Gospel Story Finder

There were no swimming pools in the small town of Vernal, Utah, where I spent most of my childhood, so we swam in irrigation canals. Some of them were deep and could be dangerous if you weren’t a fairly good swimmer.
Many of my friends were a little older than I was, and they knew how to swim. I did not. I didn’t want my friends to know that, though, so when I went with them, I made excuses and played around on the bank, or went to where the water was shallow and acted as if I was swimming. I was really just pushing on the bottom of the canal with my feet and dog-paddling with my hands, but I kept faking it, thinking nobody knew that I couldn’t swim. My dad knew, however, and one time he said to me, “I don’t mind your going with the boys to the canals, but I want you to promise me that you will never go into water that is over your head unless an adult is there and knows what you’re doing.”
That was a problem for me. I didn’t like his rule because it meant that I wasn’t always free to go with my friends. But I agreed to do what my father had asked.
One day several of my friends were planning to go to a canal I had never been to before. I asked them if it was deep, and they said, “Oh, yes, it’s a really good place to swim.” They told me it was a wider, deeper canal than most—forty feet or so across.
When I told them I couldn’t go, they wanted to know why, so I finally told them, “I promised my dad I wouldn’t swim in water that’s over my head, because I can’t swim very well.” That was the way I put it: “I can’t swim very well.” So we hunted around to see if we could find an adult, and my uncle, who lived next door and happened to be home, agreed to go there with us.
The first thing my friends did when we got there was swim to the other side. I still hadn’t told them I couldn’t swim, so I thought, Well, now is the time; I have to do it.
I got into the water and started across, and somehow—driven by panic more than anything else, just flailing my hands and feet in the water—I made it to the other side. But then my friends turned around and swam right back, leaving me alone on the bank.
I said to myself, I made it once; I guess I can do it again. And I started across. But by this time I was too tired, and the way I was “swimming” was wearing me out. I reached the middle of the canal and just couldn’t go any farther.
I went down. I don’t know how deep the water was there, but I remember seeing it get darker and darker as I sank deeper. I held my breath, and when my feet finally touched the bottom, I pushed off for the top. I was above the water just long enough to look around and see my uncle sitting over on the bank before I went down again.
When I came back up, I yelled to my uncle for help, then down I went again. I didn’t think to inhale when I got to the top and then exhale as I went down; I was trying to do both at once, and there wasn’t much time for it. When I came up again, I saw that my uncle had jumped into the water and was swimming after me. By the time he reached me, I was at the point where I thought I couldn’t do it anymore because I wasn’t getting enough air. My uncle was a powerful man, however, and he pulled me to shore. I lay there panting and gasping, but I was OK.
I have thought about that incident often since then. How grateful I am for a father who was wise enough to put safeguards around my life. I could have died that day by giving in to the pressure of my friends, but my dad had made a rule that there be an adult with me, and that rule saved my life. I learned to value obedience. Obedience is not just to please someone else—it is for our own good.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I often found myself seeking a quiet place at lunch. I would sit with my friends at a table, but I didn’t enjoy the chaos of the lunchroom and would sometimes retreat to an unused hallway where the noise was less deafening.
I hadn’t been doing this for long when I noticed a young man, probably a junior, who would also find an abandoned corner to eat his lunch. He was unkempt, his hair unruly, his clothes visibly secondhand. He wore thick glasses, smelled of cigarette smoke, and mumbled to himself about one thing or another. When I saw him around school, no one seemed to even notice he was there. He walked the halls with his eyes down and never said a word to anyone. He was sometimes the object of cruel pranks and generally didn’t fit in.
We were studying the Book of Mormon in seminary that year. We talked about Mosiah 18:8–9, which mentions part of our baptismal covenant. Here, Alma reminds us what we commit to as members of Christ’s Church. In verse eight it says we “are willing to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light.”
I was by no means the most popular girl in school, but I was no outcast either. As I saw the indifference and even revulsion that my fellow classmates showed toward this young man, the Spirit would not let me rest. I knew he needed a friend. I determined to do something about it.
One day at lunch I excused myself from my friends’ table and quietly made my way to the corner where I knew the boy would be sitting. I felt awkward and nervous as I timidly asked if I could share his corner. He didn’t speak but just looked at me and shrugged. I asked him his name, but he shyly shook his head and did not reply to any of my attempts at conversation. When lunch was over, I called out a vague, “See you around,” and I went to my class.
The next day, I again felt like I should go sit with him, so I did. This pattern went on every day at lunchtime for more than two weeks before he very quietly whispered that his name is Duane. As we sat, I would talk about anything that came to mind. He rarely responded. But as time went on, I guess my little efforts made some impression. I noticed a change in him. He seemed genuinely happy to see me at lunch. When I would see him in the halls, I would greet him with a wave or call, “Hey, Duane.” He would make eye contact and even smile occasionally.
I told my friends what I was doing, and they also began to go out of their way to say hello. This didn’t bring us any popularity, and I became the subject of many juvenile remarks as well. But I knew that what I was doing was right.
Our friendship remained casual, with Duane speaking only occasionally. He never became part of the “popular crowd” or suddenly became an outgoing guy. But I began to truly enjoy our lunches, and he did too.
Around March, I was approached by one of the school counselors. She invited me to come speak with her. In her office, I learned that Duane is an only child and that his mother had died several years earlier. His father worked three jobs, so Duane was often left alone at home late into the night. He had struggled in school for years and would sometimes do himself harm.
“I have rarely heard him say more than a sentence or two when I have met with him,” the counselor said. “He is normally extremely shy and withdrawn. But in the last few months, he has begun to actually talk a little. He mentioned that he eats lunch with a sophomore girl named Sara. He even went so far as to say that he likes the company. I just wanted to express my appreciation for what you are doing. It may seem small, but you are changing Duane’s outlook. He is happier than I have ever seen him.”
At that moment, tears came to my eyes, and I knew that Heavenly Father and His Son were pleased with what I was doing. And I knew that I was keeping my baptismal covenant. At the end of the year, I had Duane sign my yearbook. He grinned and wrote a simple, “Have a great summer. Thanks for the lunches. Duane.”
Duane did not return to school after that year, and I heard that he had moved to another city. I genuinely prayed that he would continue his progress to happiness. I have never heard more about him, but I know that Heavenly Father and the Savior are watching over him. I’m sure he found new friends.
I was changed forever by those few minutes at lunch. Since then I have tried to look for those who need comfort, especially those who normally go unnoticed. Though I am by no means a perfect example, I have felt the love of the Savior for these special brothers and sisters. I have learned that keeping our baptismal covenants can sometimes be uncomfortable, but the Spirit brings a joy that will surpass all discomfort.

