Gospel Story Finder

One rainy evening in 1962, two Latter-day Saint missionaries knocked on the Jacobs’s door.
Not long after, one of Julie’s sons was baptized, followed by her sister and mother. But Julie was not yet convinced. The evening before her daughter was to be baptized, a missionary challenged her to pray in an effort to gain a testimony of the gospel.
“I did not promise the missionary anything,” Julie remembers.
“And when I said my prayers that night I did not mention the Church. But in the middle of the night I woke up with an urgent need to ask Father in Heaven if this was indeed the true church where I could serve him.
“Never had I prayed so sincerely or for so long. And never had I felt God’s love and strength as I did on that night. When my prayer was over, I saw the sun shining through the curtains at my bedroom window. As I gazed outside in the early morning hour, I felt a happiness and peace I had not known since before my son’s death,” she recalls, her face reflecting the wonder of that morning a quarter of a century ago. She was baptized that very day, along with her daughter.

I was a child in Korea in 1950 when the Korean War broke out. Our family had to leave our home in Seoul and move to the countryside. Things were hard for my parents—can you imagine trying to raise a family during a war? People were not properly fed because of the war conditions, and my mother became very sick from an unknown disease. Sometimes when the pain came, she would just be helpless. In my mind I can still hear her screaming because of the pain, and I still feel how awful it was not knowing how to help her.
One day an herb doctor told me that if I got a certain kind of herb for my mom, it would cure her. Another man told me where I could find this plant. So, because of the love I had for my mom and my sympathy for her pain, I set out early one morning, without telling anybody, in search of this plant. My bicycle was very small and beat-up, with tires that didn’t fit. The road I had to travel was about 20 kilometers long; it included two steep hills, a creek, and a mountain. I had only the name of the plant and the general area in my mind. To me the trip lasted almost forever—up and down, up and down on a dirt road. I found the general area, and when I explained to a man what I was looking for, he told me I needed to go to the home of one of the leaders in the community, who grew the plant in his garden for decoration.
It took me many more hours to get there, but finally I found the place and the plant, and I explained to the owner the purpose of my trip. He said, “Yes, it is true, that plant cures that kind of pain.” Even though I didn’t have any money, he gave the plant to me. I was so happy that I cried! I thanked him and very carefully tied the plant onto my little bicycle. I bowed many times to him for his kindness.
I started back home, down the mountain and across the little creek. About halfway up the first hill, my bike got two flat tires. I wasn’t a Christian then, and I didn’t know about the gospel, but I knew that there was a God who was the creator of all things. I said my own kind of prayer, as I had hundreds of times that day, and I know Heavenly Father heard me. He loves all his children, no matter what religion they are or what they believe. He answers our prayers if we are sincere and honest and say them with a righteous desire.
Heavenly Father answered my prayer that day, and I was able to make it home. When I arrived, exhausted and hungry, it was night; the trip had taken me the whole day. My parents had been terribly worried, even angry, especially because there was a war going on and it was dangerous. I quickly explained what I had done, and I showed them the plant. Then my dad cried, my mom cried, and I cried again. My mom was cured. She lived until 1991, the year I was called as a General Authority.
I don’t believe that it was only the plant that cured my mother. I believe it was mostly a blessing from Heavenly Father. That experience helped teach me the principle of prayer. It is my testimony that if we love God and do according to his teachings, nothing will be impossible if it is according to his will.

Romaine, seventeen, and his teammates on the A-l basketball team from the Church College are well known nationally in New Zealand. The school had won the national schoolboy basketball championship five years in a row—until two years ago. Romaine doesn’t like to talk about it, but that year the team came in third. They had the painful experience of having to come back to school and explain the loss to the other students. They didn’t want to go through that again. The team was determined to regain the top spot. And they did. The next year, the A-1 boys’ and the girls’ basketball teams both took first place in the national basketball tournaments.

The spiritual richness of our meetings seems to have little to do with the buildings or country in which we meet. Many years ago we went to Manaus, Brazil, a city far upstream on the Amazon River, surrounded by jungle, to meet with the missionaries and the handful of Saints who were then in that area. We met in a very humble home with no glass panes in the windows. The weather was excessively hot. The children sat on the floor. The mission president, President Helio da Rocha Camargo, conducted the meeting and called on a faithful brother to give the opening prayer. The humble man responded, “I will be happy to pray, but may I also bear my testimony?” A sister was asked to lead the singing. She responded, “I would love to lead the singing, but please let me also bear my testimony.”

