Gospel Story Finder

My sister danced around the kitchen in her lion costume, with black whiskers stuck on her face.
“Come on!” I hollered at her. “You’re supposed to help me set the table.”
“I’m practicing,” she said, spinning around perfectly on the linoleum floor. “My stomach is too wiggly to eat, anyhow.”
“It’s only a skating show,” I said. “It’s no big deal.”
“It’s the ‘Wizard of Oz,’” Laura declared, “and I’m going to be the lion. Come and see me.”
“I have plans,” I told her. I knew that the guys were going bowling, and there was no way that I was going to sit and freeze just to watch a bunch of seven-year-old kids skate. I finished setting the table by myself, and everybody sat down to eat.
“What’s for supper,” I asked Mom as she set a pot on the table.
“Mystery casserole,” she replied with a wink.
“Oh, great,” I mumbled. Mystery casserole was what Mom made when she was in a hurry and threw leftovers into a dish and baked it.
“We have to hurry tonight,” Dad said. “Laura has to be at the ice show in an hour. Are you coming with us, Son?”
“No,” I answered. “I already have other plans.”
“Fine,” Mom said. “You do what you think is important.”
I hate it when my mom says stuff like that. She makes me feel like I’m doing the wrong thing at the same time that she says to go ahead and do what I want. Besides, I’ve already spent the best years of my life watching Laura.
It all started when Mom began working part-time and I had to begin baby-sitting full-time. I gave Laura her snacks when I got home from school and her breakfast early Saturday morning, a real sacrifice on my part. I helped her put on her clothes and carted her around on my bicycle to baseball games. I even took her to one of my Boy Scout meetings. Then there had been that summer when Roger had invited me to go camping at the lake with his family for two whole weeks! Did I get to go? No! I had to watch Laura because Mom couldn’t find anyone else to do it. I had to stay home and build baby puzzles with Laura and help her tie her shoes. I had definitely gone above and beyond the call of duty as far as Laura was concerned.
Of course, I had been reimbursed for baby-sitting, and I liked Laura—most of the time. She was OK for a sister, but enough was enough.
The first game I bowled was lousy; I didn’t even break one hundred. The guys razzed me and asked me if I needed a handicap. I blamed it on the bowling ball and went to pick out a different one. I didn’t do much better the next game. I couldn’t seem to concentrate. Instead, I kept watching the clock. I knew that the skating show would be starting in thirty minutes, and I wondered if Laura would be skating first.
“Come on, Michael,” Roger said. “You’re up.”
I picked up my ball and carefully stood in our lane, mentally counting my steps: One, two, three. I stepped forward and rolled the ball—right into the gutter.
The guys laughed. They thought that it was hilarious, and I knew that I’d be hearing about this game for the next week, at least. I looked up at the clock again. The ice show started in fifteen minutes. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t care and that I was just having an off night bowling. Then I told the guys that I had to leave and go to my sister’s ice show.
They said that I was lucky that I didn’t have to finish my game, because I’d set a new world record for the worst game ever bowled.
The ice arena was cold. I pulled my hat over my ears and stuffed my hands into my pockets. The place was packed, and I gave up looking for Mom and Dad. I found an empty seat by the door where all the skaters stepped out onto the ice.
Laura was easy to pick out in her tawny lion costume. I cheered extra loudly for her and held my breath while she did her loops and one last spin. She had almost finished when her skate tip caught the ice and she went down in a heap. She leaped up quickly and kept going like a real trooper, but I could see that her shoulders were sagging.
I waited by the dressing room door after the show, and she came out with her skates draped over her shoulder and her lion whiskers dangling crookedly.
“Did you see me?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “You did a great job.”
“I fell.”
“You got back up,” I told her, “and that’s what counts. Just wait till next year—you’ll be leaping through the air! I can tell.”
“I’m glad that you came,” Laura said, and she grabbed my hand.
“Of course I came,” I told her. “I couldn’t let you skate without your own private cheering section.”