“One of the spiritual experiences that I remember best from my youth happened when I was about five years old. My next older brother, Jay, had just been baptized. He was walking down a road between Provo and Orem. A man who had been drinking came swerving down the road in his car, and the door handle of the car caught my brother at the back of his neck. Jay had a serious fracture and concussion. We all prayed that he would get better, but after twenty long days in the hospital, he died. I vividly remember my mother and father sitting with us and saying, ‘Jay has gone back home to the God who gave us all life. The Lord could have saved him, but for some reason He didn’t. There will be a work for Jay to do where he is now, and we should not question the Lord. We should not have any bitterness or lasting sorrow.’ We all resolved that we were going to trust the Lord, and we all knew that someday we would again be with Jay.

Every morning my brother and I share the job of emptying the dishwasher. One morning while my brother was busy, I unloaded the entire dishwasher by myself. He was surprised and grateful that I did his job for him. The next morning my brother put away my pile of clean laundry while he was putting his away. I decided to keep the circle of service going and did his dishes job again. We are continuing to serve each other.
Andrew S., age 7, California

A young man was getting ready to graduate from college. For many months he had admired a beautiful sports car in a dealer's showroom, and knowing his father could well afford it, he told him that was all he wanted. As Graduation Day approached, the young man awaited signs that his father had purchased the car.
Finally, on the morning of his graduation, his father called him into his private study. His father told him how proud he was to have such a fine son, and told him how much he loved him. He handed his son a beautiful wrapped gift box.
Curious, but somewhat Disappointed, the young man opened the box and found a lovely, leather-bound Bible, with the young man's name embossed in gold. Angrily, he raised his voice to his father and said, "With all your money you give me a Bible? and stormed out of the house, leaving the Bible.
Many years passed and the young man was very successful in business. He had a beautiful home and wonderful family, but realized his father was very old, and thought perhaps he should go to him. He had not seen him since that graduation day. Before he could make arrangements, he received a telegram telling him his father had passed away, and willed all of his possessions to his son. He needed to come home immediately and take care of things.
When he arrived at his father's house, sudden sadness and regret filled his heart. He began to search through his father's important papers and saw the still new Bible, just as he had left it years ago. With tears, he opened the Bible and began to turn the pages. His father had carefully underlined a verse,
Matt 7:11, "And if ye then, being evil know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven, give good things to them that ask Him?"
As he read those words, a car key dropped from the back of the Bible. It had a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer who had the sports car he had desired. On the tag was the date of his graduation, and the words...PAID IN FULL.

