Gospel Story Finder

Late one afternoon we were approaching the mouth of a river at the end of Starvation Lake. As we pulled ashore, the canoe bumped a boulder. We noticed a huge mound of fur nearby. I thought it was a dead animal until it moved and Bob said, “It’s a grizzly. And it isn’t dead, it’s asleep.” We were less than 100 feet from it at that point. Suddenly, it stood up. I thought it would run away, as most bears do. But it was irritated. The hair on its neck raised up, it started swaying its head back and forth, its jaws started moving—you could hear the teeth clacking—and its ears were laid back. I grabbed the camera and Bob grabbed the gun, but we soon decided it wasn’t smart to stay close, and we backed into deeper water. Somehow we had to get by that grizzly.
We pulled into a small draw about 200 feet away and checked on the bear. It had lain back down. So we took the food packs up and came back for the canoe. When we checked on the bear again, it was gone. It couldn’t go the opposite direction from us because of cliffs. It couldn’t go to the right, because of the lake. So we knew it was either going parallel uphill or coming straight for us. It knew where we were, but we didn’t know where it was. Bears will sometimes move up your trail and intercept you, and we were both scared. We knew it might come boiling over the hill any minute. Bob said, “Dad, can we pray, please?” After a prayer and with great caution, we started up the draw, me with the canoe over my head and Bob with the gun.
We broke the ridge about 100 feet from our packs, and it was waiting there for us. If it tasted the food in the packs, we would have to kill it to keep it from destroying the entire supply, and we didn’t want to do that. As a last desperate effort, and with prayer in my heart, I raised the canoe and shouted at the top of my lungs.
The bear swung its huge head around and saw a pair of legs, a body, and a 17-foot aluminum head growling at it. It was startled so badly it took off at a dead run. It took us about four hours to shake the hollow feeling we had after that close encounter, but we both knew the prayer had helped us through.

His parents named him Happy Horton Hoggle. But by the time he was six years old, everyone called him Never Happy Horton. When Never Happy Horton started school, everyone there soon knew the reason for his name.
That first morning Mr. Barnes, the principal, was at the front door to greet the students. He reached for Horton’s hand to shake it.
““I don’t like to shake hands!” Never Happy Horton said with a big frown.
““I just wanted you to know that I’m here to help you,” said Mr. Barnes with a smile. “I want to be your friend.”
““No you don’t and I don’t want to be anybody’s friend. Don’t you know who I am? I’m Never Happy Horton. And by the way,” Horton growled, “I don’t like school either!”
Mr. Barnes wiped his bald head with a handkerchief. “Oh, but everyone at Bunker Elementary School tries to be happy,” he said with a nervous smile.
““Not me! I’m Never Happy Horton, and don’t you forget it!”
““Oh, I won’t,” Mr. Barnes assured him.
Miss Kate, Horton’s teacher, couldn’t forget either after he had come to her class. Horton was sitting in the darkest back corner all alone. “Wouldn’t you like to join us for story time?” Miss Kate asked.
““I don’t happen to like stories,” Horton said as he folded his arms across his chest.
““But this is a very exciting story,” Miss Kate said coaxingly.
““No story is a good story.”
““But everyone likes some story!” Miss Kate insisted.
““Not me! I don’t even like television. I’m Never Happy Horton, and don’t you forget it!” Horton shouted.
““Oh, I won’t,” said Miss Kate, heaving a big sigh.
At recess the boys needed one more player to make the baseball teams even.
““Come play ball,” Timothy called to Never Happy Horton who was sitting in the middle of a hopscotch square so the girls couldn’t play.
““I don’t like ball games,” Horton replied in an ugly voice.
““C’mon anyway,” Timothy urged. “You might find you like it.”
““Not me! I’m Never Happy Horton. I don’t even like recess, and don’t you forget that either!” Horton insisted.
““Oh, we won’t,” said Timothy with a shake of his head as he went back to play baseball.
““You can’t fool me, Never Happy Horton! You aren’t always unhappy,” said Suzanna, one of the girls who wanted to play hopscotch.
““I’m Never Happy Horton! Just ask anyone! I’m never, never happy!” Horton shouted.
““But you’re happy right now. You’re happy making other people unhappy,” Suzanna argued.
““That doesn’t make sense!” cried Horton as loud as he could. “I’m Never Happy Horton, and don’t you forget it!”
““Well, if you’re never happy, why are you sitting in our hopscotch square?”
““Because … well … because,” Horton folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “Just because.”
““Because you’re happy there,” Suzanna said politely. “And so I hereby proclaim you to be Happy Horton.”
““Wait just one minute,” Horton said with a puzzled look. “That’s a terrible name for a boy! It sounds awful! Happy Horton! I hate it!” Horton squished his face together. “Ugh! Nobody is named Happy Horton Hoggle!”
““You are,” Suzanna said. “You and nobody but you.”
““Well, it’s still awful! At least Never Happy Horton sounds tough!”
““What’s so great about being tough? Anyone can be tough.”
““But Happy Horton Hoggle is an awful name,” Horton said quietly.
““Only if you make it awful. After all, being the one and only Happy Horton Hoggle in the world should make you important,” she pointed out.
““Hey, I never thought of that,” Happy Horton said, and the frown almost turned into a smile. “I’m the only Happy Horton I know of.”
““And you’re the only one I’ve ever heard of. That most certainly makes you very special!” Suzanna repeated.
““It does? I mean, yes, it does!” Happy Horton agreed. “I’m Happy Horton Hoggle, and don’t you forget it.”
““That’s great,” Suzanna said. “But next time could you say it just a little softer please?”
““I’m Happy Horton,” Horton said in an almost normal voice, “And I’m the only Happy Horton Hoggle I know.”
““Good,” Suzanna said. “With a little practice you’ll make it. Now will you go play ball?”
““Sure,” said Happy Horton, and he even smiled.