And so it was all through the meeting with those who participated in any way. All felt impelled to bear their profound witness of the Savior and his mission and of the restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ. All who were there reached deep down in their souls to their spiritual taproots, remembering the Savior’s words that “where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” This they did more as heirs to the kingdom of God than as Brazilian members of the Church.

As a small boy on the farm during the searing heat of the summer, I remember my grandmother Mary Finlinson cooking our delicious meals on a hot wood stove. When the woodbox next to the stove became empty, Grandmother silently picked it up, refilled it from the pile of cedar wood outside, and brought the heavily laden box back into the house. I was so interested in the conversation in the kitchen that I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill the kitchen woodbox. I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my omission all my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.

Watoy paused under the colorful Filipino flag outside his school before heading inside.
“Good morning, class,” his teacher said. “It’s time for our morning prayer.”
All around him, Watoy’s friends each touched their foreheads, chests, and shoulders to form the shape of a cross. Then they recited the prayer they always said at the beginning of class. As usual, Watoy didn’t join them. Instead, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and said his own silent prayer. He prayed about different things each time, the way he was taught to pray at home and in Primary.
When he finished and looked up, he saw that his teacher was watching him with a confused expression on her face.
“May I talk to you after school?” she said.
Watoy swallowed and nodded. Was he in trouble?
When classes had ended for the day, Watoy’s teacher walked over to him.
“I see that you never cross yourself or recite our morning prayer,” she said. “Will you please tell me why?”
Watoy breathed a sigh of relief. His teacher wasn’t upset, just curious! He thought about how to answer.
“Well,” he began, “in my church, when we pray, we talk to Heavenly Father about many different things. And the cross reminds us of when Jesus died. But Jesus is not dead. He lives!”
His teacher thought about this for a moment and then nodded slowly.
“Thank you for sharing this with me,” she said.
As Watoy walked to football practice, he felt warm and good inside. He liked teaching others about Jesus Christ.

It felt like just a regular morning as I walked to school. But this seemingly unremarkable day in my 13-year-old life turned into something quite different once I got there.
“Did you hear the news?” my friend asked.
“No,” I replied. “What’s going on?”
When we walked into our first class, the teacher had a TV on. That’s when I saw news about the terrible events of the morning of September 11, 2001, in the United States. Hijacked airplanes had been flown into the World Trade Center in New York City and the Pentagon near Washington, D.C. Another plane had crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. Thousands were killed or injured. It was a frightening and tragic day.
At this time, my dad was a fighter pilot aboard an aircraft carrier on a routine six-month deployment for the United States Navy. In the days that followed, I continued to see news about the attacks. I also heard classmates express fear and anger. All this made me anxious about the future and what might happen to my dad.
General conference was held three weeks later. As I listened, the prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008), said that we lived in perilous times, but “the God in whom I believe … is a God of mercy. He is a God of love. He is a God of peace and reassurance, and I look to Him in times such as this as a comfort and a source of strength.”1
In the last session, President Hinckley closed his address with a prayer. He prayed for blessings of faith, love, charity, and “a spirit of perseverance to root out the terrible evils that are in this world.” He prayed that God would give “protection and guidance to those who are engaged actively in carrying forth the things of battle. Bless them; preserve their lives; save them from harm and evil. Hear the prayers of their loved ones for their safety.” He also prayed for God to “spare us and help us to walk with faith ever in Thee and ever in Thy Beloved Son.”2
I had often heard the prophet say that he prays for many things, but this was a unique experience. I had never heard the prophet say an actual prayer in general conference. Hearing the prophet pray brought me comfort I had not felt in weeks. He prayed about my concerns. I felt that he had prayed for my family. While his prayer was for the world, I was amazed that a prophet’s prayer could also be for me.

So, how can we access the power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ daily? In my own experience, I’ve learned how to invite the Savior’s enabling power through prayer.

While on my mission, my mission president encouraged me to study the Atonement of Jesus Christ. He made a 30-day study program containing talks and scriptures. Each day focused on an aspect of Christ’s Atonement to help the reader understand it better.

As I studied the words of God’s servants, my heart softened. I realized how much my Savior has done for me, and I felt so grateful for His sacrifice. On day 28 of my study, I studied a devotional given by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I realized that making Jesus Christ part of my day went far beyond my morning studies. I needed to practice intentionally feeling His love and accessing the power of His Atonement.

