Gospel Story Finder

“During a six-year period (1842 to 1848), Phineas Young, brother of Brigham Young and brother-in-law of Cowdery (Phineas being married to Oliver’s half-sister Lucy), continually wrote and paid visits to Oliver,” Brother Woods said. “At the same time, Church leaders were feeling after Oliver. For example, Willard Richards, who kept the Prophet Joseph Smith’s journal, was directed by Joseph in the spring of 1843 to ‘write to Oliver Cowdery and ask him if he has not eaten husks long enough, if he is not most ready to return.’ The [Quorum of the] Twelve sent a letter to Oliver with an invitation to return to the fold, which among other things, stated, ‘Your brethren are ready to receive you. … Your dwelling place you know ought to be Zion.’”
Oliver responded cordially but was not quite ready to reclaim his Church membership, as he felt the circumstances surrounding his excommunication had not been examined in their true light, Brother Woods said.

Recently, for Thanksgiving, I drove to my sister’s house, where the family was visiting for a few days. Opening the front door, I found Grandpa in the middle of the room, seated in a wheelchair, a yardstick on the floor beside him. He was wearing a yellow cardigan and a pair of brown pants like his old work pants, except these weren’t faded or stained. I instinctively looked for his cane but didn’t find it. When I bent down to hug him, I felt his bony shoulders and his whiskery face.
He asked me how my studies were, would I get straight A’s? Did I ever see my cousin who just got married? We were talking like that when my sister Kris came into the room from downstairs; Tony, her two-year-old son, trailed behind her. After a while she went into the kitchen to see about dinner while I played with Tony. Grandpa remained in the wheelchair, his hands in his lap, his head lolling forward in sleep. Finally I escaped for a few minutes to take my overnight bag downstairs. Above me I could hear Tony tumbling around on the floor, and I suddenly wanted him to know Grandpa by his walking sticks—the staff, the sceptor, the garden implement. Not Grandpa as a shrunken body in a wheelchair, who went only from the bed to the table to the bathroom.
In the kitchen I watched Kris slice vegetables, her fingers moving quickly. When I heard Tony’s laughter from the living room, quiet at first then louder, I went to the doorway to see what he was doing. Grandpa was in the middle of the room as I had left him, but instead of sleeping, he was leaning forward in his chair, his knobby hands wrapped around the wooden yardstick that had been on the floor. He kept the other end of the yardstick poised above Tony, who lay on his back a few feet away watching him.
When Grandpa lowered the yardstick toward Tony’s belly sticking out from his striped T shirt, Tony giggled and tossed his head; then, feeling the tickle of wood on his stomach, he rolled away, his shrill giggles filling the room. And I heard the deeper laughter of my grandfather. Looking into his gray eyes, I saw again the face I had known when I knelt next to the wooden giraffe.

I attended church and seminary, but my family later fell away. I had friends at church and went to seminary and Mutual to be with them. I didn’t care about the gospel or the teachings and thought church was generally boring. My life grew troubled as I began to engage in activities such as shoplifting and vandalism. My father became abusive, and I thought about suicide.

However, suicide was never an option. I couldn’t do that to my mother, whom I loved deeply. So I was left to find an answer. I looked around and saw my friends from church. The one thing they had that I didn’t was a testimony. So at the age of 16, four years after my baptism, I sat down to read the Book of Mormon for the first time.

It was difficult, and it took me nearly two years. As I read in 3 Nephi about the Savior’s visit to the Nephites after His Resurrection, where He blesses their children and angels descend from heaven and encircle them, it was as though I stood among the Nephites and saw with my own eyes that miraculous event. The Holy Ghost bore witness of that great moment.

I could not read any more, as my eyes blurred with tears. When I regained my composure, I continued reading. A few more weeks passed, and I finished the book, knelt, and prayed to know if it was true. But I got no answer.

Days passed with me kneeling regularly and pleading to know if the book was true, if the Church was true, but still I got no answer. Despairing, weeks after I’d finished reading, I knelt one more time and asked, “Heavenly Father, is the Book of Mormon true?” The answer that came was not what I expected: “I have already told you. You know it is.”

I had gained my testimony weeks before, when I read about Christ blessing the children. I knew that this Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is the kingdom of God on earth, restored by a prophet and led by a prophet, as in days of old.

It is no exaggeration to say that the Book of Mormon saved my life, but it would be more accurate to say the restored gospel saved me and continues to renew me and nourish me each day. It is my most precious possession.