While studying dental surgery in Nantes, France, Gervais Gerard Zang began to have many questions about life that his Catholic faith did not answer. He began investigating many churches and, on this journey, he met the Latter-day Saint missionaries. He was baptized on 11 November 1989 and, after a few months, received the Melchizedek Priesthood and was ordained an elder in the Church. After obtaining his diplomas in dental surgery, he returned to Cameroon.
On 10 January 1993 the first branch of the Church in Cameroon was organized. Known as the Bastos Branch, it was established in Yaoundé, Cameroon, with Brother Zang as the branch president.
By September of the same year the Church was granted legal recognition by the president of Cameroon. Before the government granted recognition, about 30 people had been baptized and another 60 investigators were attending Sunday meetings. —Sister Julie Brough, Church History missionary in the Africa Central Area

In September 1845, the John Williams, a ship carrying two missionaries from the London Missionary Society, visited Tubuai to speak with Elder Pratt. While Elder Pratt carried on a lively debate with one of the missionaries, the other sought out those who had accepted Elder Pratt’s message. He “upbraided them for being baptized,” Elder Pratt reported. The missionary attempted to prove with scripture that they had been deceived, but Telii stood up to him and “maintained the point from scripture so well,” Elder Pratt said, “that he could not confute [disprove] her from it.”10

My mother’s mission taught her a great lesson on faith. Her bishop and stake president told her that it would be difficult for her to serve a mission because she had a speech impediment, which made it hard for her to be understood. But she felt impressed to go and had the overwhelming feeling that if she would be faithful, the Lord would correct her problem and she would be able to serve.
At age 14 she had received a blessing regarding a mission. Some time later she went to the secluded upper rooms of the meetinghouse and poured her soul out to her Heavenly Father regarding her desire to serve a mission. She felt inspired to call her uncle, who was a mission president in Missouri, and ask him if she could be his secretary. (Back then they didn’t have all the formalities concerning mission calls that we do now.) He said yes, and she was set apart by a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, who promised her she would bring many people into the Church. She was surprised at this, knowing that she had difficulty speaking.
However, after she began to serve, one of the sister missionaries became very ill. The mission president asked my mother to work with this sister’s companion so that the sister could come to the mission home to recover and her companion could keep working. My mother took a train to the area where she would be working. When she stepped off the train, she was met by a couple of elders, one of whom remarked when he saw her, “Why have they sent Sister Bennion? She can’t even talk.” She turned to that missionary and said indignantly, “Yes, I can talk.” And in that moment her problem was gone, and it never returned.

I would like to express my gratitude for the great uplift the New Era brings me. This past summer I had the opportunity of living in New York as a mother’s helper for a nonmember family. Naturally, there are no LDS books of any kind in the house. When I was about at the point of despair, my mother sent my five latest issues of the New Era that had arrived at my home. I was elated. I find myself rereading the stories many times over. I love to sit down at the piano and play the music in them. My spirits have been greatly uplifted. I can hear about our Church during the week instead of just when I get the chance to attend church here. Thank you very much.
Cindy SavageLong Island, New York

Mark Grant, a 16-year-old in Nuneaton Ward, Warwickshire Stake, thinks there’s something magical in pursuing his talents. You see, among other things, Mark is an amateur magician and he has a way of making surprising things happen in other areas of his life, too.

When Mark was 11, he told his mother, “When I’m grown up I want to be a lawyer in the morning, a prime minister in the afternoon, a magician at night, and write books in my spare time.”

Mark is already well on his way to political leadership in England, recently winning “most outstanding prime minister” at a youth Parliament competition in London. The rest of his lofty goals haven’t changed too much in the past five years either.