Elder Bednar taught: “As you and I come to understand and employ the enabling power of [Jesus Christ’s] Atonement in our personal lives, we will pray and seek for strength to change our circumstances rather than praying for our circumstances to be changed. We will become agents who ‘act’ rather than objects that are ‘acted upon’ (2 Nephi 2:14).”

With guidance from the Spirit, I realized I needed to change the way I prayed. I would previously pray for things that I thought would help me—for specific events to occur, others to reach out to me, or some sort of sign that could aid me. But those are all things I couldn’t control. What I could control was myself—I was what needed to change.

One night after a long day of missionary work, I felt particularly exhausted and overwhelmed. I got on my knees and prayed. I poured out all the frustration and sorrow I had pent up. I asked God to give me physical and emotional strength so I could wake up in the morning, motivated.

I intentionally asked for strength, a change within me, not my surroundings.

The next day, I woke right as my alarm sounded. I felt rejuvenated, happy, and ready for the day! It was such a stark change from what I’d felt previously. Focusing on what I could control and asking for Christ’s help completely shifted how I viewed His sacrifice for me.

I realized that Jesus Christ can give me hope, happiness, energy, motivation—any type of strength I could possibly need. I just needed to ask for His help and love to change me. And it did—aid came over time, with practice and patience as I prayed and drew on His power.

This way of praying became a regular habit in my life after that. I have felt His power lifting me. I have seen His love change me.

A friend of mine was very sick at one time. She was home alone when someone knocked at her door. She didn’t feel like getting up, but the knocking continued. Then she realized that it might be her visiting teachers. She knew they had set a goal for 100 percent; it was near the end of the month, and they hadn’t come yet.

When she saw that it was indeed her visiting teachers, she began to feel hopeful. She had a lot of undone work around her apartment. Perhaps, she thought, they might see how sick she was and offer to help. When they saw her and asked if she was all right, her hopes increased. “I’ve been so sick,” she said. “Well,” they replied, “we’ll just give you a quick lesson so you can get back to bed.”

They gave her the lesson, left, and got “credit” for their visit. My friend went back to bed and wept. She thought of times when she, too, had missed opportunities to serve because she was not as sensitive as she could have been.

On certain occasions I have approached young men of missionary age and informed them that they have been called to serve a mission. Sometimes they explain that they have no desire to go on a mission. I then tell them that it is immaterial to me whether they serve a mission or not. Of course, it isn’t all immaterial; but I say I am only informing them of the calling the Lord has already given them. And I’ll explain how I know that. I was present the day President Kimball made the announcement that all young men should go on a mission. The Holy Spirit told me that the principle was true.

Later on, I was talking with a humble, but inspired, patriarch who is here tonight. He informed me that he was not trained nor educated to give patriarchal blessings and that he could only say the things the Lord told him to say. I thought that sounded about right. He then added: “You would be interested to know how many young men who come for their blessings are told that they will go on missions.” With that statement, I again felt revelation and saw light, and I knew that President Kimball had not called them on a mission. He had merely made the announcement. But the mission had been ordained by the Lord himself, and every young man who belongs to the Church has an obligation to labor to build up the kingdom.

There has been no difficulty, therefore, for me in telling young men that I know they have been called on a mission. And when they respond that they are not interested, I merely say: “Don’t tell me; tell the Lord. You go and pray and ask him what he wants you to do.” Almost always they return from that experience saying: “Well, I suppose I had better go on a mission.” For some of them it is then time to say: “Now we both understand that you are not quite prepared, so let us begin to take the steps by which you will be qualified to go.”