Josh wiggled his fingers and toes in the warm sand. The salty breeze blew in his face and Josh licked his lips.
“I can taste the ocean!” he announced. He dug his plastic shovel into the sand. “Brooke, will you help me make a sandcastle?” Brooke didn’t look up. She quickly turned the page of her book, eagerly seeking the next words in the story.
Dad pushed the beach umbrella into the sand while Mom spread out their towels. She looked at Brooke and laughed gently. “Brooke, do you want to stop reading and look at the beautiful view? This is a perfect start to our vacation!”
Brooke slowly closed her book. She tried to focus on the bright blue sky and the palm trees waving in the breeze, but in her mind she was still in the dark pine forest with Princess Rosalie and Sir Nathanael. It was her favorite kind of story—knights on majestic horses, a beautiful princess, a priceless treasure guarded by terrible monsters. She tried to picture what the treasure would be: gold coins, sparkling jewelry, riches for the grandest kings and queens.
Brooke gazed at the glittering ocean. It stretched as far as she could see. “There could be buried treasure out there,” she said. “I’ve read about ships that got caught in storms and sank with all their treasure.”
Dad winked at her. “Maybe we’ll find some while we’re here. We can have a treasure hunt.”
“No thanks, Dad,” Brooke said. “I’m going to read some more.” She stretched out on her beach towel and opened her book again. Would Princess Rosalie find the secret door in time? Would Sir Nathanael find a way to defeat the monsters?
A while later, Josh came running up to Brooke carrying his plastic beach pail. “Look! Dad and I found treasure!” He reached into the pail and pulled out a delicate sand dollar. It was followed by a collection of smooth stones and shells.
She picked up a piece of a shell. “This isn’t treasure.”
“Why not?” Josh demanded.
“These are just rocks and shells. They’re not worth anything.”
Dad sat down on the sand. “A treasure doesn’t have to be worth a lot of money, Brooke,” he said. “It isn’t always a pile of gold coins like you’re always reading about.” He grinned and tugged playfully on her hair. “A treasure is something that means a lot to you. It’s something that you want to take care of and remember.” He picked a shiny pink shell out of Josh’s pail and handed it to Brooke. She looked at it doubtfully. “Just think about it,” Dad said.
The next morning Dad said they were going to visit Grandma Connors. As Brooke put her book in her bag Mom touched her shoulder. “You can take your book, but please don’t read it while we’re at Grandma’s.”
Brooke frowned. “But there’s nothing else to do at her house. It’s boring there,” she said. “Besides, I’m getting to the really good part! Sir Nathanael is about to fight the monsters!”
“Grandma Connors is lonely and she misses us a lot,” Mom said. “She’s looking forward to visiting with all of us.” She smiled. Brooke didn’t smile back.
When they pulled up to Grandma Connors’s house, she was waiting for them in her front yard. “Hello, dears!” she called and waved to them. She led them inside, talking and laughing. She cut everyone a piece of cake, and they all went outside to sit on the back porch. Josh sat next to Grandma and she kept patting his hand.
Grandma, Mom, and Dad began talking about uncles and friends and cousins whom Brooke didn’t know. She swung her legs restlessly in her chair. “Will Princess Rosalie find the treasure?” she wondered. Her fingers itched to feel the familiar weight of the book, but she didn’t want to disobey Mom.
Brooke went inside, hoping she could find something to do. She found a bookcase filled with large, brown books. She pulled one out. The cover was plain. There weren’t any pictures of princesses or gold or jewels on it. Brooke half-heartedly opened the cover. Inside she found pages of photographs, some of them faded or turning yellow with age. She studied the faces but didn’t see anyone she knew. But then she saw a little girl with a braid who looked like her. She carried the album to the back porch.
“Well, look what you found,” Grandma said, her eyes twinkling.
Brooke pointed to the picture. “Who’s this, Grandma? She looks like me.”
Grandma smiled. “That’s your mother when she was about your age,” she said. She turned a few pages and pointed to another picture. “That’s your grandfather and me at our first dance together.”
Brooke settled next to Grandma and pointed to a black-and-white photograph. “Who are those kids?” she asked.
“That’s me!” Grandma said. “Me and my brothers, Jacob and Steven. And that was our dog, Smarty.”
“Smarty?” Brooke laughed.
Grandma turned to more pictures and told stories about family members Brooke never knew. But seeing their faces as Grandma spoke helped their stories come alive.
Before Brooke knew it, it was time to leave. “Before you go, I want to show you one more,” Grandma said. She turned to a photograph in the very back of the album. It was black and white, and worn from being handled a lot. A young couple stood together. The woman had long, dark ringlets that rested on a high-collared, lacy white dress. The man wore a suit.
“That’s you and Grandpa when you were married,” Brooke said.
“Yes,” Grandma said. Her voice was softer. “Looking at this picture and seeing his smiling face helps me remember all the wonderful times we had together. I’ve treasured this picture since the day it was taken, and it means so much more to me now that your grandpa is gone.”
Brooke studied the picture for a moment. “When we get home, I’m going to send you a picture of my smiling face so you can be happy,” she said.
Grandma hugged Brooke tightly.
A few weeks later, Dad brought home some pictures they took on their vacation. Mom, Brooke, and Josh crowded around him to see.
“There we are at the beach!” Josh said.
“There’s that beautiful garden I saw,” Mom said.
“There’s me and Grandma!” Brooke said, pointing to the photo of their young and old faces close together.
Dad propped up the picture on the mantle. Then he smiled and winked at Brooke. “Do you think we found a treasure?”
“I just need one more piece of gold,” Brooke said. She ran to her room and quickly returned. Next to the photo she placed a shiny pink shell. “Now our treasure is perfect,” she said.