Maggie By My Side Beverly, still struggling with grief over the death of her previous guide dog, must cope with being retrained herself with Maggie. Along with “accompanying” Beverly at the training school, we are with her to see Maggie’s introduction to the family cats, and her reaction to snow and the “monsters” that result when people dress for severe Wisconsin winter weather.Beverly Butler11 years and up

This is a dear story. It reminds me of another sacred place in the land of the Restoration. The Palmyra Temple opened in the year 2000. After the close of the pageant that year, after the cast and crew had gone, and on the day before my return home, I went to the temple. When the session was over, I looked out the west foyer windows, through which the tops of the trees of the Sacred Grove are visible. From one of the most significant manifestations of the restored gospel, the temple, I could see in the setting sun the place where it all began: the Sacred Grove.

There is a connection between these sacred places: one is the place where Elohim and Jehovah opened the gates to the fulness of times; the other, the fulfillment of the promise, is the place where Jehovah and Elohim visit today. It is Their home: “Holiness to the Lord. The House of the Lord.”

I had been told there were fireflies in the grove at night—though because my previous visits had always been during the day, I had never seen them. On that particular night, over the next 45 minutes fireflies began to flicker. Thousands of them emerged from the undergrowth. For me, it was a mystery. I was astonished. Where did such a population live? The darker the night became, the more fireflies emerged, flickering amongst the dark maples and birches. Silently they told of another world within the one I perceived. I wondered, “What else exists in this universe of ours without my knowledge?” I yearn to know those truths. An eternity exists with a just Father, a compassionate Savior, and a Holy Spirit. Yet I cannot see Them with my eyes!

The flickering fireflies were beautiful—more often dark than they were light. Their momentary brightness enthralled me. Collectively they were a pulsing, living community throbbing in the spaces between the benevolent trees, dark beyond my capacity to see, silent beyond my ability to hear, and alive in a place whose sacredness is beyond my ability to fully understand.

Nothing much more happened to the fireflies that night. They didn’t stop flickering; they didn’t fly away. They continued to create momentary intensities without illuminating anything other than themselves and the awareness of silent tree trunks reaching skyward in the dark. But something more happened to my heart. I knew again there were many more truths I did not comprehend that would require greater faith than I was currently exercising to recognize.