It has been almost a decade since my husband told me he was being investigated for a serious white-collar crime.
For a long time, no one knew what was happening except for our parents, our bishop, and our stake president. Not even our children knew. I felt as if I was living a double life, trying to smile and pretend that my world wasn’t crashing down around me.
Despite the turmoil, I had never felt closer to my Savior than I did during those months. I received a priesthood blessing and learned that I could pray to understand my husband’s feelings and needs. After months of prayer, I received confirmation that I needed to stand by my husband.
After a year of being investigated, we were financially ruined and not sure how to continue paying our legal bills.
I watched as my husband became depressed. He slowly began to shut us out, and he would often comment that he didn’t want to live anymore. Meanwhile, I had to go back to work and try to manage family life. It was overwhelming, and I was scared.
Before the court hearing, we each received priesthood blessings in the bishop’s office and felt peace. It was expected that my husband would be placed on probationary supervision for a short season. But as the judge pronounced the sentence of seven years in prison, I had a panic attack. I literally fell to the floor, and someone called the paramedics. I spent three days in bed after that, worried, scared, and confused.
My husband’s term of incarceration would begin in four months. During that time, our family searched for ways to cope and prepare. I remember how simple things like walking into church caused us debilitating anxiety, as we felt alone.
An inspired stake president started meeting weekly with us to set goals to help keep us from sinking further. Even with the generosity of family and friends, we knew nothing was going to make this go away. I was about to be a single mother! Even after years of living the gospel, I struggled to have faith that I could survive. Negative feelings and emotions flooded my mind. I felt worthless, broken, and alone.
Finally, the time came for my husband and me to travel to the prison where he would be incarcerated. I sobbed uncontrollably watching him walk into that facility. I didn’t know how I would be able to go home to my kids alone.
The challenges of supporting a loved one who is incarcerated seem to be endless. Because of the expense of traveling from our home to the prison, our family was only able to visit him about once every six weeks. After two years, he was transferred to a facility closer to our home, so our visits became more frequent. My children often missed school to see their dad and missed opportunities to be with friends and attend Church activities.
All of this took an emotional toll on the children. Our youngest child constantly worried that something bad was going to happen if he was not with me. He refused to go to activities unless he could call me, and I had a hard time getting him to attend school. He became quite defiant, especially toward his father.
So many life events took place while my husband was incarcerated. Our son got married, a missionary came home, and another missionary left. A child graduated from college, and another graduated from high school. Our first two grandchildren were born.
Going through these milestones alone was difficult. It was hard to keep our marriage intact, and at times even harder to feel close to God. Throughout it all, my children and I did our best to put our faith in God. We regularly attended professional counseling to deal with the anger, depression, and anxiety that came as a result.
The closer we got to my husband’s release date, the more excited and fearful I became. Of course I was excited to see him! But I feared that it would not be easy for him to integrate back into family life after so much time away. Everything that happened before he left came rushing back to my memory, accompanied by all the horrible feelings.
When my husband was released, he spent a month in a halfway house, which limited the time we could spend with him so he could gradually ease back into society. He was then released to home confinement for six months. Finally, he was home!
Since my husband has returned home, every single day has brought new triumphs and new struggles. We call it “cleaning up the debris.” There are still difficult moments, but we love and value each other more than ever. We are quicker to forgive and move on. Our treatment toward each other has improved as we serve each other, show kindness, and say “I love you.”
Meanwhile, we try hard to love our kids through their struggles as they continue trying to heal from this experience. Our family still has a lot of hard and painful work ahead of us. But, with help from God and professionals, we are slowly becoming unified the way we once were.
Honestly, the first six months after my husband returned home were spiritually tough. But now we feel more comfortable at church. We are again teaching the same Sunday School class we were teaching when my husband was incarcerated. Our son is in that class, and it gives him an opportunity to hear his dad’s testimony in a way that he has missed. Some Sundays are still filled with anxiety for both of us, but we are getting better.
We are forever changed. Although we have learned some good things from this experience, which I will describe below, I have to acknowledge that each member of our family is still haunted to some degree by the time my husband spent incarcerated. And we are still burdened by the aftermath of the financial, emotional, and social toll it has taken on each of us. Some days are harder than others. Some days I wonder if life will ever really feel normal. At the same time, I know that through Christ, complete healing and forgiveness are possible.
I’ve gained some things because of this experience. First of all, I have gained lifelong friends who did not allow me to get lost in this trial. I found friends I didn’t realize I had and met new friends who were in a similar set of circumstances.
Also, so much self-discovery happened while my husband was incarcerated. I learned what being committed to an eternal marriage really means. I learned to rely on God, and I gained a better understanding of His timing. I learned He answers prayers in ways that allow me to grow while still giving me light and hope.
I learned I have amazing, strong kids. I learned I can do the unthinkable: not only can I survive in the face of adversity, I can excel. I learned that it does not make me weak to need others. I learned to rely on and ask for priesthood blessings. I learned that no request is too small for my Heavenly Father.
I still have anxiety and am fearful of a lot of things, but every day brings healing. My husband and I have witnessed so many miracles these past eight years. I am no longer angry. I know Heavenly Father has been and will continue to be with us—before, during, and after this trial.
This I know to be true: friends, family, priesthood leaders, and the Lord helped my children and me make it through my husband’s incarceration.

One day when I was home alone with my youngest son, I slipped on a step and fell. Resulting abdominal pain persisted for several days, so I went to see a doctor.

I was pregnant at the time, and tests indicated that my placenta had become detached. This condition required complete rest, or I could lose the baby.

I was worried because we had three little children and could not afford to pay for help. The sisters in my branch, however, found out about my condition and, without being asked, came to my aid. They organized themselves into three groups that helped me in the morning, afternoon, and evening.

They came to wash, iron, cook, clean, and help my children with their homework. A sister named Rute, who was baptized into the Church while I was confined to bed, became well-known in our home. Rute, a nurse, helped at night and administered necessary injections.

I didn’t need to ask for anything; these sisters anticipated my needs and took care of everything. When they had more help than they needed, one sister would sit and visit with me. They did this for three months.