I invited a friend to a New Year’s Eve party at the church. She isn’t a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints but has a good impression of it. When she showed up, she was drunk. She started having a panic attack and opened up to me about difficulties she and her family were dealing with. I knew I needed to help her.
I took her to my dad. I asked him if he would give her a priesthood blessing. I told her a little about blessings, and she said she would like one. After the blessing, she stopped crying and was even smiling!
After this experience, she asked me some questions about the priesthood. Together with another friend, I shared how the gospel has blessed us and our families.
It felt good sharing the gospel with my friend. To me, a disciple of Jesus Christ tries to be like Jesus Christ and do the things He did, especially when we notice someone going through a hard time.

In my growing-up years in Germany, I attended church in many different locations and circumstances—in humble back rooms, in impressive villas, and in very functional modern chapels. All of these buildings had one important factor in common: the Spirit of God was present; the love of the Savior could be felt as we assembled as a branch or ward family.
The Zwickau chapel had an old air-driven organ. Every Sunday a young man was assigned to push up and down the sturdy lever operating the bellows to make the organ work. Even before I was an Aaronic Priesthood bearer, I sometimes had the great privilege to assist in this important task.
While the congregation sang our beloved hymns of the Restoration, I pumped with all my strength so the organ would not run out of wind. The eyes of the organist unmistakably indicated whether I was doing fine or needed to increase my efforts quickly. I always felt honored by the importance of this duty and the trust that the organist had placed in me. It was a wonderful feeling of accomplishment to have a responsibility and to be part of this great work.
There was an additional benefit that came from this assignment: the bellows operator sat in a seat that offered a great view of a stained-glass window that beautified the front part of the chapel. The stained glass portrayed the First Vision, with Joseph Smith kneeling in the Sacred Grove, looking up toward heaven and into a pillar of light.
During the hymns of the congregation and even during talks and testimonies given by our members, I often looked at this depiction of a most sacred moment in world history. In my mind’s eye I saw Joseph receiving knowledge, witness, and divine instructions as he became a blessed instrument in the hand of our Heavenly Father.
I felt a special spirit while looking at the beautiful scene in this window picture of a believing young boy in a sacred grove who made a courageous decision to earnestly pray to our Heavenly Father, who listened and responded lovingly to him.
Here I was, a young boy in post–World War II Germany, living in a city in ruins, thousands of miles away from Palmyra in North America and more than a hundred years after the event actually took place. By the universal power of the Holy Ghost, I felt in my heart and in my mind that it was true, that Joseph Smith saw God and Jesus Christ and heard Their voices. The Spirit of God comforted my soul at this young age with an assurance of the reality of this sacred moment that resulted in the beginning of a worldwide movement destined to “roll forth, until it has filled the whole earth” (D&C 65:2). I believed Joseph Smith’s testimony of that glorious experience in the Sacred Grove then, and I know it now. God has spoken to mankind again!

Our family had an experience that taught us about helping children develop their ability to make choices. Our daughter Mary was a standout soccer player growing up. One year her team made it to the championships and, wouldn’t you know it, that game was to be played on a Sunday. As a young teen, Mary had had years of teaching that the Sabbath was a day of rest and spiritual regeneration, not recreation. But she still felt pressure from her coaches and teammates to play, as well as a desire not to let her team down.
She asked us what she should do. My wife and I could easily have made this decision for her. However, we decided after prayerful consideration that in this case our daughter was ready to take spiritual responsibility for her own decision. We read some scriptures with her and encouraged Mary to pray and think about it.
After a few days she announced her decision. She would play the game on Sunday. Now what were we to do? After further discussion and receiving reassurance from the Spirit, we did as we had promised and permitted her to carry out her choice to play. After the game ended, Mary slowly walked over to her waiting mother. “Oh, Mom,” she said, “that felt awful. I never want to feel like that again. I’m never playing another game on the Sabbath day.” And she never did.
Mary had now internalized the principle of Sabbath keeping. If we had forced her not to play the game, we would have deprived her of a precious and powerful learning experience with the Spirit.