Magicians never reveal their tricks, but Mark isn’t shy about sharing at least a few of the secrets of his success. Doing the things he knows are right—attending seminary, accepting callings and assignments from the bishop, and preparing for a mission—will help in his career preparation as well. What will Mark do if he gets where he is planning to go?

“I have a desire to change many things. I see a lot in society that’s wrong. Many of my beliefs are motivated by Church membership and would have an effect on the things I’d like to do,” he says.

On my mission, a lot of people asked me these kinds of questions. And I always had an answer for them. I had faith in the gospel and knew that no matter what happened, God would be there for me.
Or at least I thought I did.
Fourteen months into my mission, I woke up one morning and something was wrong. I felt extremely dizzy and began tripping over my words. Every day after, things got worse. Life felt hazy. I was exhausted. I couldn’t hold conversations, read my scriptures, or exercise. Even just staying awake felt impossible.
Soon I was on a plane home earlier than I had planned. My mission ended so abruptly, and my plans for life weren’t going as I expected. I was suddenly asking the question that many had asked me on my mission:
Why did God let this happen to me?
I searched for answers. I was sure I would go back on my mission because I still had so much left to do and learn! I had been faithful and obedient, so I had to be blessed for that, right? Every day I told myself that doctors would find a cure and I would go back. I prayed constantly. But over time, with no answers, I was forced to accept that my mission really was over.
Without answers, time passed like a dream. Nothing felt real. I always felt half asleep. My favorite hobbies were even impossible for me. I grew lost spiritually and turned away from God. In my pain I believed that I couldn’t return to the light. So I became comfortable in darkness.
But after months of darkness, a miracle happened, and a doctor diagnosed me with narcolepsy with cataplexy, which is an autoimmune disorder that damages the part of the brain that regulates the sleep and wake cycle.
My condition wasn’t curable, but we could at least treat my symptoms. And this answer was a ray of hope that also inspired me to find the light of Christ in my life again.
So, humbled, I said a sincere prayer and asked again,
Why did this happen to me?
And in my renewed hope, the Spirit told me that I already knew the answer.
One of my favorite scriptures is Romans 8:28, “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God.” All things—including challenges.
I knew this truth.
I had taught this many times on my mission. But I hadn’t applied it to my own life. I realized I had built up anger at God since I returned home early from my mission. I hadn’t found the peace He promises because I hadn’t allowed Him to offer me those blessings.
As President Russell M. Nelson has taught, “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”1
In my limited view, I had been resentful toward Him and didn’t want to be happy until my life went the way I wanted it to. But Heavenly Father reminded me that there was a higher purpose to my pain—to enable me to come unto Christ, be changed, and experience joy. After all, “Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy” (2 Nephi 2:25).
Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has taught: “In the midst of this refiner’s fire, rather than get angry with God, get close to God. Call upon the Father in the name of the Son. Walk with Them in the Spirit, day by day. Allow Them over time to manifest Their fidelity to you. Come truly to know Them and truly to know yourself. Let God prevail.”2
I understand now that knowing that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are with us will not always remove the stings of this life. I still struggle with my illness. But trusting and loving Them will always give meaning to the seemingly meaningless pains and “whys” we endure. Every affliction, every disappointment, every pain can transform from a stinging blow into a lesson lovingly taught by our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.
As I continue to seek Them, They continue to teach me and offer me joy each day.

In Belfast I had two roommates—Carol and Anne. None of us had any extra money. Our apartment was dismal, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, we decided to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. I had seen some of the miseries of the slums and wanted to help.
Our Christmas tree was only 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 food was simple. The 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 a package of molding clay.
The children arrived in their best clothes, which were ragged. They stood in a group at the door, afraid to come in. But we coaxed them inside and we played games, told stories, and sang songs until we were 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 dress and high heels that were 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?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
Then we served the food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating. Most had never had that much food on their plate.
“Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced after we had passed out the toys. “I felt right at home.”
The older girl in the high heels I noticed had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the car for a baby’s picture book. She was trying to rewrap it, but the cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“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 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.
(December 1973, p. 14.)

Kate has always tried to stay on her covenant path by seeking holy places. She was raised in a home where having family home evening, praying together, and studying the scriptures made her home a holy place. As a child, she learned about the temple, and the song “I Love to See the Temple” was a favorite for family home evening. As a little girl, she watched her parents set an example of seeking a holy place as they went to the temple on a weekend evening instead of going to a movie or to dinner.