These sisters gave me strength, love, and dedication. They gave of their time and talents. They made sacrifices to be there. They never asked for anything in return. They loved and they served, following the example of the Lord, who taught us, “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).

Enilze do Rocio Ferreira da Silva, Paraná, Brazil

If having a variety of skills and work experience on a résumé is a good thing—and it is—then 16-year-old Sarah K. is off to an awesome start. She has worked at babysitting, house cleaning, and doing yard work. She’s done photography shoots at weddings and receptions. And for the past nine months, Sarah has been working part-time at a restaurant as a hostess and a busser.
“I believe in a strong work ethic,” Sarah says. She believes firmly that every job she’s had has taught her something useful.
Sarah got started in her work-for-hire jobs the same way many Latter-day Saint youth do: by checking first with people in her ward. “The Church members started hiring me, and they would tell their friends,” she says.
It’s also been a family effort with her siblings. Sarah is the second-oldest of nine children. Her younger brothers know how to network and find yard-work jobs. “Whenever they had a gig, I would tag along,” she explains.
Her work plans are only getting started. “My goal is to be a cosmetologist and to have a business degree so I can build on that skill,” Sarah says.

In my young years growing up in Logan, Utah, I was part of a musical family. My grandfather, Francis H. Baugh Jr., affectionately known in the community as Frank Baugh, was the director of music for nearly thirty years in the Logan City School District, where he directed the high school choral groups and musical productions in addition to supervising music education in the junior high and elementary schools. He was Logan’s own music man.
By the time I was in elementary school he had retired from teaching in the public system, leaving him time to teach my siblings and me the piano. Not too many people can say they took piano lessons from their grandfather, but I did—he was my one and only teacher.
Every piano lesson included playing hymns from the LDS hymnal. Grandfather would have me go over each hymn several times while he pointed out fingering and dynamics and told me to “make the long notes longer and the short notes shorter.” And since Grandfather was a choral director and a singer—a beautiful tenor, I might add—he would sing the hymns, every verse, as I would play them. By the time I was a teenager I could play many of the hymns, but surprisingly I could also sing the words of those hymns by heart because I had heard my grandfather sing them so many times.
Around the time I was in junior high school, my grandfather must have felt I was ready to take on the longest hymn in the hymnal: number 296, which was titled “The Seer, Joseph, the Seer,” a poem written by John Taylor and later set to music by Ebenezer Beesley. Fortunately for me it was in the key of C, but it was four pages long, not to mention it was a choir number.
Looking back, I think I can say that it was while I was learning to play that number and hearing my Grandfather Baugh sing the words that I felt the first feelings of a testimony in my heart concerning the life and mission of Joseph Smith. However, for many years I was puzzled as to why the text referred to Joseph Smith as a seer, a title I was not altogether familiar with. It was not until I read the Book of Mormon that I learned that perhaps the greatest designation Joseph Smith could have been given was that of a seer.

In the fall of 1911, Alma Richards returned to Brigham Young University with the goal of going to the 1912 Olympic Games in Stockholm, Sweden. Alma was a twenty-one-year-old high jumper from Parowan, a small town in southern Utah. Before going to BYU the previous year, he had known next to nothing about the Olympics. Then his coach told him he had a shot at competing in the games.
“If you will train consistently for a year and a half,” he said, “you will make the team.”1
At first, Alma thought his coach was joking. He was naturally athletic, but he was taller and heavier than most high jumpers. And he did not have much experience or training in the sport. Rather than scissor kicking or rolling his body horizontally over the high jump bar, as most jumpers did, he would launch himself awkwardly into the air, curling up in a ball as he flew.
But he put his coach’s words to the test. He trained regularly and began excelling in local athletic competitions.2
His desire to excel in his sport led him to keep the Word of Wisdom at a time when the principle was encouraged but not strictly required in the Church. In abstaining from alcohol and tobacco, he trusted the Lord’s promise that those who followed the Word of Wisdom would “run and not be weary” and “walk and not faint.”3
In the spring of 1912, his coach told Alma that he was ready for the Olympic tryouts. “You are one of the fifteen best high jumpers in the world,” he said, “and one of the seven best in the United States.”
Alma Richards stands in the Stockholm stadium at the 1912 Olympic Games.
Alma Richards’s eyes hurt as he peered at the high jump bar. It was the third day of the 1912 Olympics. The sun over Stockholm’s new brown-brick stadium was unbearably bright, irritating an eye infection that had plagued Alma for weeks. When he was not jumping, he wore an old, droopy hat to shade his eyes. But now that his turn had come again, he stepped to the side of the field and tossed his hat into the grass.4
As Alma prepared to jump, his mind raced. There he was, representing his country at the greatest athletic competition in the world. Yet he felt weak, as if the whole world were resting on his shoulders. He thought of Utah, his family, and his hometown. He thought of BYU and the Saints. Bowing his head, he silently asked God to give him strength. “If it is right that I should win,” he prayed, “I will do my best to set a good example all the days of my life.”5
Raising his head, he felt his weakness slip away. He threw his shoulders back, walked up to the starting line, and crouched into position. He then skipped forward in a burst of energy and leapt into the air, tucking his knees beneath his chin. His body barreled forward and sailed over the bar with inches to spare.
After returning from the 1912 Olympic Games in Stockholm, Sweden, Alma Richards was honored in a parade.
On the sidelines, Hans Liesche suddenly looked nervous as he warmed up for his jump. Alma ran in circles to keep his legs limber. If Hans cleared the bar, as Alma was sure he would, the bar would be raised even higher, and Alma would have to jump again.
When Hans launched into his first jump, he fell on the bar and sent it crashing to the ground. Frustrated, he returned to the field and made a second jump. Once again, he knocked the bar off its pegs.
Alma could see that his competitor was losing composure. Just as Hans squared up for his final attempt, a pistol fired nearby, signaling the start of a race. Hans waited for the runners to cross the finish line and then prepared to jump. Before he could, though, a band began playing, and he refused to start. Finally, after nine minutes, an official prodded him to hurry along. With nothing left to do but jump, Hans bounded forward and threw himself into the air.
Once again, he failed to clear the bar.6
Joy washed over Alma. The competition was over. He had won the gold medal and set an Olympic record. Hans came over and heartily congratulated him. Others soon joined in the praise. “You have put Utah on the map,” one man said.
James Sullivan, an official on the American Olympic team, was especially impressed with Alma’s coolness under pressure and wholesome lifestyle. “I wish we had a hundred clean fellows like you on our team,” he said.7
Within days, newspapers across the United States praised Alma’s victory, crediting his success in part to his religion. “They call the winner of the great jump ‘the Mormon giant,’ and he deserves the title,” one reporter wrote. “He is a self-made athlete, and his winning of world renown comes after years of endeavor and a determination inherited from the men who established the Mormon religion and made the desert blossom.”8
One of Alma’s friends, meanwhile, teased him about praying before his winning jump. “I wish you wouldn’t laugh,” Alma quietly responded. “I prayed to the Lord to give me strength to go over that bar, and I went over.”9