It was a windy day in Mongolia. Nine-year-old Batbayar was walking home from the bus stop after school. He hugged his coat tighter in the wind. Luckily, it wasn’t far to his grandparents’ house, where he lived.
“Hi!” Batbayar said as he came inside.
“Welcome home,” Grandma said. “I made some khuushuur for a snack.”
“Thank you!” Batbayar reached for one of the warm, spicy meat pies.
“Wait! Don’t eat any until the missionaries get here,” Grandpa said. “They’ll be coming any minute.”
Batbayar loved it when the missionaries from Grandma and Grandpa’s church came to visit. He always learned a lot from them. But there was just one problem.
“Will they ask me to read from the Book of Mormon again?” Batbayar asked. “Reading is hard for me.”
“That’s why they’re bringing another book today,” Grandma said.
“What book?” Batbayar said.
“You’ll see,” Grandpa said.
Soon the missionaries arrived. They ate Grandma’s delicious meat pies together. Then Batbayar said, “Grandma says you brought me a book.”
“I think you’ll like this book,” Sister Heitz said. “It has lots of pictures.”
Batbayar looked at the cover. Book of Mormon Stories, it said. A picture on the cover showed people building a boat.
“I remember that story,” Batbayar said. “The man didn’t know how to build a boat. So he prayed. And God helped him.”
“That’s right,” Sister Enkhtuya said. “Will you try reading this book? Then you can pray to know that what it teaches is true.”
“I will,” Batbayar promised.
That night he read from the book with pictures. He read the story about the boat. Then he prayed. He fell asleep thinking about the man who built the boat and how God helped him.
From then on, each night Batbayar read a story. Then he prayed. And each night, he fell asleep thinking about what he read.
When the sister missionaries came again, they taught Batbayar more about Jesus Christ. Batbayar learned about prophets. He learned about God’s commandments. He kept going to church with Grandma and Grandpa. And he kept reading and praying.
One day Batbayar had something important to tell his grandparents. “When I read the stories in the book with pictures, my heart feels good,” he said. “When I pray, I feel they are true. I think I should be baptized.”
Today, Batbayar is a member of the Church. He has gotten better and better at reading. And he still reads the Book of Mormon every night!

Joseph annually went to where the plates were buried and received further instruction from Moroni. However, in the excitement and temptation of potentially finding other valuable objects in the stone box, Joseph put down the plates in violation of the command God previously gave to him. Joseph was thrown violently to the ground; when he recovered, the angel Moroni was gone, and Joseph returned to the house “weeping with grief and disappointment.”3

This incident filled the Smith family with great uneasiness that Joseph might fail to get the plates due to his own negligence. “We therefore doubled our diligence in prayer and supplication to God,” Lucy recalled, “in order that he might be more fully instructed in his duty.”4 Shortly thereafter, tragedy struck the Smith family when the oldest son, Alvin, died. His deathbed instruction to Joseph was to keep the commandments God gave him and to do everything in his power to obtain the record. Joseph in time received the plates to translate.

Lara sat by the big window, looking at the pictures in the book that Grandma had given her. She wished that Mother had time to read the story to her. Baby Emily seemed to need all of Mother’s time.
Baby Emily started crying again. Lara put the new book down and went over to the baby’s crib. Lara picked up the blue and pink rattle and shook it. It sounded like a bunch of little bells. Lara thought that it sounded nice, but Baby Emily just kicked and cried some more.
“Doesn’t she like the rattle?” Lara asked.
“She’s too little,” Mother explained, picking up Baby Emily. “She’ll like it when she gets a little older. I’ll change her diaper; then she’ll be happy again.”
Lara ran to get a soft white diaper from the top of the tall stack. Then she got a damp cloth and the bottle of baby powder. After the clean diaper was on, Lara took the cloth to the bathroom and put the powder back on the shelf with Baby Emily’s other things.
When Mother sat in the rocking chair with Baby Emily, Lara tiptoed out of the room. She knew that Mother wanted the baby to go to sleep.
Lara wanted to run and shout and skip, but even before Baby Emily came, Mother wouldn’t let her run and shout and skip in the house.
The newspaper was on the floor, so Lara folded it and put it on the table.
“You are a big help,” Mother said, coming into the room. “Emily is asleep, and because you helped, I have time to do something with you. What shall we do?”
“We could read my new book.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ve been wanting to read that story.”
Lara got the book and snuggled happily beside Mother in the big chair by the window.

The discipline of daily immersion in the scriptures paid off in my last year of seminary, which was also my 12th and final year of school.
My seminary study habits allowed me to be better organized. While I’m not a fan of reading, I strove to read daily. It allowed me to maintain my relationship—even a fragile one—with Heavenly Father.
That year, I passed my bachelor diploma with honors. I got my driver’s license on my first try. I received my call to serve a mission in Paris. All in all, the hand of God was in my life the whole time I was in seminary and at school.