She loved her father dearly, and he used his priesthood authority to help her make her first covenant of baptism. She then had hands laid on her head and received the Holy Ghost. Kate said, “I was excited to receive the Holy Ghost, and I knew that it would help me stay on the path to eternal life.”

Life continued on for Kate in a very blessed and happy way. When she was 14, she started high school and loved seminary, another holy place to learn about the gospel. One day her teacher started to talk about trials and guaranteed that we would all face them. She said to herself, “I don’t want trials; I don’t want to hear this.”

It was just a few weeks later that her father woke up on Easter Sunday extremely ill. Kate said: “My father was a very healthy person; he was a marathon runner. My mother was so alarmed by how sick he was that she took him to the hospital. Within 36 hours he had a massive stroke that shut down most of his body. He could blink, but the rest of his body was not working. I remember seeing him and thinking, ‘Oh no, it’s happening. My seminary teacher was right. I am having a trial.’” Within a few days Kate’s father passed away.

Continuing, Kate said: “It was so hard. You never want to lose the hero of your life. I knew I could make it a springboard for growth or allow it to be a roadblock. I didn’t want to let it ruin my life, because I was only 14 years old. I tried to be as close to the Lord as possible. I read my scriptures a lot. Alma chapter 40 assured me that the resurrection is real and through Christ’s Atonement, I could be with my father again. I prayed a lot. I wrote in my journal as often as I could. I kept my testimony vibrant by writing it down. I went to church and to Young Women every week. I surrounded myself with good friends. I kept close to caring relatives and especially to my mom, who was the anchor in our family. I sought out priesthood blessings from my grandfather and other priesthood holders.”

These consistent choices, like those of the wise virgin, added oil to Kate’s lamp. She was motivated by her desire to be with her father again. Kate knew her father was aware of her choices, and she did not want to disappoint him. She wanted an eternal relationship with him, and she understood that staying on her covenant path would keep her life woven tightly with his.

The day the bad people flew airplanes into buildings and killed lots of people, I said in my bedtime prayer, “Bless all the good people, but don’t bless the bad people.” After I finished my prayer, my mom explained that we need to pray for bad people to help them choose the right. In my next prayer, I said, “Bless all the bad people so they will turn into good people.” I am glad I can pray to help people be good and choose the right.

One day I was preparing to give a talk in sacrament meeting. I was studying the article “The Atonement of Jesus Christ” by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in the March 2008 Liahona. In his article, Elder Holland relates a dream Elder Orson F. Whitney (1855–1931) had in which he saw the Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane. Elder Whitney described the pain and suffering he saw the Savior bear. Then he wrote:
“Presently He arose and walked to where [the] Apostles were kneeling—fast asleep! He shook them gently, awoke them, and in a tone of tender reproach, untinctured by the least show of anger or scolding, asked them if they could not watch with Him one hour. …
“Returning to His place, He prayed again and then went back and found them again sleeping. Again He awoke them, admonished them, and returned and prayed as before. Three times this happened.”1
As I read this, the spirit of revelation entered my mind. In that instant, I realized that the way I could “watch with Him one hour” was in the way I approached sacrament meeting each Sunday. Since then, I have learned that this is an hour in which we can pray to our Heavenly Father in a more meaningful way. Prayer is fundamental at all times, but the Spirit present in that hour of the sacrament is an opportunity to elevate ourselves closer to Heavenly Father and our Savior, Jesus Christ. When we focus our thoughts on the Lord, it is, in a way, accompanying Him at the moment of the agony He endured when taking upon Himself our sins. It is a time to acknowledge the pain He suffered for us.
Sacrament meeting means everything to me. For me it is the hour of infinite salvation. It has become a sacred time in which I remember and commit in prayer and in spirit to honor my covenants and to follow the perfect example of my Savior. I know that He lives and loves me. I know that it is only through His sacrifice and His precious blood that was spilt that we can all be saved. I know this is true because as I have worked at “watching with Him,” my understanding has been enlightened, my life has been blessed, and my vision of eternal life in His presence has been deepened.