I left the grove on a trail I hadn’t seen before. The path wound around in the direction of the newly built Smith cabin through the trees. I suspected this trail might be closer to the one Joseph walked in 1820. I paused by the cabin, pondering the visit of Moroni to Joseph. While the household slept, Moroni taught Joseph through the long night of September 21, 1823. Three times he visited, repeating the same message. And no one awoke. The only way anyone but Joseph could know it happened was if they believed.

Walking back to the temple, I came full circle from 1820 to the year 2000. Today, 188 years later, a beacon radiates the night sky: a light on a hill, seen by thousands, yet comprehended by relatively few.

I returned to Cumorah’s hill, climbed up its face, and stood on the crest. Somewhere near, Moroni had appeared to Joseph, teaching him the doctrines and the gospel and about a civilization long lost to the modern world. From a picture of the hill taken around the end of the 19th century, we can tell that it was basically bare. Accounts suggest that during the years Moroni visited Joseph Smith, there were few trees on the hill. Yet no one saw the visits: a restoration on Cumorah’s hill, radiating truth through a young man who could see it, revealing a world of faith and light that shines amongst the dark shadows of doubt and disbelief.

I once attended a funeral for a young missionary who was killed in an accident. The missionary’s father spoke in the service and described the heartache of an unexpected mortal separation from a beloved child. He forthrightly declared that he personally did not understand the reasons or timing for such an event. But I always will remember this good man also declaring that he knew God knew the reasons and timing for the passing of his child—and that was good enough for him. He told the congregation that he and his family, though sorrowful, would be fine; their testimonies remained firm and steadfast. He concluded his remarks with this declaration: “I want you to know that as far as the gospel of Jesus Christ is concerned, our family is all in. We are all in.”
Though the loss of a dear loved one was heart-wrenching and difficult, the members of this valiant family spiritually were prepared to prove that they could learn lessons of eternal importance through the things that they suffered.

But Lucy Mack was no carbon-copy Christian. Although knowing God through scriptures and prayerful communion, she doubted the religions that claimed to speak for him. Early in marriage she showed double qualities of devotion and independence. A severe respiratory infection brought a high fever, and Lucy’s life hung in the balance. Weakened and semi-conscious, she was informed by her shaken husband that the doctors expected her to die. But that night powerful prayers stirred within her weakened frame. She sought life in order to “bring up my children, and be a comfort to my husband.” Making her “solemn covenant” with God, she heard a voice assuring her (in scriptural language), “seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” Her solid recovery began from that hour, as she vigorously assured her watching mother that “the Lord will let me live.”7

Another major sacrifice for the cause of Zion came in 1834, as Brigham accompanied Joseph Smith on the march of Zion’s Camp. Word was received in Kirtland that the Saints in Missouri had been driven from their homes by mobs and that help was needed. An appeal was made to the brethren in Kirtland. Joseph and 205 others answered this plea for help. Force would be met by force. Those who marched knew that death might await them on the other end of their 1600-kilometer trek.

Brigham’s generation was acquainted with long walks, but nothing like this march. President Young later talked about walking month after month with blood in his shoes as he worked as a missionary, but even missionary work was nothing compared to the intensity of this march, day after day, in the heat of the early summer.

As the march proceeded, exhaustion resulted, patience became short, and tempers flared. Finally, the dreaded cholera hit, with its terrifying cramping and sudden death. Two years before that time, North America had experienced a major epidemic of cholera, and its symptoms were well known—diarrhea, spasmodic vomiting, and painful cramps, followed by dehydration that left the face blue and pinched, the extremities cold and dark, and the skin on the hands and feet puckered.

Death could follow in a day, even in an hour, and sometimes the victim would just keel forward as if hewn down by an axe. Some members of Zion’s Camp attempted to flee, but Brigham Young remained. Joseph Smith listed Brigham’s name as one who was most active in caring for the sick and burying the dead.

