal of the Church College of New Zealand to join the faculty in January 1983.

Leaving TVA we felt that the expectation to have children would be lifted because we were living in a different community far removed from Laie. But Temple View is a smaller version of Laie. There is a temple and a Church school and most of the people living there knew me as I had graduated from CCNZ, and they soon got to know Sis. Meha. We continued to serve and in fact, those years were some of the most rewarding for us as a newly married couple.

We served in a student ward at CCNZ. When Sister Meha was the Mia Maid Advisor, I was the Teachers Quorum Advisor. Later, she served as the Laurel Advisor and I served as Priest's Quorum Advisor. In a student ward with about one hundred and fifty students it was not unusual to have a quorum of twenty five teachers and a quorum of twenty five priests. I can still see the faces of those bright, energetic, young men, many of whom served honorable proselyting missions and have become good husbands and fathers.

We did not have two-deep leadership in the Young Mens' program in those days, so I was the scout leader on weeknights and the quorum advisor on Sundays. In addition to my teaching assignment, I was expected to support student clubs and organizations and give additional time to support school activities on weekends. It soon became a challenge to find the kind of time together that we longed for while living in TVA and clearly did not have at CCNZ. At least once a month, the priests would come to our small home for a fireside—all twenty five of them. On occasion, the Laurels would join them for an activity usually involving lots of food. I'm sure those activities were well attended because of the chance for students to mingle and have fun.

In some of her spare time, Sister Meha taught in the Religion Department, a first experience for her as she had not enjoyed the experience of early morning seminary classes as a youth. Her introduction to gospel study was in the religion classes taken on this campus as an undergraduate. Our lives were very busy yet we longed for a child. We would have to wait five years before our eldest child was born while we lived in Temple View. During that period of waiting we were being prepared for Jayson's arrival and the blessings that soon followed. Our hearts were mellowed and accepting of Heavenly Father's plan for our family. We prayed fervently to be blessed with each of our children. Our prayers were answered, but we needed to learn that He has a purpose and timetable for us and that He will bless us as we are patient and wait upon Him.

Seth loved going to church. He enjoyed singing in Primary and learning about Jesus. Seth knew attending church was important. It was one way to show Heavenly Father how thankful he was for the gospel.
One Sunday morning, Seth was getting dressed for church. Mom and Dad appeared in the doorway.
“May we talk to you, Seth?” Dad asked as he and Mom sat down on the bed.
Seth finished buttoning his shirt. “Sure.”
“Do you remember how far Dad has to drive to get to work?” Mom asked.
“Yes, it takes forever,” Seth said.
“Mom and I have been praying about it,” Dad said, “and we’ve decided it’s time for us to move closer to my job.”
“Where is our new house going to be?” Seth asked. “Will I be able to ride my bike to Aunt Spring’s house?” Aunt Spring lived just a few blocks away, and Seth couldn’t wait until he was old enough to ride over to play with his cousins.
“No,” Dad said. “I’m sorry. Our new house will be too far away for that, but our family and friends can come visit us and we can visit them.”
“Oh,” Seth said quietly.
“This will be a big move,” Mom said. “You’ll make new friends, and we’ll live in a new neighborhood. It’s important for our family so that Dad can be home more.”
Seth knew his parents wanted the best for him and his little brothers. “I guess it’s all right if we move.”
Dad gave him a big hug. “We’re glad you agree.”
Several months later, Seth’s family began packing boxes. Seth was excited. His new house had a big backyard, and there was a playground down the street. Seth was also looking forward to going to kindergarten.
Just one thing worried Seth. How would he learn about Jesus? They would live too far away for him to go to church.
“What’s wrong, Seth?” Mom asked, noticing the gloomy look on his face.
“I don’t want to move anymore,” Seth said as his eyes filled with tears.
Mom put her arms around Seth. “I know it’s hard to move away from your friends and cousins.”
“It’s not just that. How will we get to church?” Seth asked.
“Our new church will be right down the street,” Mom said.
“But I don’t want a new church, Mom. I like our church.” Seth knew there were a lot of good churches, but he knew The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the only true church.
Mom smiled. “After we move, we’ll go to a new building on Sundays. We’ll have new teachers and meet new people, but it will still be The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And we’ll learn the very same lessons.”
Seth smiled. He was happy he could still go to the same church and learn about Jesus.
Soon Seth and his family were busy unpacking boxes in their new house. Seth picked out the clothes he wanted to wear for church the next morning.
“Are you sure church is going to be the same?” Seth asked Mom.
“Absolutely,” Mom said. “Don’t worry, Seth. When we get to church tomorrow, listen for the Spirit to tell you if we’re at the right church.”
Seth awoke early the next morning, excited to go to Primary. He asked Heavenly Father to help him know if he was at the right church. Then, Seth got ready to go.
At church, Seth heard someone playing a familiar song on a piano. Seth felt a warm, happy feeling. He was glad to still be able to attend the true church, even after moving far away.