But sometimes there is no one like President Monson, no home teacher, no caring sister available to minister in time of need. In those situations I have come to find solace and direction from the Comforter, another role of the Holy Ghost (see D&C 36:2).
Our grandson Quinton was born with multiple birth defects and lived three weeks short of a year, during which time he was in and out of the hospital. Sister Jensen and I were living in Argentina at that time. We truly wanted to be there with our children to comfort them and be comforted by them. This was our grandchild, whom we loved and wanted to be near. We could only pray, and we did so fervently!
Sister Jensen and I were on a mission tour when we received word Quinton had died. We stood in the hallway of a meetinghouse and hugged and comforted each other. I witness to you that assurances came to us from the Holy Ghost, a peace which passes all understanding and continues to this day (see Philippians 4:7). We also witnessed the unspeakable gift of the Holy Ghost in the lives of our son and daughter-in-law and their children, who to this day speak of that time with such faith, peace, and comfort.

When I was 19, I also traveled far from my family for the very first time to Utah. I attended a YSA ward. My English was limited, and I didn’t know anybody. I felt lost. I will never forget my dear Bishop Moody. I grew up without a father, but as soon as I met him, he became a father figure to me. I am not sure we communicated very well (because of language barriers); but I remember the power of the sanctity of his office. I remember feeling so strongly that he was my bishop. I looked up to him, and I never wanted to do anything that would disappoint him. In fact, one time on a group date my friends took me to a place that was clearly the wrong place to be in. I felt bad being there but didn’t want to be the first to say anything. As time passed and no one said anything about leaving, the thought came to my mind: What would Bishop Moody think if he saw me here? I then had the courage to stand up and say, “I want to leave. If no one is willing to drive me, I’ll just walk.” I never told him this, but I will thank him forever.

A more recent convert, Susan, loves the Church. Originally from South Sudan, her family fled hardships and was blessed to receive the missionaries in Uganda. As a refugee, she found peace and protection in the gospel. On Sundays she would bring her younger siblings to church, as well as up to 10 other children who are not Church members. After the unexpected death of a family member, she returned to South Sudan, where she waits for the Church to be established in her area. Both Susan and Sandra face challenges, but they rely on God and enjoy the fruits of living the gospel of Jesus Christ (see Alma 32:6–8, 43).

I would like to start with a story from Church News:
He stood to bear his testimony and could barely see over the pulpit. The counselor in the bishopric lowered the podium and 8-year-old Brandon, with tears in his eyes, bore a heart-rending testimony with such emotion that his little voice quivered, and it truly touched the congregation. When he finished and turned to leave, the bishop saw that Brandon couldn't leave. His fingers had been pinched when the pulpit had been lowered. The bishop quickly motioned for his counselor to raise the pulpit and Brandon was released and quickly returned to his seat. He leaned over and quietly whispered to his mother, 'Now I understand why people cry when they bear their testimony!'[1]

When our twenty-one-year-old daughter, Georgia, was critically injured in an accident, her father and I were serving a mission in Brazil. We hurriedly got a flight back to the United States. We trusted that the Lord would answer our fervent prayers. Georgia was given a priesthood blessing by a worthy priesthood holder—her brother—and we knew the Lord had the power to heal her. But she died before our plane landed. We had prayed that she would live.