I was recently going through a really hard time, and I didn’t know what to do, so I prayed for help and guidance. I went to my Young Women class that Sunday, and the lesson that our Young Women president gave was the answer to my prayer. She gave us a piece of paper that read, “Who Am I?” at the top. We had to see how many words we could come up with to describe ourselves. We came up with a few, and then we watched a talk by Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and we had to write down more things about ourselves that we’d heard in the talk.
I liked that so much that I came home and wrote this on a poster and hung it on my wall: “Who am I? I am a daughter of God. I am a friend. I am a leader. I am known and loved by my Savior. I am strong. I stand for truth. I am Camryn.” I also wrote that on a piece of paper and hung it in my locker. Whenever I was feeling frustrated about my situation, I just thought about what I had written. I am so grateful for getting an answer to my prayer from that lesson.
Camryn T., Utah, USA

“I used to go hunting sometimes with my father. After he died I went alone, but quickly realized that I hadn’t enjoyed hunting much—what I had really enjoyed was being with him. Dad was the kind of father, who, when his two sons were hoeing weeds and knew they were going to die if they didn’t stop to get a drink, would say, ‘One more row, boys.’ And when we made ice cream he’d encourage, ‘Only ten more cranks, son.’ He taught me self-discipline and to go to bed early and get up early. He always helped me ‘stretch’ my efforts.
“I recall that when I was eleven years old my father told me that I had to earn all the money for my own clothes and that I should also start saving for my mission. When my mission call came, I told my father that we needed to go down to the bank and make necessary arrangements for my mission money to be withdrawn monthly and sent to me. I will never forget my father saying, ‘You didn’t think I was really going to make you pay for your mission, did you? I just wanted you to learn to work. I wouldn’t want to miss the blessing of supporting you in the mission field. You save your money, son, you’ll need it when you return.’
“My older brother, Ron, has always been an inspiration to me. I recall one evening when he came home from a Church youth meeting and announced to the family that his teacher had told him that he had to gain his own testimony and receive his own witness and to not rely on that of others. He said—almost prophetically—‘I’m going to gain that personal witness and testimony, no matter how long it takes or what the cost.’
“Ron began reading and studying the scriptures and fasting and praying. One morning a short time later, he was suddenly stricken by a paralysis. He could not move his body and his right side was in terrible pain. He was barely able to whisper to Dad that he wanted a blessing. No sooner had Dad finished blessing his son than Ron was miraculously cured! My brother uncoiled his tense body, straightened up, and was free of pain.
“When he was later examined by a doctor, the diagnosis was that he had had what appeared to be a ruptured appendix but that no trace of damaged tissue was found in his body. Later, my brother told me that during this experience he received his special witness that the Book of Mormon and the gospel were true. He wanted me to know, however, that he had received this knowledge before Dad had blessed him before his healing. He truly had shown faith before the miracle.
“This experience really influenced my life and at age twelve I began a fervent study of the Book of Mormon. I, too, received a personal witness and confirmation of the truthfulness of the gospel. I knew then, and have never doubted since, that the Book of Mormon is the word of God and that the gospel is true.
“My message to the children of the world is this: study and pray while you are young so that you, too, might receive this same witness.”

After months of preparation, the day finally arrived. While I sat in the baptistery awaiting my turn, excitement overcame me as I realized how long Maren, who died nearly 200 years ago, had anticipated this day. It was her day of baptism, and I had the inspiring opportunity of performing the ordinance in her behalf.
Maren Christensdatter became a special person to me because of a Young Women project. The first time I encountered her name was at our stake Family History Center. I was searching through computer files for family names to prepare for temple ordinance work. After having gone through a few family lines with no success, I decided to check the line of my great-grandmother who had recently passed away. To my surprise, I actually found one female name for whom no temple work had been done—my great-great-great-grandmother, Maren Christensdatter.
Over the next few weeks, my Mia Maid class returned to the Family History Center several times to complete our work. We then had to enter the names, along with other information, into a file and submit them so temple cards could be prepared.
Doing baptisms for the dead is always a spiritual experience. But when you do it for your own ancestor, whose name you have found and prepared yourself, it becomes incredibly personal and satisfying. As the young women from our ward entered the baptistery room at the temple that day, I could feel a special spirit there.
And when I was baptized by proxy for Maren, I felt a closeness to her, even though I had never met her. It was an awesome experience to give her this most priceless gift, the opportunity to become a member of the Church.