During her work on both the YWMIA general board and the correlation committees, Sister Funk came to know Sister Hortense H. Child, now her first counselor. Sister Child tells the story of the time she needed to give an important report on short notice. Before coming to the office that day she had forgotten to change from an old pair of gardening shoes. She just traded shoes with Ruth and carried on with her usual poise. But Ruth got even: she was asked in one meeting by the president of the Church to play the piano for an opening song, but she had forgotten her glasses. She just got up from her seat in the audience, and when she passed Sister Child, who was sitting on the aisle, she took off Hortense’s glasses as she swished by, put them on, and read the music without a flaw.

When I was about ten years old I visited my grandparents one summer. They lived on a farm and they had a big barn with lots of hay and pitchforks. One day I took a pitchfork and thrust it into the hay with all my strength. Unfortunately, I forgot that my left foot was in that hay protected only by my sneakers. That old, dirty, pitchfork plunged into my foot. Oh, that hurt. I was so embarrassed I did not tell anyone what had happened.
The next day I went down to the local pond with some of my cousins hoping my foot would start feeling better. But alas, it did not; it felt worse and worse, and I could see red streaks in the skin from my foot into my left leg. It hurt to walk. When my dad saw me limping and asked what was wrong, I told him what had happened and he hustled me into the car and drove me to the hospital right away. The doctor there gave me a giant shot of penicillin in my left arm. That arm stiffened up and hurt for two whole weeks.

A delightful sister, Ruth Knudson, took me on a tour through the National Gallery of Art. When her husband passed away, she decided that she would make good use of her time alone. She studied art history. It was so fascinating to her that she wanted to tell others about it, so she began conducting tours through the various galleries. Then she took a group abroad to study art. People began coming to her home and requesting private lessons or group instruction, whichever she would give. Now her life is rich and full as she continues to seek more learning about art in order to be filled enough to constantly teach others.

In 1998 my family moved to the Netherlands. My siblings and I attended the American School of The Hague. My mom couldn’t drive us in the mornings, so we rode the bus and train to get to school. My older sisters attended early-morning seminary and left an hour earlier than my younger brother, Shaun, and I. We made it to school easily for the first half of the year, but then the bus routes changed because of construction.
One day we were waiting for our bus when I saw one with a different number but the same destination. I thought the number didn’t matter much, so we got on the bus. After about 20 minutes, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Shaun and I noticed we were nowhere near our school, and we both felt very lost and afraid.
We got off the bus, and I said a prayer in my heart, asking Heavenly Father for comfort and help. I had been learning Dutch in school and realized I could ask someone for help. I asked around until I found a lady who spoke a little English. She gave us directions to catch the right bus to school. Soon we were headed in the right direction and feeling much better.
I will never forget the lost feeling I felt when I realized I was on the wrong bus. I know that the Lord helped me get back on track as He does constantly in our lives—not only physically, but spiritually. We all will feel lost in life’s decisions if we are not on the right track, but the Lord will always give direction and a way for us to get back on the path toward the right destination.