When Panda Greene tried out for the girls’ one-mile run, she didn’t think she had a chance. She’d been running all her life, but never in formal competition. It had always been just for fun. The students and teachers at Andrews School had been buzzing about the race ever since she’d enrolled there in the sixth grade three months ago, and she knew that the very best runners would be competing. She could hardly believe it when she finished well ahead of her classmates. And when everyone at school suddenly knew who she was, and even the teachers stopped to chat with her in the halls, she couldn’t help but be pleased.
“Go, Panda! Go! Go!” the students cheered as she crossed the finish line ahead of the other runners during practices.
Andrews School’s biggest rival was Washington School. Every year for the past five years the winner of their meet had finally been determined by the winner of the one-mile race, and each time, Washington had walked away with the trophy. But enthusiasm was running high at Andrews this year. And their hopes were set on Panda. Winning had never seemed important to Panda before, but now she wanted very much to win—not for herself, but for her classmates, for her teachers, for Andrews School!
When Panda’s parents heard about the meet, they were just as excited as she was.
“We’ll be sure to be there,” her mother said, giving her a big hug. “We’re so proud of you!”
“When Grandpa Greene hears about it,” her father added, “I bet he’ll be here on the next plane.”
Billy, Panda’s eight-year-old brother, looked at her through squinted eyes. “Well, I hope you win, but I saw Washington’s team last Saturday. Their runner looks tough, and she runs like a cougar.”
Billy’s warning only increased Panda’s determination to win. Every afternoon, right after school, she hurried to the big track at the neighboring high school and practiced running until her brown hair was damp with perspiration and the muscles of her legs cried out for rest.
Panda felt good the morning of the race. She stood at the top of the bleachers in the warm sun and looked down at the track. “You’d better go sit with Mom and Dad and Grandpa now,” she said to Billy, who had been tagging after her all morning. “I have to go to the girls’ locker room and get ready for the race.”
As she spoke, Marianne Harper, her rival from Washington School, came over to her. Billy was right. Marianne looked strong and fast. She also looked unfriendly.
“I just wanted a closer look at you,” she said to Panda. “Everyone’s been telling me that you’re quite a runner. But you don’t look like much to me.”
Billy scrambled up the bleacher seats until he was at face level with Marianne. He stuck out his chin and glared at her. “Well, that’s OK, because you’re going to see nothing but her dust once the race starts!”
Marianne merely looked past Billy at Panda. “You don’t stand a chance of winning,” she said coolly as she walked away. “You don’t need it badly enough.”
Billy turned to Panda. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t have time to figure it out now,” she said as she headed down the bleachers. Turning to wave to Billy, Panda caught the toe of her sneaker on an uneven step and pitched forward. She quickly regained her balance, but a sharp pain bit angrily into her right ankle. After testing it gingerly, she decided it wasn’t anything serious, and she hurried off to the locker room.
The race was four laps around the school’s quarter-mile track. Six girls, each one from a local grade school, were lined up across the track in starting position. Panda was in the inside lane, Marianne Harper in the lane next to her. The gun went off, and Marianne instantly shot ahead of the group.
Panda paced herself, concentrating on her breathing. Relax, she told herself. Take deep, even breaths.
At the end of the second lap, two girls were ahead of her: Marianne Harper, and Sue Winton from Longfellow School. Panda continued her steady pace. The whole school was counting on her, and she wasn’t planning to let them down. By the third lap, only Marianne stood between Panda and victory. But the mishap in the bleachers had been more damaging than Panda had suspected, and the pounding of her feet against the hard surface was taking its toll on her ankle. Each step filled her leg with fiery pain. Gotta win! she thought. Forget the pain. Run! Run! Run!
Panda saw her chance for victory midway in the last lap. Marianne was showing signs of fatigue. Panda increased her speed, closing the gap until the two girls were running side by side. Marianne glanced at Panda, her eyes hard and cold. It was clear that she would not take losing lightly.
There were only fifty yards to go when a bolt of pain ripped through Panda’s leg; she felt her ankle twist beneath her body as she plunged toward the ground. Her hands plowed up the track, scraping them raw. Blood trickled from her knees, and gritty sand filled her mouth as she saw Marianne sprint across the finish line.
A party had been planned at the high school auditorium for all the contestants, winners and losers alike, immediately following the meet. Panda really wanted to attend it, so despite her injuries, her parents drove her there directly from the doctor’s office and helped her into a chair. She was immediately surrounded by concerned friends, determined to console her and cheer her up. Billy stood at her side, while her parents and grandfather talked with several other parents and some teachers.
“Does your leg hurt a lot?” Billy asked when her classmates temporarily drifted away.
“No, not too much,” Panda said. “The doctor says it’ll be fine in a week or so. I just have to let it rest.”
Billy was the first to see Marianne Harper heading their way. “Oh, oh. Here comes trouble!” he muttered.
Panda expected a sneer from Marianne, but her face was serious. “I’m sorry about your fall,” she said. “I wanted to win awfully bad, but not that way.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Panda said. “You beat me fair and square. You’re the winner.”
“Am I? Look around.” Marianne motioned to the many parents, teachers, and students in the room. “Your whole family’s here … and so many friends! They don’t care that you lost. They’re still cheering for you.” She shook her head sadly. “I thought it might be different if I won, but it isn’t. My classmates only came because we’re getting the trophy, and my parents didn’t show up at all.”
Marianne turned to walk away, and Panda reached out and grasped her arm. “Wait,” she said. “You’ll be going to Jefferson Junior High next year, won’t you?”
Marianne nodded.
“I will, too,” Panda said. “Maybe we can be on a relay team together. We’d make great partners.”
“You mean that?”
“Of course,” Panda said.
“Then you have yourself a partner!” Marianne smiled a half-smile as she left, but her eyes were wet with tears.
“I don’t get it,” Billy said. “She’s the winner. Winners don’t cry.”
“Sometimes they do, Billy,” Panda said thoughtfully. “I guess there are lots of things more important than winning.”
“Yeah,” Billy said. “Like having a brother.”
Panda put her arm around Billy’s shoulder. “Yes,” she agreed with a broad smile. “Like having a brother.”