While at the hospital where they took my daughter Natalie (who had already passed), I was in a state of shock. I was completely numb, physically and mentally. Things were happening around me that I could see but not feel: police asking questions, friends crying, medical staff informing. It’s all a blur yet perfectly clear.
My former bishop and his wife were there. A colleague of mine had called them. My daughter, Natalie, and I had moved from their ward only a few months prior. My bishop and his wife were beloved friends of ours.
The bishop’s wife, also named Natalie, said I would be staying with them. The next thing I knew, I was in their vehicle riding back to my old neighborhood. I had no comprehension of time passing, yet I was aware it was dawn of the next day when I received a priesthood blessing from the bishop and a friend.
I was kept in the loop with all of the funeral arrangements, yet I was unaware of all the details. I would get dressed when I was told to get dressed. I would get in the car when I was told we had somewhere to go. I was a robot following simple commands. That was all I was capable of doing. Surprisingly, I had not yet shed a tear.
My daughter’s funeral was beautiful. There was a lot of laughter mixed with tears, and the Spirit was very much present. My oldest daughter, Victoria, traveled back to Utah from another state. She wrote a song and performed it at the funeral.
I was never approached about the funeral costs except to be informed it was being handled. Within a few weeks the funeral had been paid in full by donations from Church members.
At the time, I was still staying with my former bishop’s family. Members from my previous ward were looking for a new place for me to live. A cute little basement apartment became available, and the next thing I knew, I was signing a lease. This did not happen by my own doing. It was the actions of a network of Church members, including my dear friend Natalie, the bishop’s wife.
Ward members helped move my personal effects and got me and Victoria settled in. The first two months’ rent had been paid in advance—again, by Church member donations. I still had no perception of time, and I was still emotionally numb to a certain degree, yet I was starting to get feeling back.
A few weeks after my daughter’s death, the realization and magnitude of what had happened started to creep in. It was like heavy, thick black smoke seeping in at first, followed by all-consuming billows until I was surrounded by complete darkness. Grief in its rawest has its own dimension of blackness.
Natalie had died on Thanksgiving Day. It was now Christmas. The holidays only magnified my loss. The agony lingered throughout the day and tormented me throughout the night. It was relentless. The tears poured endlessly for days. Minutes passed like hours. Hours passed like days. Days passed like years.
As a divorced woman, I did not have a husband who could go out and earn a living. If I could have, I would have curled up in a ball, locked myself in a closet, and remained there forever. But I didn’t have that luxury. I had to somehow gather the strength to function. I had to find a job. I was working when Thanksgiving Day happened, but somehow in all the chaos, I had forgotten about my job. I could have gone back to it, but my Natalie loved to hang out there, and the thought of going back without her was unbearable.
By the first week of January, I had gotten a low-paying job. I tried to act like I was normal. My body kept going, but I felt like my soul had died. No one knew I was a hollow shell of a being just going through the motions. It was only during the drive to and from work that I was able to break down emotionally. This was my new normal.
I started going to my new ward a little at a time. I just knew if someone asked me how I was doing, I would fall to pieces. I desperately wanted to go to church, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone, much less make eye contact. I wished with all my heart that I could be invisible. More than anything, I just wanted to rip this all-consuming pain out of my chest!
I have no idea what the sisters in Relief Society thought of me, and at the time I didn’t much care. I was too busy just trying to breathe! I’m sure I gave off the impression that I wanted to be left alone, for none of them bothered me. They did, however, occasionally give me a warm smile that I found a little comforting—just the exact small dose to keep me from running out the nearest exit, which was a constant thought.
Time is a healer. It doesn’t erase events, but it allows gaping wounds to slowly close.
That fateful Thanksgiving Day was in 2011, and it took me a few years to realize just how much I was helped by my brothers and sisters in the Church. I felt like I was carried off the battlefield after having been critically wounded. I was nursed back to health and cared for until I could stand on my own.
Countless blessings have come my way, in a variety of ways. My testimony has grown to near full maturity. I know now what it feels like to be held in the loving arms of our Savior.
So to answer my friend’s question, “How did the Church help you through this ordeal?” I say, “They didn’t help me. They saved me.”

The patriarchal order runs from Abraham to Isaac and to Jacob. Through the line of the priesthood, it continues in our own day and time. Through the ages, blessings and promises were given from the fathers to their faithful sons. A modern example of this is taken from the life of Elder John B. Dickson of the Seventy. He recalls:
“When it was time for me to go on a mission, I was very excited to serve the Lord. Just before I was to leave, however, I found out that I had bone cancer. The chance of living long enough to serve a mission wasn’t very high. I had faith that the Lord would provide a way if He wanted me to go. My father gave me a blessing in which I was told that I would serve my mission in Mexico, serve in the Church all my life, and have a family. My right arm had to be amputated above the elbow, but my life was spared, and the promises I was given have all been fulfilled.
“Some would think that losing an arm would be a terrible burden, but it has been one of the greatest blessings in my life. I learned that it is very important to have challenges and to face up to them.”
Elder Dickson had always been right-handed, and now he had to learn to do everything left-handed. One struggle was learning how to tie his ties. He said: “One Sunday morning when I was in my bedroom with my tie in my hand, I thought, How am I going to tie this? I thought about getting a clip-on tie. I thought about asking Mom to help me. But I couldn’t take her with me on my mission just to tie my ties. So I decided I had to learn how to do it myself. I finally figured it out by using my teeth. I still do it that way, even after having tied it thousands of times.”