As I participated on the sidelines during the first harrowing landing on the moon, the thought came to me that in a very real way Neil Armstrong was all alone. There were thousands in the communication net, probably the biggest assemblage of talent available working together in the world, yet there was only one man in the whole system who had his hands on the controls. He would either do well or he would crash, depending on his own ability. What he had learned and trained himself to do was going to count right now. He did very well, but in doing it, he probably felt terribly alone. Many times during our lives we find ourself in situations that can be compared to this, where we feel terribly alone.
Now in another way, Neil would be the very first one to admit—and indeed, he would insist—that he was simply the apex of a tremendous team. A lot of people were behind him who could help, who had helped, and who would help if required, plus a great many people were wishing him well.
In the last 60 seconds before touchdown, the computer sent 12 messages to the crew. Twelve times in that last 60 seconds it wrote out the number 1202. Neil had memorized what 1202 meant years before, because of the significance of the message. It means, in essence: “The computer has failed. You are on your own. Good luck.”
Now, we had built a radar altimeter so incredibly accurate that every time we flew over a rock that was more than one meter in height, it would change the altitude, call up the computer, and tell it, “Hey, you have a new altitude.” If the computer got more than 1/1000th of a second behind in its calculations, the 1202 light went on. With the altitude in error by only a few meters because of the size of rocks they were flying over, the correction would be changed imperceptibly, so it was totally safe to ignore that particular problem. Neil had even been told ahead of time that if any caution warning lights came on during descent, he was to ignore them. If anything of real importance came up, ground control would call him and let him know.
On the ground was a man whose job was to ascertain when the 1202 lights could be ignored. If they could be, he would say nothing, but if anything was wrong, he would speak up. Neil had to decide whether this man was really telling him that everything was all right, or if the man was confused and didn’t know what to say, or perhaps he had gone out to the water cooler. The people who were giving him advice were giving the advice by simply being silent in this particular moment.
Sometimes we find ourselves in situations where in one sense we are desperately and tragically alone, and in another sense we have a lot of people supporting us who can help us if we listen. These kinds of situations are what I call “the Neil Armstrong situation”—when we are faced with decisions, challenges, or temptations where what we do is as critical for a period of our life as what Neil did was critical for that particular flight.

It is important for each deacon to be guided to a spiritual awareness of the sacredness of his ordained calling. In one ward, the lesson was effectively taught pertaining to the collection of fast offerings.

On fast day, the ward members were visited by deacons and teachers so that each family could make a contribution. The deacons were a bit disgruntled, having to arise earlier than usual to fulfill this assignment.
The inspiration came for the bishopric to take a busload of the deacons and teachers to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City. Here they saw needy children receiving new shoes and other items of clothing. Here they witnessed empty baskets being filled with groceries. There was no money exchanged. One brief comment was made: “Young men, this is what the money you collect on fast day provides—even food, clothing, and shelter for those who are in need.” The Aaronic Priesthood young men smiled more, stepped higher, and served more willingly in filling their assignments.