As a young man, President Gordon B. Hinckley rode trains that hurtled through narrow mountain passes at night. It helped him understand how the light of faith can guide us through dark times of discouragement.
Long ago I worked for one of the railroads whose tracks threaded the passes through these western mountains. I frequently rode the trains. It was in the days when there were steam locomotives. Those great monsters of the rails were huge and fast and dangerous. I often wondered how the engineer dared the long journey through the night. Then I came to realize that it was not one long journey, but rather a constant continuation of a short journey. The engine had a powerful headlight that made bright the way for a distance of 400 or 500 yards (350 to 450 m). The engineer saw only that distance, and that was enough, because it was constantly before him all through the night into the dawn of the new day.

Several months ago, when my wife and I were visiting another country for various Church assignments, I woke up early one morning and looked blearily outside our hotel window. Down below on the busy street, I saw that a roadblock had been set up with a policeman stationed nearby to turn cars around as they reached the barrier. At first, only a few cars traveled along the road and were turned back. But as time went by and traffic increased, queues of cars began to build up.

From the window above, I watched as the policeman seemed to take satisfaction in his power to block the flow of traffic and turn people away. In fact, he seemed to develop a spring in his step, as if he might start doing a little jig, as each car approached the barrier. If a driver got frustrated about the roadblock, the policeman did not appear helpful or sympathetic. He just shook his head repeatedly and pointed in the opposite direction.

My friends, my fellow disciples on the road of mortal life, our Father’s beautiful plan, even His “fabulous” plan, is designed to bring you home, not to keep you out. No one has built a roadblock and stationed someone there to turn you around and send you away. In fact, it is the exact opposite. God is in relentless pursuit of you. He “wants all of His children to choose to return to Him,” and He employs every possible measure to bring you back.

Our loving Father oversaw the Creation of this very earth for the express purpose of providing an opportunity for you and for me to have the stretching and refining experiences of mortality, the chance to use our God-given moral agency to choose Him, to learn and grow, to make mistakes, to repent, to love God and our neighbour, and to one day return home to Him.

He sent His precious Beloved Son to this fallen world to live the full range of the human experience, to provide an example for the rest of His children to follow, and to atone and redeem. Christ’s great atoning gift removes every roadblock of physical and spiritual death that would separate us from our eternal home.

Everything about the Father’s plan for His beloved children is designed to bring everyone home.

What do God’s messengers, His prophets, call this plan in Restoration scripture? They call it the plan of redemption, the plan of mercy, the great plan of happiness, and the plan of salvation, which is unto all, “through the blood of mine Only Begotten.”

The intent of the Father’s great plan of happiness is your happiness, right here, right now, and in the eternities. It is not to prevent your happiness and cause you instead worry and fear.

The intent of the Father’s plan of redemption is in fact your redemption, your being rescued through the sufferings and death of Jesus Christ, freed from the captivity of sin and death. It is not to leave you as you are.

The intent of the Father’s plan of mercy is to extend mercy as you turn back to Him and honour your covenant of fidelity to Him. It is not to deny mercy and inflict pain and sorrow.

The intent of the Father’s plan of salvation is in fact your salvation in the celestial kingdom of glory as you receive “the testimony of Jesus” and offer your whole soul to Him. It is not to keep you out.

Does this mean anything goes with regard to how we live our lives? That the way we choose to use our agency doesn’t matter? That we can take or leave God’s commandments? No, of course not. Surely one of Jesus’s most consistent invitations and pleas during His mortal ministry was that we change and repent and come unto Him. Fundamentally implicit in all of His teachings to live on a higher plane of moral conduct is a call to personal progression, to transformative faith in Christ, to a mighty change of heart.