I can’t remember the exact day I crumbled, but I do remember how I felt. I was sitting in seminary. For some reason, I didn’t want to raise my hand to answer a question. Pretty soon, I didn’t feel I knew the answers, whether in seminary, Sunday school, or Young Women meetings. Suddenly, I had no confidence in my knowledge of the gospel.
I still knew the Church was true, but I felt I was doing something wrong. I judged myself harshly and didn’t feel worthy to pray. I started to panic. I felt horrible inside, all the time. It was like I was sick and hadn’t the slightest idea what the cure was, because I didn’t know what was wrong. I hadn’t committed any serious sin or transgression, and my senior year of high school had started off really great. So what in the world was the matter with me?
These feelings continued for a couple of months, and before I knew it, it was time for October 2014 general conference. I was looking forward to my mother’s October conference chili with corn chips, but my mind was all over the place. One of my teachers at church had challenged us to write out questions we were seeking answers for and to then listen for the answers in conference. Ten minutes before the Saturday morning session was to begin, I finally sat down with my computer and started typing up questions I had. I still felt sick and still didn’t know why.
Conference began, and just as I had for the previous few years, I paid attention to the speakers and took notes, but I still didn’t know what I was looking for.
During the hymn halfway through the Saturday afternoon session, Mom got the chili out and Dad and I got up to fill our bowls, pile on the corn chips, and get back to the couch before the song ended. For some reason I was hesitant to get up, but I was hungry. In the kitchen, as I contemplated the right chili-to-corn chip ratio, I felt like I needed to go back. I quickly grabbed a bowl and was about to get a spoon when I felt as though the Holy Ghost jolted me and said, “Sit down on the couch.” I dropped my bowl on the counter and got to the couch in two strides. I pulled my laptop onto my lap just as Elder Klebingat began speaking.
His first sentence: “On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your spiritual confidence before God?”1
My jaw dropped. Elder Klebingat was through the first paragraph of his talk before I actually digested the fact that he was saying exactly what I needed to hear. Stunned, I vigorously began typing notes on my computer. Elder Klebingat had accurately diagnosed me: my spiritual confidence was a -50. Then he proceeded to prescribe a cure for my sickness.
The Lord was the only one who knew what I needed, and He was the only one who knew when Elder Klebingat would be speaking (at the precise moment my corn chips would be calling to me). I am so glad I sat down and listened.
So, now that I was on the road to recovering my spiritual confidence, I had a new question: why had my spiritual confidence crumbled in the first place? I had seen a teaser on a website about how a dark chapter in my nation became a time to reinvent itself. How can a dark time bring about rejuvenation? It seemed a little paradoxical, but it brought to mind a scripture from Ether 12:27: “And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.”
Hmm. “Weak things become strong.” OK, I’m seeing a pattern here.
I hadn’t seen this time of spiritual panic coming. I had been scared and hadn’t known what was going on or how to fix it. But because of Elder Klebingat’s diagnosis and prescribed cure, I now study my scriptures for 30 minutes every day. I am expanding my knowledge of the Savior’s Atonement, and I see trials and challenges in a completely different light. As Elder Klebingat said in his talk:
“When these trials come, the adversary’s minions begin broadcasting that you did something wrong, that this is a punishment, a sign that Heavenly Father does not love you. Ignore that! Instead, try to force a smile, gaze heavenward, and say, ‘I understand, Lord. I know what this is. A time to prove myself, isn’t it?’ Then partner with Him to endure well to the end. Spiritual confidence increases when you accept that often trials and tribulations are allowed to come into [your life] because of what [you] are doing right.”2
Before this experience I felt like I knew the gospel. But now I realize that I understand that this gospel is true because I have tested it. I have trusted it. And by so doing, I opened my heart to Heavenly Father. He has kept His promises: He has “manifest[ed] the truth of it unto [me] by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:4). I know Heavenly Father has a plan for me. I know He has a plan for you. Don’t be afraid to find out what it is.