In 1995 I returned from my last trip through the vast Argentina Córdoba Mission, having served as counselor to the mission president for eight unforgettable years. A new calling as president of the Villa Allende Branch was waiting for me. Twice before I had held that position in other units. As always I was grateful for the opportunity to serve. My new calling made me think about the growth of the Church in my part of Argentina; one particular experience made me even more grateful for my heritage in the gospel.
Forty years before that time, the original branch in Córdoba was divided. From that first division, a branch (now the Villa Belgrano Ward) was created west of the city. It was the basis for many other units created in subsequent years.
Each time a new branch was organized, the Villa Belgrano Ward, like the generous trunk of a robust tree, provided to the tender young shoots part of its leadership and membership and also donated whatever materials it could: a pulpit, chairs, tables, sacrament trays, and so forth. After a new branch was fully equipped, these extra items were again donated to other new branches. In this way furniture and other items were scattered as they were put to good use.
Today the little branch in Villa Allende is a ward with a beautiful meetinghouse and an excellent young bishop. But in 1995, when I began serving as branch president, we met in a large, old rented house. One Sunday when we were meeting in the old house, one of my counselors and I were blessing the sacrament. It had been years since I had officiated in this sacred ordinance; usually our young Aaronic Priesthood bearers enjoyed that privilege.
At first I paid no particular attention to the white tablecloth covering the sacrament trays. But as we stood to break the bread, the words santa cena (sacrament), beautifully embroidered and standing out in relief, made my heart beat fast and my eyes fill with tears.
In a simple, ordinary way Heavenly Father reminded me of the many blessings I had received during 60 years as a member of His true Church. Those embroidered letters were unmistakable. Forty years before, my mother, who along with my father was a pioneer in our city, had taken a piece of linen from her trousseau and asked me to write in the middle of it the words santa cena. She then delicately embroidered over the letters and donated to the branch its first tablecloth.
During our years of continual growth, changes, moves, and new units, I had sometimes wondered about the tablecloth. Had it burned in the Villa Belgrano meetinghouse fire in 1979?
But here it was safely in front of me. It brought to mind so many experiences, as well as a deep well of gratitude. After so many unit divisions and hundreds of washings and ironings and after being cared for by many loving hands, it was still giving service—far from the branch where it began but still in the Church after more than 40 years.
At that faraway time when the tablecloth was first made, I was serving as a brand-new, very young branch president for the first time. Many things had changed and grown during the intervening years; many other things had remained the same. I remembered and treasured both the things that change and the things that do not as I renewed my acquaintance with that very special tablecloth.

My favorite example of a person who has faith, and is not a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is a babushka from Moscow, Russia. Ours was a short, but powerful few minutes together. I was directing a group of 35 Ricks College students through Russia, Ukraine, Turkey, and Western Europe. We had been together a few weeks when we had opportunity to visit the Tretyakov Art Museum, in Moscow.
Frankly, I was happy when all of the students headed into every part of the museum except the wing that housed religious icons, religious paintings, in this case, of the Russian Orthodox Church that teach members about Christ and other spiritual matters. I delight in the faith it must have taken for these painters to carefully paint about Christ. I also delighted in the solitude I would find. I smiled at the museum attendant, the babushka, as I entered the religious art wing of the museum. She did not smile back. I knew I did not want to be on her bad side. Those older Russian women are known for their tough demeanor--I also knew that she would win any verbal encounter.
I moved past her to a very old icon, one that was not protected in any way. It was hundreds of years old. I bent toward it to see the inevitable cracks that had developed over the centuries, and I must have gotten too close. She flew out of her chair screaming nelzya, nelzya--"it is forbidden." I apologized and moved around the corner to get out of her sight. As I rounded the partition, there was a small four-foot square table and under plexiglass was another icon, a very old icon. It portrayed Christ's birth in a cave, in a stable, in a manger. There was the Christ child. The Holy Ghost overwhelmed me, testifying that Christ was born to Mary and put in a manger. That it was all true.
Tears gently flowed--I had known that Christ lived, but I had never known it this clearly, this profoundly. As I basked in the moment, I made a nearly fatal mistake. I leaned on the plexiglass to look closer at the dozen or so little circles that had been painted around the cave, little circles with painted representations of the prophesies of Christ's birth. Elizabeth and Zacharius, Simeon, Anna, and others. As I leaned on the plexiglass, the babushka tore around the corner screaming "Nelzya, nelzya." I turned to meet my doom, but then she saw my tears.
"Vy ponimayete, da?" "You understand, don't you?"
"Yes," I said, "I understand." She explained to me that she loves to work in this wing of the museum because she loves Jesus Christ. She feels Him there; I had felt the Holy Ghost there also. She serves the Savior in this way, requesting to work that wing every shift because it is a way for her to faithfully take action.
Notice that she took action based on her faith.