God wants for us a radical reorientation of our selfish and prideful impulses, the eviction of the natural man, for us to “go, and sin no more.”

If we believe the intent of the Father’s all-reaching plan is to save us, redeem us, extend mercy to us, and thereby bring us happiness, what is the intent of the Son through whom this great plan is brought about?

The Son tells us Himself: “For I came down from heaven, not to do mine own will, but the will of him that sent me.”

Jesus’s will is the benevolent Father’s will! He wants to make it possible for every last one of His Father’s children to receive the end goal of the plan—eternal life with Them. None is excluded from this divine potential.

If you are prone to worry that you will never measure up, or that the loving reach of Christ’s infinite Atonement mercifully covers everyone else but not you, then you misunderstand. Infinite means infinite. Infinite covers you and those you love.

Nephi explains this beautiful truth: “He doeth not anything save it be for the benefit of the world; for he loveth the world, even that he layeth down his own life that he may draw all men unto him. Wherefore, he commandeth none that they shall not partake of his salvation.”

The Saviour, the Good Shepherd, goes in search of His lost sheep until He finds them. He is “not willing that any should perish.”

“Mine arm of mercy is extended towards you, and whosoever will come, him will I receive.”

“Have ye any that are sick among you? Bring them hither. Have ye any that are lame, or blind, or halt, or maimed, or leprous, or that are withered, or that are deaf, or that are afflicted in any manner? Bring them hither and I will heal them, for I have compassion upon you.”

He did not cast away the woman with the issue of blood; He did not recoil from the leper; He did not reject the woman taken in adultery; He did not refuse the penitent—no matter their sin. And He will not refuse you or those you love when you bring to Him your broken hearts and contrite spirits. That is not His intent or His design, nor His plan, purpose, wish, or hope.

No, He does not put up roadblocks and barriers; He removes them. He does not keep you out; He welcomes you in. His entire ministry was a living declaration of this intent.

Then of course there is His atoning sacrifice itself, which is harder for us to understand, beyond our mortal capacity to comprehend. But, and this is an important “but,” we do understand, can comprehend, the holy, saving intent of His atoning sacrifice.

The veil of the temple was rent in twain when Jesus died upon the cross, symbolising that access back to the presence of the Father had been ripped wide open—to all who will turn to Him, trust Him, cast their burdens on Him, and take His yoke upon them in a covenant bond.

In other words, the Father’s plan is not about roadblocks. It never was; it never will be. Are there things we need to do, commandments to keep, aspects of our natures to change? Yes. But with His grace, those are within our reach, not beyond our grasp.

This is the good news! I am unspeakably grateful for these simple truths. The Father’s design, His plan, His purpose, His intent, His wish, and His hope are all to heal you, all to give you peace, all to bring you, and those you love, home. Of this I am a witness in the name of Jesus Christ, His Son, amen.

One day as I was helping clean up around the house, I came across my brother’s copy of Preach My Gospel from his mission. I knew that missionaries used it, but I had never looked at it before. I started reading it and almost couldn’t put it down. (I had to because there was more cleaning to do, but I didn’t want to!)
I had always wondered how missionaries do the things they do. I realized that Preach My Gospel can help me better understand missionary work. It has helped me be better about going up to people and talking to them and sharing the gospel in a better way.
Alissa F. (above), age 19, New Hampshire, USA

I have had personal experiences with ineffectively coping with irritation. A year ago my temper overcame me, and I ended up breaking my hand on a wall. Two months after I got my cast off, I broke the same hand on another wall. As a result of my immaturity, I lost the cherished respect of family and friends.

When you get angry, don’t lash out at people or things. Calm down and realize that the world is not going to end. Rarely will you experience righteous indignation as Jesus Christ did when he overturned the tables in the temple. People judge you by the way you react to stress, and who likes someone inclined to temper tantrums? Self-control is requisite for progression in the Lord’s eternal plan.