Honesty is a moral compass to guide us in our lives. … I would like to tell you a story of an excellent athlete—a young man with superb character. He never went to the Olympics, but he stands as tall as any Olympian because he was honest with himself and with his God.
The account is told by a coach in a junior high school. He states:
“Today was test day in climbing the rope. We climb from a standing start to a point 15 feet high. …
“The school record for the event is 2.1 seconds. It has stood for three years. Today this record was broken. …
“For three years Bobby Polacio, a 14 1/2-year-old ninth grade … boy, [trained and worked, consumed by his dream] of breaking this record.
“In his first of three attempts, Bobby climbed the rope in 2.1 seconds, tying the record. On the second try the watch stopped at 2.0 seconds flat, a record! But as he descended the rope and the entire class gathered around to check the watch, I knew I must ask Bobby a question. There was a slight doubt in my mind whether or not the board at the 15 foot height had been touched. If he missed, it was so very, very close—not more than a fraction of an inch—and only Bobby knew this answer.
“As he walked toward me, expressionless, I said, ‘Bobby, did you touch?’ If he had said, ‘Yes,’ the record he had dreamed of since he was a skinny seventh-grader and had worked for almost daily would be his, and he knew I would trust his word.
“With the class already cheering him for his performance, the slim, brown-skinned boy shook his head negatively. And in this simple gesture, I witnessed a moment of greatness. …
“… And it was with effort through a tight throat that I told the class: ‘This boy has not set a record in the rope climb. No, he has set a much finer record for you and everyone to strive for. He has told the truth.’
“I turned to Bobby and said, ‘Bobby, I’m proud of you. You’ve just set a record many athletes never attain. Now, in your last try I want you to jump a few inches higher on the takeoff.’ …
“After the other boys had finished their next turns, and Bobby came up … for his try, a strange stillness came over the gymnasium. Fifty boys and one coach [watched] breathlessly [as] Bobby Polacio … climbed the rope in 1.9 seconds! A school record, a city record, and perhaps close to a national record for a junior high school boy.
“When the bell rang and I walked away, … I was thinking: ‘Bobby, … at 14 you are a better man than I. Thank you for climbing so very, very high today.’”

What an awful day! Today at school I didn’t talk to anyone, I didn’t play with anyone at recess, and I didn’t sit with anyone at lunch. My family has been living in this new town for two weeks, and I still don’t have any friends!
As I walked up to my new house, I saw my younger sister playing with the girl from across the street. She waved. “Hi, Rosa!”
I turned my head and didn’t say anything back. Three girls on our street are the same age as my younger sister. How many girls on our street are my age? None. Not one!
I pushed through the front door and dropped my backpack on the floor.
“Sister Garcia called from the Primary to remind you about activity day today,” Mom said.
“I don’t want to go to activity day,” I grumbled. “I just spent all day with kids I don’t know. I don’t want to spend another hour with girls I don’t know!” Talking to people you don’t know might be easy for some people but not for me.
“I know it’s been hard moving here and leaving all your old friends,” Mom said. “I’ve been praying that we will make some new friends soon.”
“Me too,” I said. “I pray for that every night, but so far Heavenly Father hasn’t answered my prayers. It’s like He isn’t listening.”
Mom squeezed my hand. “Maybe the call from Sister Garcia is your answer,” she said.
“How can that be the answer to my prayers?” I asked.
“Sometimes when we pray, Heavenly Father expects us to do something to help answer our prayers,” Mom said. “It’s called acting in faith. We have to do more than just pray. Sometimes we have to act in faith before we get the blessing.”
“Could it be possible?” I thought. “Could going to activity day really be the answer to my prayers?”
Later, Mom asked me if I wanted a ride to the activity. I took a deep breath and nodded. Even though I was afraid, it felt like the right thing to do.
My heart was beating fast as we arrived at the church. Sister Garcia welcomed me and led me to a chair at the table. Her kind voice and warm smile helped me feel better.
A girl across the table looked at me. “Hi, I’m Teresa,” she said. “Are you new?”
There was a lump in my throat, so I just nodded.
“I think I’ve seen you at school,” Teresa said. “What class are you in?”
I swallowed nervously. “Mrs. Lee’s class,” I told her.
“I’m in the class right next door!” she said.
We talked about our classes and our favorite subjects. As we talked, I was surprised at how much we had in common. We even both liked roller-skating!
When Mom picked me up after the activity, I jumped into the car.
“Mom, can I play with my new friend Teresa?” I waved at Teresa, and she waved back.
Mom thought it was a great idea, and for the rest of the evening, my new friend and I roller-skated up and down my street.
That night as I knelt by my bed, I thanked Heavenly Father for answering my prayers. At first I was scared to go to activity day, but I’m glad I did. I’m glad I was brave enough to act in faith.

As I was walking back from a Preach My Gospel activity with my group at Especially for Youth (EFY), I saw a man at a picnic table all by himself. I was walking back to my room, and I felt prompted to go talk to him. Shyly I went over there with my friends. We talked to him for just five minutes. It was such an amazing missionary experience to share a little bit about the gospel with someone.
The rest of the week we saw him every day! We just talked to him and shared whatever we had talked about that day in our classes with him. We ended up giving him a Book of Mormon that we had all written our testimonies in. A year later I learned that the man was baptized! I am so grateful for the opportunity I had to teach the gospel to him with the help of my friends.