I lived in Nigeria, West Africa, for a few months. In our branch was a precious little child. She was seven years old and weighed only 10.5 kilograms. Often as I would enter our rented chapel, I would see her sitting on the back bench. I loved to pick her up and take her to the front with me and hold her during the meetings. It was as if she would soak up all the love that I had in me, and more.

Once at Christmas time I was holding my little friend, and it was announced that we would be singing “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” (Hymns, 95). A prompting came to me to sing it not to myself, as the words say, but to the little girl. It was a powerful, sweet, unforgettable experience for me, and I hope for her as well. As I sang my version of the text—He lives to bless you with his love, to plead for you above—I realized that the great blessings outlined in the hymn could come into the life of this little girl, and into the lives of others, through me. As an instrument in the Lord’s hands I could comfort others when they are faint, I could take time to hear their soul’s complaint, wipe away their tears, calm their troubled hearts, and love them to the end, just as the hymn tells us that the Savior does these things for us. But he needs my participation, he needs my willingness to serve, to be an instrument in his hands. He wants me to stop and help others. He wants all of us to stop and help those in need; to be good Samaritans.

It is reported that one summer at a Young Women’s conference in Alberta, Canada, three hundred girls were camped in tents scattered among tall pines. It rained every day and was very cold and wet. Even so, there was no murmuring in the camp. The last day of the conference, the leader addressed the young women under cloudy skies. Despite the unseasonable cold, there was a feeling of warmth among them for this their temporary home. Maybe because of the cold they were all drawn together and felt warm from the inside out.

The speaker began her remarks by asking, “Where are you going following this outdoor conference?” The united chorus of three hundred young women resounded through the tall pines. “Home!” they cried out. “Where?” they were asked again, and they responded with even greater conviction: “Home!” They knew where they wanted to go most of all and were anxious to get there.

Bishop Richard C. Edgley, when he was a General Authority and in the Presiding Bishopric, told this story of learning a valuable lesson on integrity: “After my freshman year of college, I spent the summer working at the newly opened Jackson Lake Lodge, located in Moran, Wyoming.” He explains that after the summer he returned home and was greeted by his father in the driveway. He then said,

After a hug and a few pleasantries, he looked into the backseat of [my] car and saw three Jackson Lake Lodge towels—the kind you cannot buy. With a disappointed look he merely said, ‘I expected more of you.’ I hadn’t thought that what I had done was all that wrong. To me these towels were but a symbol of a full summer’s work at a luxury hotel, a rite of passage. Nevertheless, by taking them I felt I had lost the trust and confidence of my father, and I was devastated.

The following weekend I . . . began the 370-mile round trip back to Jackson Lake Lodge to return three towels. My father never asked why I was returning to the lodge, and I never explained. It just didn’t need to be said. This was an expensive and painful lesson on honesty that has stayed with me throughout my life.

Bishop Edgley, then commented, “Sadly, some of the greatest missing values in today’s world are honesty and integrity.”

“Brethren and sisters, I know that this welfare program is inspired of God. I have witnessed with my own eyes the ravages of hunger and destitution as, under the direction of the president of the Church, I spent a year in war-torn Europe at the close of World War II, without my family, distributing food, clothing, and bedding to our needy members. I have looked into the sunken eyes of Saints, in almost the last stages of starvation. I have seen faithful mothers carrying their children, three and four years of age, who were unable to walk because of malnutrition. I have seen a hungry woman turn down food for a spool of thread. I have seen grown men weep as they ran their hands through the wheat and beans sent to them from Zion—America.”

Hannah P., a Laurel from Illinois, USA, thought she had a handle on what it means to accept and fulfill a calling. After all, she’d already served as Mia Maid class president and later as second counselor in the Laurel class presidency. But then she was given a ward calling she never expected: family history consultant.

“This came as a shock,” Hannah says. “This wasn’t a calling for a 16-year-old. It was a calling for older, wiser people!”

Shock notwithstanding, Hannah accepted the calling and rolled up her sleeves, so to speak. Soon she realized she really could make a difference. “It doesn’t matter what age you are. Anyone can do family history,” she says.

Hannah spends one evening a week at the local family history center working on FamilySearch (see FamilySearch.org) and teaching others to do the same. “Not only do I have the opportunity to feel the Spirit of Elijah myself,” she says, “but I can also help others feel it.” She loves helping people find a family name they’ve been trying to find for months. “They’re thrilled!” she says about such moments.