“I don’t want to take piano lessons anymore,” I told my mother. I had been taking lessons for several years and was tired of all the practicing. I was ready to quit. I wasn’t very good anyway. Because I suffer from moderate hearing loss and wear hearing aids, I have never considered myself a person with musical talent. It always took a lot of practice to learn the tune of a song.
My mother didn’t say much but simply told me that I should keep taking lessons until I could play the hymns. After much complaining on my part and much encouragement from my parents, I decided not to quit.
I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter what your talents are; you can still learn to develop musical abilities. I’ll never be a world-class pianist, and many of the members in Guatemala will never be in the Tabernacle Choir. But it didn’t matter. We could still enjoy feeling the Spirit through music. I’m so grateful that my parents encouraged me to keep taking piano lessons, and I’m grateful that I kept practicing.

It was hard for the youth of the Jonesboro Arkansas Ward to leave the residents of the local Children’s Colony when their service project was over. It was the first time many of the LDS youth had contact with the mentally or physically impaired, and their evening of games touched them in ways they’d never felt before.
They played basketball, softball, croquet and other games with the residents of the children’s home, and decided that it was one of the best activities they’d ever had. Many outside community members were also impressed with the efforts of the LDS youth. Now that they have had a taste of this kind of service, you can bet they’ll be back for more.

Over the past year my best friend has been struggling with leukemia. He had to stay in the hospital for many months and had to undergo chemotherapy. I have prayed for him every night and have been able to see him make progress. Throughout this difficult time, I have grown to know that Heavenly Father is there for us, and He loves all his children. I know that He wants us all to return to live with Him someday and that He wants us all to be happy.
When I think about my friend’s illness too much, I start to worry about the future. But when I think of Heavenly Father’s love for all of us, the pain goes away. I have come to know that I can always turn to Heavenly Father in prayer and that He will be there.
When my friend had a relapse and his cancer returned, I wondered if all of our faith and prayers were in vain. But I soon turned to the Lord for comfort and realized that no matter what happens, Heavenly Father loves my friend and will look after him. I just have to have faith in His plan.

Two years later one of my brother’s friends invited my sister to go to the LDS Church, and I went along with her. I was excited to finally find out what they were doing inside that church.
When we got there, we saw some members playing a simple game. They looked so happy, and that got my attention. “Why are they so happy?” I wondered.
I found out when I took the missionary discussions and was baptized. Happiness comes from inside. My conversion changed my life, the life of my children, and generations ahead and behind.

“You know,” Mom said, “there was a girl on my basketball team in high school—Sarah—who had the worst attitude. She was always yelling at everybody and making us feel terrible when we made mistakes.”
“She must be related to Andrew.”
Mom laughed. “Well, I got pretty fed up with Sarah’s bullying. So one day I decided to show her what real team spirit was all about. Every time somebody made a mistake, I jumped in before Sarah had a chance and said, ‘Good job, Karen,’ or ‘Nice try, Susan.’ And if somebody did something really great, I jumped up and down and yelled and screamed and really whooped it up.”
“So did Sarah stop being so mean?” Brian asked hopefully.
“No.”
Brian looked out the window again. “I didn’t think so.”
“But everyone else was too busy watching my spirited pep shows to notice her anymore,” Mom said with a smile. Brian smiled, too, in spite of himself.

Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ includes trusting him completely. A young sister who was struggling with cancer expressed this faith to Elder M. Russell Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve. “I am not afraid to die,” she said. “I would like to live. There are things I would still like to accomplish in this life, but I know that Jesus is my Savior. During these past few years He has become my best friend. I trust Him. Whatever He wants for me, I am prepared.”

Elder Ballard gave her a blessing but left the matter with Heavenly Father, as she had requested. She died soon after, “with the peace of the Lord attending her and her faithful family” (Ensign, May 1996, 81).