Max Booher, 16Bellingham, Washington

Illustration by Valerio Fabbretti
Ellie bit her thumbnail nervously. Miss Fitz was going down the rows of desks and asking each student a question, one by one.
“Who is your hero?” Miss Fitz asked Jeremy.
Jeremy didn’t waste a moment answering. “My dad!” he said proudly.
Miss Fitz smiled. “And yours, Sarah?”
Her answer came just as quickly. “Abraham Lincoln.”
Ellie felt her heart thumping as Miss Fitz continued down the row of students. They had been talking about heroes all day, and now everyone was supposed to say who their hero was—in front of the whole class!
Amber and Justin said their moms were their heroes. Walter said his was his grandfather. A few other students said theirs was a king or a president.
Only a few students were left before Miss Fitz would reach Ellie. She had to think of a hero—and fast.
Ellie looked down at her shoes, embarrassed. Coming up with a hero wasn’t the real problem. She already knew who her hero was. It was Jesus Christ. He had healed the sick, raised the dead, and paid the price for everyone’s sins. He was the greatest hero who ever lived! She was just too afraid to say it.
Ellie bit her thumbnail again at the thought of telling the whole class that Jesus Christ was her hero. What if Jeremy laughed at her? What if Sarah and Amber whispered about her at recess?
Of course she knew Jesus Christ was her hero. But that didn’t mean everyone else had to know too.
Miss Fitz stopped right in front of Ellie’s desk and smiled. “And who is your hero, Ellie?”
Ellie glanced from the row of students beside her up to Miss Fitz. “Abraham Lincoln,” she whispered.
Miss Fitz beamed. “Good!” she said as she walked to the next student in the row.
As soon as she was gone, Ellie’s shoulders dropped in relief. Thank goodness that was over. The last thing she needed was for everyone in class to know that her hero was—
“Jesus Christ,” a voice said.
Ellie’s eyes widened as she slowly looked over. There—only a little farther down the row—sat a small boy with rumpled hair. He was skinny and shy, and he always sat at the back of the classroom. Ellie didn’t even know his name. She couldn’t remember him ever saying a single word—until now.
A few students turned to stare at the boy, but he didn’t notice them. He just looked up at Miss Fitz and spoke again. “My hero is Jesus Christ.”
Miss Fitz smiled brightly and continued down the row. But Ellie looked at the boy in amazement. She had been afraid to tell everyone about her hero, but he hadn’t. He didn’t even go to her church! But he knew how important it was to stand as an example of Jesus Christ, even when it was hard.
Ellie smiled at the boy. She wouldn’t be afraid to say who her hero was anymore. After all, she had two of them now.

One summer my father said that he had a big job for me and my brother, Clay, to do. Pointing to a nearby field with a bunch of lambs in it, Dad said that he’d share any money that we made from raising them and selling them in the fall.
We were excited. There were about 350 lambs, and all we had to do was feed them. However, none of the lambs had mothers. They had all been lost in a violent storm. To feed one or two baby lambs is easy, but to feed 350 of them was a real job. There was plenty of grass, but the lambs needed milk. So we made some long, V-shaped troughs out of boards. Next, we got a tin washtub, ground up some grain, and put it into the tub. Then we added milk to make a thin mash.
We herded the lambs to the troughs and, pointing to the food, said, “Eat!” They just stood there looking at us. We tried pushing their noses down into the milky mash, hoping that they’d get a taste and want more. We tried wriggling our fingers in the mixture to get them to suck our fingers. Some of them would drink, but most of them ran away.
Many of the lambs were starving to death. The only way that we could be sure they were eating was to pick them up two at a time, hold them in our arms like babies, and feed them.
At night the coyotes would sit up on the hill and howl. The next morning we’d see the results of their night’s work, and we’d bury two or three more lambs.
Clay and I soon forgot about becoming rich. All we wanted to do was save our lambs. It really wasn’t too bad until I made a pet of one of the lambs and gave it a name. It was always under my feet, and it knew my voice. I loved that lamb. One morning it didn’t come when I called it. Later that day I found it under the willow trees by the creek. It wad dead. With tears streaming down my face, I picked up my lamb and went to find my father. Looking up at Dad, I said, “Isn’t there someone who can help us feed our lambs?”
After a long moment he said, “Jayne, a long time ago, Someone Else said almost those same words. He said, ‘Feed my lambs. … Feed my sheep.’” (John 21:15–16.) Dad put his arm around me and let me cry for a long time, then went with me to bury my lamb.
Many years later, while pondering Moses 1:39, I came to understand Dad’s words. The scripture reads: “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of [all mankind].” As I thought about the mission of the Savior, I remembered the summer of the lambs, and I sensed how the Savior must feel with so many lambs to feed, so many souls to save. And I knew in my heart that He needed my help.