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar.
Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat.
He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste. We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree. “Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction.
“I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more.
The sophisticate I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?” I produced them, wondering.
She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

I did not want to be at Young Women camp last year. Three weeks earlier my grandpa had passed away, and I just wanted to be alone and away from everyone. By the time we got there, I felt like I shouldn’t have come.
However, on the first day, our ward had a devotional that I’ll never forget. One of the older young women spoke about finding joy. At first I rolled my eyes. How could I find joy if there was none?
But then she said something I had never thought about: When it feels like we can’t find joy anywhere else, we can find it in the Savior. Sometimes our mortal lives are filled with grief, depression, anger, trials, and constant uphill battles. Sometimes it is hard to find joy except in Him.
Although my girl’s camp experience was not perfect, I did find joy. I found it by turning to the Savior—in the scriptures, in nature, and in quiet moments where I could pray to Heavenly Father. This principle has gotten me through many trials since. I’m so grateful for the knowledge that the perfect love of the Savior can reach us even when we feel there is no joy.
Elise B., Missouri, USA

One year I set a New Year’s resolution to read and study the entire Book of Mormon. I wanted to gain a rock-solid testimony of the book and the gospel. However, sticking to a schedule was harder than I thought, and I soon became overwhelmed and discouraged. I lost sight of my original goal to gain a testimony, and I stopped reading altogether.
The next year I was setting goals again. With only two years of high school left, I wanted to focus on preparing for a mission. I knew that in order to be a successful missionary, I had to study and gain a testimony of the Book of Mormon, but I remembered my earlier attempt and was overwhelmed by that task. I thought, “I tried that last year, and it failed miserably.” Reading the Book of Mormon began to feel impossible, so I said a prayer.
A calm feeling washed over me, and I realized then that gaining a testimony isn’t a “yearly” thing—you can’t set a huge goal to “gain a testimony” and then just expect it to come by the end of the year. Conversion happens day by day and week by week, not year by year.
So I set a smaller, more manageable goal. Every Sunday, I would reflect on my week, setting short-term goals to help read the Book of Mormon and improve my testimony, and realigning myself with my end goal, which was serving a mission.
Most of my goals were really small, like reading earlier in the day to be more attentive or changing the way I marked my scriptures. But I saw an impact in my life. I am still not perfect at reading my scriptures—far from it—but I am blessed with the motivation to keep trying. I can see the blessings of the gospel in my life, and I have the assurance that I can become who Heavenly Father wants me to be.

But the call during the day or the knock at the door at night always comes as a surprise. Someone will say, “Please, could you come quickly?” Once, years ago, it was a father calling from a hospital. His three-year-old daughter had been thrown 50 feet (15 m) by a speeding car as she ran across the street to join her mother. When I arrived at the hospital, the father pled that the power of the priesthood would preserve her life. The doctors and the nurses only reluctantly let us reach through a plastic barrier to place a drop of oil on the one opening in the heavy bandages which covered her head. A doctor said to me, with irritation in his voice, “Hurry with whatever you are going to do. She is dying.”

He was wrong. She lived, and contrary to what the doctor had said, she not only lived, but she learned to walk again.

When the call came, I was ready. The preparation was far more than having consecrated oil close at hand. It must begin long before the crisis which requires priesthood power. Those who are prepared will be ready to answer.