As our family grew in the gospel, the sales management position I held became more and more demanding, often requiring me to be away from home two or three nights a week. I also had found some new friends not of our faith who caused me to start to have doubts about some aspects of Church doctrine.
I enjoyed discussions with these new intellectual friends. They tried to use the scriptures to prove that the Church was not following some basic concepts given as commandments since the time of Adam. I should have borne testimony of the restored gospel and turned away. Instead, I began to listen to them, and my little doubts about doctrine started to grow. Soon I stopped paying tithing and going to the temple. When I stopped attending church, my wife protested, as did our daughters when we ceased holding family home evening.
During this time, two people from the Church never gave up on me. Our home teachers invited me to church every Sunday, sometimes in person and other times by a phone call. They visited our home at least once and sometimes twice each month. They even knew when we needed something. I especially remember the time I ordered a garden shed that was delivered unassembled during my absence. Upon returning home, I found our home teachers had already assembled the shed.
I particularly admired our senior home teacher, Des Gorman, an Irish Canadian. He was a genuine person who truly cared for people. To me he represented the Church, and I felt the Church must be a good organization, even if I wasn’t attending.
Eventually we were blessed with a baby boy. Our home teachers reminded me that it is a priesthood practice to name and bless a baby at fast and testimony meeting. I did not want to participate, though I finally agreed to allow our baby to be blessed by others.
Brother Gorman stood in my place and was the mouthpiece for a beautiful blessing on our son, Ronan. As I listened I received a powerful witness from the Spirit. I had been proud. I had made some big mistakes. I had nearly lost my testimony of the truthfulness of the restored gospel. I still had my family, but I had almost lost the sweet peace the gospel brings. Many tears flowed while my wife, Brother Gorman, and the bishopric supported me as I repented.
From that time on I have been active in the Church. Our home teachers have continued to support me. Our baby boy is now a returned missionary, married in the temple, and raising a family of his own. I feel his life is a tribute to the man who gave him a name and a blessing.

Many teenagers have trouble getting along with their parents at some stage during their teen years. As a 16-year-old, I started to think that my mom and I would never have a conversation that didn’t end with tears and slammed doors.
During one particular argument, I shouted some angry words, stormed into my bedroom, and slammed the door as hard as I could. I threw myself onto my bed with hot, angry tears streaming down my cheeks. Thoughts ran through my head: “How can I fix this? What can I do to stop this constant arguing?”
Then as clear as if the Mormon Tabernacle Choir were in my room, I heard these words: “He lives to comfort me when faint. He lives to hear my soul’s complaint. … He lives to calm my troubled heart. He lives all blessings to impart” (“I Know That My Redeemer Lives,” Hymns, no. 136). I felt the Holy Ghost’s presence and the love of my Heavenly Father encircling me, and I knew that everything would work out.
That day was a turning point for me. Heavenly Father knew what I needed. Music is a huge part of my life, and I was blessed by listening to and learning the words of the hymns. They gave me comfort and strength when I really needed it, and they can help us through hard times.
Today my mom and I are the best of friends. We are both serving in the Primary in our ward, and I love that we can work together in our callings as well as at home.

President Thomas S. Monson, today First Counselor in the First Presidency, visited the communist-controlled German Democratic Republic (GDR) for the first time in 1968. Meeting with a group of Latter-day Saints in the city of Görlitz, President Monson grieved as he realized these members could not fully enjoy many of the blessings of the gospel: they had no patriarch, no wards or stakes—only branches, and they could not attend the temple. “I stood at the pulpit,” he said, “and with tear-filled eyes and a voice choked with emotion, I made a promise to the people: ‘If you will remain true and faithful to the commandments of God, every blessing any member of the Church enjoys in any other country will be yours’” (“Thanks Be to God,” Ensign, May 1989, 51).
Seven years later, President Monson returned to the GDR, and on 27 April 1975, he offered a prayer rededicating the land for the advancement of the gospel. This plea was among his appeals for divine help in establishing peace and opening missionary work: “Heavenly Father, wilt Thou open up the way that the faithful may be accorded the privilege of going to Thy holy temple” (Thomas S. Monson, Faith Rewarded [1996], 36).
The fulfillment of these blessings could not be imagined at the time they were given. Manfred Heller, first counselor in the Dresden Ward bishopric, explains that before 1985 very few had the possibility of receiving temple blessings. Permission had to be obtained from government authorities to travel out of the country. In exceptional cases, people who were retired sometimes received permission and traveled to Switzerland for their endowment.
After years of exploring every possibility, the answer came. President Monson said: “Through the fasting and the prayers of many members, and in a most natural manner, government leaders proposed: Rather than having your people go to Switzerland to visit a temple, why don’t you build a temple here in the German Democratic Republic? The proposal was accepted, a choice parcel of property obtained in Freiberg, and ground broken for a beautiful temple of God” (Ensign, May 1989, 51).
Four years before the Berlin Wall fell, the Freiberg Germany Temple was dedicated on 29 June 1985. During the two-week public open house that preceded the dedication, approximately 90,000 people toured the temple; thousands stood as long as five hours in the rain to see the new temple. And now thousands of faithful Latter-day Saints have received their temple blessings in this holy house.
“I remember when President Monson came and dedicated the land,” says Winfried Batzke, president of the Berlin Germany Stake. “And I have seen how, piece by piece, his promises have been fulfilled.”