As my wife, Nuria, and I were taught the restored gospel of Jesus Christ in 1982 by missionaries, they asked me the following question: “Do you believe there are true prophets on Earth today?” I had never been asked that question before. As I started thinking of what I knew of true prophets, a scripture came to my mind. “Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves” (Matthew 7:15).
I thought, if God warns me of false prophets, then that means that there must be true prophets. My response to the missionaries was, “Yes, there are true prophets on earth.” A warm feeling came to my heart when I said that, and I felt that it was true. The Holy Ghost was testifying in my heart that it was true. I just did not know it at the time. The smiling and loving faces of the missionaries also confirmed to me that it was the right answer. Then they asked an inspired question, “If there are true prophets on earth now, where are they?” I could not think of an answer, for I had never heard any living person call himself a prophet.
It was at that point that they taught us about Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel. In Matthew 7:16 we read, “Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?” Along with the Restoration, the elders spoke of the Book of Mormon, as a true fruit of the Restoration.
I’ve since come to know that the Book of Mormon is the word of God and a second witness, with the Holy Bible, of Jesus Christ. Nuria and I were subsequently baptized. We had fasted and prayed to confirm in our hearts that Joseph Smith indeed was a true prophet, that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s true Church on earth, and that His desire for Nuria and me was that we be baptized.
We continued attending Church and learning the gospel from study and by faith. We gradually grew in our conversion and in a stronger faith in Jesus Christ. I knew then, and I know now, of the truths of the divine role of our Savior Jesus Christ and of His true Church on earth.
Once we heard the words of our Savior Jesus Christ through His living prophets, we acted quickly and obeyed. The Holy Ghost then confirmed to us the truthfulness of those words and of our obedience. Our good choices have led to blessings and direction in life from Jesus Christ.

Then there was a Sunday School teacher—never to be forgotten, ever to be remembered. We met for the first time on a Sunday morning. She accompanied the Sunday School president into the classroom and was presented to us as a teacher who actually requested the opportunity to teach us. We learned that she had been a missionary and loved young people. Her name was Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She asked each class member to introduce himself or herself, and then she asked questions that gave her an understanding and an insight into the background of each boy, each girl. She told us of her childhood in Midway, Utah; and as she described that beautiful valley, she made its beauty live, and we desired to visit the green fields she loved so much. She never raised her voice. Somehow rudeness and boisterousness were incompatible with the beauty of her lessons. She taught us that the present is here and that we must live in it. She made the scriptures actually come to life. We became personally acquainted with Samuel, David, Jacob, Nephi, and the Lord Jesus Christ. Our gospel scholarship grew. Our deportment improved. Our love for Lucy Gertsch knew no bounds.
We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys and girls with typical appetites, we converted in our minds the monetary totals to cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious occasion—the biggest party ever. Never before had any of our teachers even suggested a social event like this one was going to be.
The summer months faded into autumn; autumn turned to winter. Our party goal had been achieved. The class had grown. A good spirit prevailed.
None of us will forget that gray morning in January when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.
The lesson that Sunday was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” At the conclusion of the presentation of a well-prepared lesson, Lucy Gertsch commented on the economic situation of Billy’s family. These were depression times; money was scarce. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked, “How would you like to follow this teaching of the Lord? How would you feel about taking your party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted very carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope.
Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Noticeably absent was his mother. Always I shall treasure the tears which glistened in the eyes of each one present as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the delicate hand of our teacher to the needy hand of a grief-stricken father. We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. This simple act of kindness welded us together as one. We learned through our own experience that indeed it is more blessed to give than to receive.
The years have flown. The old chapel is gone, a victim of industrialization. The boys and girls who learned, who laughed, who grew under the direction of that inspired teacher of truth have never forgotten her love or her lessons.
Even today when we sing that old favorite—
Thanks for the Sabbath School. Hail to the day
When evil and error are fleeing away.
Thanks for our teachers who labor with care
That we in the light of the gospel may share.5
—we think of Lucy Gertsch, our Sunday School teacher, for we loved Lucy, and Lucy loved us.

I found the Church twelve years ago and was touched by the message that the missionaries gave about the Book of Mormon.
For more than a year after joining the Church, I was seriously ill and was hospitalized. I truly came to appreciate the Seito No Michi (Japanese) magazine and the Book of Mormon. Their stories comforted me and helped me to feel the Spirit throughout the trial of my illness. I am well now, and I am grateful for my good health. Thank you for strengthening my testimony.
Reiko NakayamaKichijoji Ward, Tokyo Stake, Tokyo, Japan