Gradually and painfully Peter became more stable. With his arms and legs tied up to prevent bleeding and his eyes bandaged, the doctor told him what had happened. In the accident, he had dislocated an arm and a leg; had broken three ribs, seven or eight fingers, and his jaw; had a serious concussion; had lost 50 percent of his skin; and had another 40 percent with first and second degree burns. But Peter had one big question. Since the gas splashed into his eyes, would he ever see again?
I could hear the doctor leaving. He hadn’t answered my big question. I got my arm swinging. I must have caught his attention because he came by me and asked, “What is it, Peter?” I could only say, “My eyes, my eyes, my eyes.” He just squeezed my arm and didn’t answer. He knew what I meant. There was just the unspoken answer that there was no chance I would see again. He started to weep a little, and I could tell that things were very serious.
Peter spent months in the hospital slowly recovering. In fact, he would spend one year as a full-time patient and many more months in and out of the hospital as he underwent dozens of operations. One of the first operations to be performed was to remove the scar tissue from his eyes. Following the operation, while he was in the recovery room, Peter knew that the moment of truth would come that following morning. Then the bandages would be removed and his eyes tested.
Awake and alone in the middle of the night, Peter thought about what was to come.
I couldn’t cope with the thought of that scene when my eyes would be uncovered. On the one hand, if I could see, what a grand moment it would be! But on the other hand, what if I were blind? All hope would be gone.
Awkwardly, because his hands were wrapped in bandages, Peter started to remove the wrappings from his eyes. He managed to maneuver a pan from beside the bed onto his chest. His plan was to reflect the light from his overhead bed lamp into his eyes. He flipped the switch, and the light exploded in his eyes. He could see. As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, he lifted the shiny, metal pan once more.
There in all my excitement was this horrid face. Because my family had been told that I didn’t have a chance to live, they hadn’t told me about some other things. They hadn’t told me that I had lost one ear and all my eyelids and all my facial features. My nose was gone; all my mouth was gone. In my excitement to see, I hadn’t thought about what I would see. I couldn’t cope with it emotionally. I let out a big scream.
Now faced with new dilemmas, Peter spent all night with a sympathetic nurse asking her about what could be done. What plans had been made? What was going to happen to him once he got out of the hospital? What was it going to be like going to a store? What about going to a dance? What if he wanted to dance with a girl? What if he liked a girl? What if he wanted to give her a kiss? Abruptly, he started to laugh. The nurse wanted to know what was so funny.
Now here I was in the hospital remembering how silly I had been. Here I was having fought for my very life and having fought for everything I had, even though it didn’t look very good. In fact, it didn’t look good at all. Yet, I knew I could see. I took a little moment to say a prayer of thanks to my Father in Heaven because he had answered that prayer. There really had been no chance that I would see again. But I’ll never forget how silly I was about that blemish.

I recall a story told by Elder Harold B. Lee in 1952. His story has had a significant impact on me for several reasons. I quote Elder Lee:
“I was around ten or eleven years of age. I was with my father out on a farm away from our home, trying to spend the day busying myself until my father was ready to go home. Over the fence from our place were some tumbledown sheds that would attract a curious boy, and I was adventurous. I started to climb through the fence, and I heard a voice as clearly as you are hearing mine, calling me by name and saying, ‘Don’t go over there!’ I turned to look at my father to see if he were talking to me, but he was way up at the other end of the field. There was no person in sight. I realized then, as a child, that there were persons beyond my sight, for I had definitely heard a voice. Since then, when I hear or read stories of the Prophet Joseph Smith, I too have known what it means to hear a voice, because I’ve had the experience” (Stand Ye in Holy Places [1974], 139).
Consider some of the effects of that experience. First, it taught the reality of revelation to a young boy who was to become a prophet. Second, it may have protected young Harold from some hidden danger in those old sheds. That was the way I interpreted the story for many years, and perhaps that is true. We will never know. But perhaps the warning he heard was not to protect him from danger. Perhaps it was to test his willingness to be obedient to heavenly guidance. Surely he passed the test, and where did that lead? It kept the channel of revelation open for further guidance, and it was a formative experience in the life of one of our greatest teachers. Following an impression may seem a small thing now, but where it leads can be immensely important.

Last year, Lyndsey Payzant and her mom, of the Rancho Cucamonga California Stake, searched in vain for a modest dress at a department store near their home in Alta Loma. After being approached by a store manager to see if they were finding what they needed, Lindsey and her mom explained that they were having trouble finding modest clothing in the store.

The store manager was interested in what they had to say and helped set up a meeting with Lyndsey, her mom, and the store’s managers and buyers. Having read about some forward-thinking Kansas young women, Lyndsey went to her Young Women group for help on what to propose at the meeting (see New Era, Jan. 2001, 28).

The meeting was a success, and Lyndsey was invited to help put on a fashion show of appropriate and modest clothing. Lyndsey got to pick most of the clothes, and she already has plans to meet with the store’s designers to have a spring fashion show as well. Strike one up for modesty … again!