Did the Lord hear our prayers? Yes. Did He answer them in the way we had pleaded He would? No. Should we have bitterly turned away from Him and looked to some other source for peace and understanding? No. There is no other source of lasting peace and eternal life than Jesus Christ. Sometimes we feel overwhelmed with our troubles, but the Lord is stronger than our challenges. He gives us strength and inspiration to face them.

I am one who believes that many of you here this evening have made covenants with someone before you ever came to this earth. Maybe not everybody did, but many of you did. I did. That’s right, and I was not a member of the Church. All you have to do to have such a covenant fulfilled is to live up to the light and knowledge that you have.

When I was eighteen years old, I saw this little black-haired girl who was just fourteen years old, walking down the street. Now, I know that is not MIA dating age, but I was not a member of the Church, so that didn’t apply to me. The first time I saw her walk by I knew she was for me, and so I got acquainted with her and told her so. Yes, I told her she had four years to grow up in. I was going into the navy and I’d be back and marry her. So four years later I came back and married her. After all, I had told her I would, and that is the smartest thing that I have ever done.

Among other reasons, it was she who was home when those two young men came by and knocked on my door out in San Diego, California. They said they were taking a poll. Now, as a matter of fact, that was the kind of thing Moroni calls a stratagem. They weren’t really taking a poll—they were tracting— but they were using the survey technique. They were asking questions that I had been trying to answer all my life, such as: “Do you believe that God speaks to man today?” “Do you believe that God has a true church on earth?” Well, my wife expected them to come back and give her the answers to the poll questions: “Why, yes, five percent of your neighborhood believe that God speaks to man today, and perhaps ten percent believe that he has a true church on earth.” But instead, they came back and gave her Joseph Smith Tells His Own Story (a pamphlet) and the Book of Mormon.

She wrote me a letter in Hawaii, where I was undergoing a very accelerated training course in the navy. In her letter she said two young men had come through the neighborhood and knocked on the door. Mormons, they were, which of course meant nothing to me because I’d never heard of a Mormon. I really had no idea what a Mormon was. The only thing that registered on me was that two young men had knocked on my door with my wife at home and me 2,000 miles away. I didn’t care what they called themselves. What were they doing calling on my wife? In her letter she said, “You know, it is rather strange. They both have the same first name—Elder.” You see, we don’t understand sometimes that we in the Church have a vocabulary all of our own and that people outside the Church many times don’t know what the Mormon elders are talking about. They also invited her to the “stake house.” She didn’t eat before she went, expecting to be fed. (It must have been an unusual meeting.) Often we do eat in the stake house, don’t we? Sometimes it seems the Mormons meet to eat.

She didn’t mention any more about the Church until I came home some thirteen weeks later, and then the first thing she told me when I walked into the house (after having been gone for thirteen weeks) was the Joseph Smith story. When she said that a man had seen a vision in almost modern times, I thought that was the most preposterous thing I had ever heard in my life, and I laughed at her. How could she be so gullible as to swallow this fabulous tale? She then did what the sisters have been doing since Eve’s time: she cried. I could see that this really meant something to her, that she believed this fabulous story; so I said, “They must have left something for you to read.” Everybody did—Jehovah’s Witnesses, Seventh-Day Adventists—everybody had been in my home and they all left something to read. I was sure these Mormons had too. “Yes,” she said, and gave me Joseph Smith Tells His Own Story, and I read it.

The power of that testimony didn’t come through the printed word to me. I believe that it is necessary to have the elder or the sister there to bear their witness that they know it is true, and when that happens the Holy Ghost can confirm it to the heart of the person and he knows it too. That didn’t happen to me, and so I said, “They must have left something else,” and she gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon. I took the book and looked through it: “Five hundred and twenty-two pages written by a man, no doubt. I’m sure it’s full of errors. I’ll shoot this down in fifteen minutes.” You see, I had become a real expert on religion by this time. I had read Mary Baker Eddy’s Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, the Catholic Baltimore Catechism, Father Smith Instructs Jackson, and several other books on religion. I remember one book entitled Human Life of Christ by John Erskin, where he said that the way that Christ fed the 5,000 was that people who came out to hear him all brought their lunch with them and when he preached this sermon on giving of yourself they all opened their lunch and shared it with everybody. Isn’t that a “beautiful explanation” of the Lord’s miracle?

I was sure that all religions were man-made, and so I had made up my own religion. It seemed to be as good as anybody else’s. I took the book and declared, “I’ll shoot it down in fifteen minutes. I’ll show you; this is another man-made book.” And I started to read the Book of Mormon. I hadn’t finished 1 Nephi before I found myself hoping above everything else in this world that this book was true. I said, “Dear God, please let it be the truth. Please let it be true, for if it is, it will answer all the questions I’ve been trying to answer all my life.” And I read on.

I hadn’t finished 2 Nephi before I knew it was true. I found myself reading that book—every word—as the word of the Lord to me. I had prayed one simple prayer to the Lord. If I had prayed it once I had prayed it a thousand times. It was simply, “Dear God, please show me the truth. Please lead me to the truth,” and here, through no effort of my own, he had sent these two young men right into my living room with the truth. I knew it was true. I was sure after such a long search that if I ever found the truth it would be like a Cecil B. De Mille production—in technicolor, panavision, and stereophonic sound. No one who heard it could turn it down. It would be blared from the housetop—the truth! That’s what I thought.

Well, you should have seen these two elders that knocked on my door. To begin with, they didn’t like each other. No, they didn’t get along well at all. One was a very happy soul. He had made up a joke for almost every discussion, and when he would tell his joke somewhere in our discussion his companion turned livid red all over. The companion was a very sober young man. He took Alma to heart when he said, “Be sober, my son.” He seldom ever smiled. Their grammar was atrocious. Their diction was worse than mine. So far as knowledge of the world is concerned, they really didn’t have any. I knew much more about what was going on in the world than they, but though they didn’t particularly like each other, they both loved the Lord. They were willing to overlook these little idiosyncrasies that they each had which made them unacceptable to each other, in order to do the work the Lord had called them to do, and they did it marvelously well.

It is my witness that the Lord can speak through nineteen-year-olds and speak eloquently, for he did through them. They came to my home the first time (after I returned home), having fasted and prayed for two days. My wife had frightened them: I was going to be a tough nut to crack (or so my wife believed). But before they got to my home I’d finished 2 Nephi and I knew the book was true. I never argued with one word that they told me. But you see, they would have never gotten in my home if it hadn’t been for my helpmeet.

The missionaries knocked on our door just one day after my wife moved into our home. She was what missionaries call a “new move-in,” and they always make good contacts. She was also expecting our third child—a new birth in the family seems to make parents receptive to the gospel too. Well, I didn’t know when I saw her walking down the street when she was fourteen how I knew her, but I know now. I’m sure we were very well acquainted before we ever came to this earth, and I am sure that many of you can find your covenanted mates if you will just keep the commandments and be in condition to recognize them when you see them. That is very important.

Anna Sewell died a year after the book’s publication on April 25, 1878, of a painful lung infection. When the horse-drawn hearse arrived at the door, her mother looked down from an upstairs window and saw that the horses had bearing-reins [checkreins]. “Oh, this will never do!” she exclaimed and hurried to order the cruel, restricting reins removed. This loving mother thereby performed one more service for her daughter and for her daughter’s friends, the horses.

During the next year, however, the Lord was able to teach me how to keep the spirit of Christmas. We served among a humble group of people living in nearly abandoned milling towns scattered along small rivers. And we loved serving among these people immensely.
We decided to share our Christmas with an investigator, Alice, and her family. Alice supported her three teenage boys, a daughter, and a granddaughter all with her income working at a fast food place. Needless to say, her budget was tight. So instead of focusing on ourselves at Christmas, we decided to serve someone else.
My companion at the time, Elder Werner, felt there were basically two things that would bring joy into the world: the gospel and good food. When we showed up on Christmas morning to cook a simple breakfast, we were hailed like Old Saint Nick himself. Her extended family was there, and everyone was laughing, joking around, and wanting to help us cook. Since our families were allowed to call on Christmas, Alice and my mom were able to talk on the phone together. Watching her speak with my family was far more of a gift than the three meals I participated in the year before. It connected someone I was serving to my family and helped my family share my mission with me. The morning was filled with a feeling of familiarity that was almost tangible. I knew I was where I was supposed to be.
During that morning, I came to appreciate the true spirit of Christmas. And it has everything to do with the example of our Savior and the teachings of the gospel. The excitement wasn’t about us as missionaries; it wasn’t even about our gesture of making breakfast. That morning was about sons and daughters of God simply sharing with one another. I wasn’t given a feast of food, but my soul was full of joy.

“Please hurry, Rabiha,” Hisham urged as he walked beside the cart on the busy Cairo street.
The mule pulling the loaded cart could make little progress on only three good legs.
“Get that worthless bag of bones off the street!” the impatient cart owner directly behind Hisham yelled.
“Rabiha is not worthless!” Hisham shot back.
A feeling of affection for Rabiha washed away Hisham’s anger as he guided the mule to the side of the road and stopped. He looked at Rabiha’s lame leg again and grimaced when he saw how swollen and sore it was. “My poor Rabiha,” Hisham mourned, patting the mule. “Your leg is not healing.”
Putting into words what he had feared these many days aroused a feeling of terror in Hisham. The heavy loads Rabiha pulled provided Hisham and his mother their only income. When his father was alive, Rabiha had pulled the cart for him. Hisham did not know how they could manage without the mule. Discouragement overwhelmed him, and he buried his face in Rabiha’s neck, ignoring the noise of the busy street.
“Hisham!”
Hisham started, blinking back the tears. His neighbor Mr. Megm was looking at Rabiha’s leg.
“You must take your mule to the Dispensary for Sick Animals,” Mr. Megm advised. “When my donkey’s leg became lame from a nail lodged in his hoof, the veterinarian there removed the nail and made him well again.”
Hisham brightened. “Do you think they can help Rabiha?”
“They can try,” Mr. Megm replied. “I will help you take him there after work.”
That evening Mr. Megm and some of Hisham’s other neighbors helped load Rabiha into a cart, and then Hisham took the crippled animal to the dispensary. For the first time in his life Rabiha rode in a cart instead of pulling it.
“It’s a deep, ugly tumor,” the white-coated veterinarian told the boy after examining Rabiha’s leg. “I can operate tomorrow.”
Hisham wet his dry lips. “Will Rabiha be all right?” he asked anxiously.
“I hope so,” the doctor replied. He gave Hisham a reassuring smile.
Through smarting tears, Hisham tried to return the smile.
Rabiha was put into an empty stall and fed.
“You may go home now,” the doctor told Hisham. “Your mule will be all right here tonight.”
“I cannot leave Rabiha!” Hisham cried.
“As you like,” the doctor replied. “But there is no food for visitors to the dispensary and no place to sleep.”
Hisham was too worried to eat. After sending word of his whereabouts to his mother, he spent the night in the stable beside Rabiha.
The next morning Hisham watched from the stable as the anxious owner of the donkey in the next stall led his animal to the canvas-covered operating table in the adjoining area. As the white-coated attendants forced open the donkey’s mouth, Hisham again buried his face in Rabiha’s neck. “I love you,” he whispered. “You must get well!”
Later Hisham heard an attendant chuckle as the other donkey was returned to the stall. “A greedy donkey if I ever saw one,” he said.
The owner was laughing too. “Greedy indeed!”
“What ailed your donkey?” Hisham asked.
“He had a whole corncob stuck in his throat,” the owner explained, grinning. “He is all right now.”
When Rabiha’s turn came to leave the stable, Hisham tried to be brave. But his legs felt like matchsticks as he followed the mule to the operating table. Then, hearing the neighing and barking from the paddocks and dog kennels close by, Hisham whispered to Rabiha, “The animals are sympathizing with you, old friend. You will soon be well.”
It wasn’t until the attendant administered the anesthetic from a large brown flask that Rabiha quit straining at the thick ropes steadying him.
Smelling the pungent fumes Rabiha was breathing, Hisham’s head, too, began to swim. He backed away and rested against a tree.
When he felt better, Hisham saw that the doctor had removed the tumor and was scraping and cauterizing the wound. Rabiha lay quietly on his side.
Hisham swallowed the lump in his throat. For the first time in weeks, he thought, Rabiha is feeling no pain in his leg.
“Your mule came through the operation beautifully,” the veterinarian told Hisham.
“Thank you, doctor!” the boy exclaimed. “Rabiha thanks you. My mother also thanks you.”
“Your mule, however, cannot go home today,” the veterinarian said.
Hisham blinked. “Why not?” he asked.
“He will have to stay several days until his leg heals.” He patted Rabiha’s bony back. “He needs time and rest to put a little meat on his tired bones.”
“Rabiha has never had a holiday,” said Hisham, wondering how he and his mother would live while the mule was recovering.
Seeing the boy’s worried face, the veterinarian said, “Perhaps I could lend you some money until your mule can work again.”
“I could not take money unless I earned it!” Hisham protested.
“If you are willing to work,” the veterinarian said, “there are jobs you can do here. Because you love animals, you would be a good worker for us. Come, I will show you the pets we board for people on holiday. They help pay our costs. You could help care for them.”
Hisham accepted the kind offer and then smiled as he thought, Rabiha’s holiday will be my holiday too.

Earlier that week the Valiant class had their farewell activity for Sister Stott. Travis knew that before the activity was over, his teacher would make sure she taught them something. She always did. The moment came as she set up a maze in the multipurpose room while they waited outside. Then, one at a time, she blindfolded them and guided them through the maze by telling them when to stop and turn.
It wasn’t always easy, but by listening carefully and obeying her directions, each class member was successful. Afterward, she talked to the class about how they need to have faith and trust in Heavenly Father and listen for His guidance—after their prayers, for instance—and follow His instructions in the scriptures and as given by their parents and Church leaders. She said that He would always do what was best for them. It was a lesson Travis would never forget.

The train rumbled through the night until it shuddered to a halt at the station in Salt Lake City. It was nearly midnight. Anna grabbed her bag and dragged it onto the platform. Her tired eyes searched for her aunt.
But there was no one waiting for her.
Fear slid over Anna. She scanned the platform again, hoping she had missed something. Her eyes lingered on the shadows. She tried to make out people’s features in the flickering lights. But her aunt was not there.
Strangers walked up to her and asked her questions. Anna thought they wanted to help, but she could not understand what they were saying.
She had never felt so scared in her life. Not when her classmates in Sweden had mocked her new faith. Not when she had been sick on the boat to New York. And not even when she had said good-bye to Mamma.
Anna closed her eyes and thought back to her mother’s words: “Don’t forget to pray to your Father in Heaven because He can understand you.”
Anna knelt on the platform next to her suitcase and prayed harder than she had ever prayed in her life. She prayed that Heavenly Father would send her someone who spoke Swedish and could understand her.
When she finished her prayer, she looked up. There was still no one waiting for her. But then she saw a German family she recognized from the train ride. The mother motioned for her to follow them. Still crying, Anna grabbed her bag and shuffled after them.
She followed them to the south gate of the Temple Square block. She looked at the spot where the beautiful new temple had been built. Then suddenly Anna heard quick footsteps nearby. A woman was hurrying toward them, looking closely at all the arriving immigrants. The woman’s gaze passed over the German family. Then she paused on Anna. When Anna looked up, the woman stopped and stared. Anna stared back, hope rising in her.
Anna knew her! It was her Sunday School teacher who had gone to Utah only a year before. She knew her!
The teacher pulled Anna tightly into her arms. She wiped away Anna’s tears and whispered in Swedish, “I had gone to bed, but I was awakened over and over again. Images of the arriving immigrants raced through my mind. I could not go back to sleep. I was prompted to come to the temple to see if there was anyone I knew here.” She took Anna’s hand and led her down the street. “Now come with me.”
Later Anna learned that her aunt and uncle had moved from Salt Lake and had not received her mother’s letter. Her teacher sent word to them, and they came to pick up Anna four days later. Eventually Ida and Anna were able to bring Mamma to America too.
But for now, none of that mattered. As Anna walked to her teacher’s home, she thought, Heavenly Father more than answered my prayer. I only asked for someone who could understand me, and He sent someone I knew.

Now let me share with you a testimony spoken by a man once poor in his childhood and now prosperous in his old age. He stood before the congregation and said,
“When I was a boy, on a summer’s day I would lie out in the alfalfa patch and chew on twigs and look up at the sky and wonder where the windows of heaven were that my parents had spoken of. I couldn’t see them in the clouds, and I thought they must be somewhere in the blue sky. I wondered how the windows could be opened so I could get a Boy Scout uniform and a pony and a bicycle. I never got these things, but I have come to see how the windows of heaven are opened as I have received the kindness of good and generous neighbors and friends in this ward in which we live.”

One day, my brother Rick and I decided to go goose hunting. That day we had success and both of us shot a goose. With the two geese in the car, we dreaded what was to come. Our father had taught us that we hunt for food. We knew that meant we would have to pluck both of these large birds and prepare them to be put in the freezer.
As we drove home, we talked about how hard it was to pluck a goose. We tried to find ways to get out of the job.
“Wait a minute,” said Rick. “Didn’t Brother Owen lose his job?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Maybe they need food,” said Rick.
We decided it would be a good deed for us to deliver some food to their door. (Of course, we were much more interested in getting out of the work than in doing a good deed.) We dumped the geese on the Owens’ doorstep, rang the doorbell, and ran back to the car as fast as we could. As we drove away, we were excited that we had found a way to avoid the work of plucking the geese.
The next day was fast Sunday. Brother Owen was the first one up to bear his testimony. He explained that he had lost his job and his family was struggling to get by. The night before, he was getting his three daughters ready for bed. They were crying because they were hungry and there was no food. His oldest daughter, still in Primary, explained that if they prayed, Heavenly Father would bring them food.
Brother Owen was overcome by the faith of his daughter. With tears in his eyes, he asked his daughter to pray. He explained that she had said a simple prayer, explaining to Heavenly Father that she and her family were hungry. Then she asked Heavenly Father to bring them food. As the prayer ended, the family was surprised by a knock on the door. They opened the door and found not one, but two large geese sitting on the doorstep. They thanked Heavenly Father for such a quick answer to their prayer. Brother Owen testified that God answers prayers and sat down. Rick and I had tears in our eyes.
From then on, every time my brother and I went hunting, we would drop our birds on the doorstep and run to the car. We left pheasants, ducks, quail, doves, and even some fish.
One day, as we were emptying the birds from our vests onto the Owens’ front porch, the door opened. Brother Owen stood in the doorway.
“I thought it was you,” said Brother Owen.
We apologized for leaving the birds there without cleaning them. He assured us that he was happy to clean the birds, and he was thankful for all the food we had left him. He told us how much he appreciated our thoughtfulness.
Initially, my brother and I had been trying to avoid the responsibility of cleaning after a hunt. But our loving Heavenly Father was able to use us to bless the lives of others. Now I look for opportunities to bless the lives of others—not to get out of work, but to be an instrument in God’s hands.

What has helped your testimony grow stronger? Recently I had an experience that made my testimony grow and helped me realize that my Heavenly Father really does know me and love me. I was in a scary situation with my younger brother, and we prayed that the Holy Ghost would tell my mom to come and get us. She received a strong impression to come right away. When she showed up a few minutes later, we were so relieved and grateful that Heavenly Father answers prayers.