Gospel Story Finder

My name is Matthew. I guess I was a typical boy growing up. I liked to play games and be outside when I didn’t have to be in school. When I was eight years old my brother Raymond and I started taking piano lessons. I didn’t like sitting in front of that old piano and practicing every day before I could go outside and play with my brother and my cousins Chance and Brian, who lived down the street. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as riding bikes and climbing trees, especially during summer break. But I did it because Mom insisted.
One day I was just begging to go outside and play. “Please, Mom, Chance doesn’t have to practice the piano. Why do I have to?”
“Because it’s good for you. Now I want you to practice some of the Primary songs that I gave you yesterday. And hurry, Raymond needs to practice too, before you boys can go play.”
“All right, but only for 20 minutes today, OK?”
“OK.”
So there I was dragging my feet over to that old piano. At least it was only the Primary songs today. I liked the Primary songs. They always cheered me up when I was sad or scared, but I still would rather have been outside playing with my cousins.
I opened the book and started plunking out the notes to the song “Search, Ponder, and Pray.” I slowly got the hang of it, and it began to sound a little bit like the song I learned in Primary. Softly, I started to sing along. “‘I love to read the holy scriptures, and ev’ry time I do, I feel the Spirit start to grow within my heart—a testimony that they’re true. Search, ponder, and pray are the things that I must do. The Spirit will guide, and, deep inside, I’ll know the scriptures are true.’” Then I felt a feeling that I’d never felt before. As I started singing the second verse, tears began running down my cheeks. “‘So, prayerfully I’ll read the scriptures each day my whole life through. I’ll come to understand. I’ll heed the Lord’s command and live as he would have me do. Search, ponder, and pray are the things that I must do. The Spirit will guide, and, deep inside, I’ll know the scriptures are true.’”*
Later I realized just what it was I was feeling that day. The Holy Spirit had testified to me that the scriptures are true. Heavenly Father had blessed me with the gift of the Holy Ghost, and through that gift came my testimony of the truthfulness of the scriptures. I’ll always be grateful that my mom made me practice the piano that day instead of letting me go out to play.

Photographs courtesy of Marcia Marshall
Young women in one Michigan ward decided to take things up a notch with regard to providing service. They chose to focus their activities on service projects during the entire summer, calling it the “Summer of Service,” and they completed 11 projects in all. Their activities included babysitting, making blueberry jam for new members in the ward, packing food at the bishops’ storehouse, scraping wallpaper in a member’s home, picking up garbage at a local playground, and more. “I thought it would be exhausting,” says Ann M., “but it was really fun!”
While the young women certainly helped plenty of people in their ward, they also looked for others to serve. For one service project, they ran a cupcake walk as part of an annual fund-raising event that provides inner-city school children with free school supplies. “It felt good to help people outside the Church,” says Sara V.
The young women learned to love service and are still on the lookout for more service opportunities. “It was one of the most memorable and life-changing experiences for me spiritually,” says Ashley J.

I was sixteen when my father invited me and my younger brother to work with him on his farm. For us, the main purpose was to save enough money to go study in a distant city. My brother and I knew nothing about farm work and had to learn everything. In the beginning, it was difficult and demanding for young people like us who had never carried out such manual work. Step by step, our father taught us how to do it.
Here is one of the many lessons he taught us: “Only work makes someone independent and ennobles them. When someone is self-sufficient, they have self-esteem, they are respected, and they can accomplish many things for themselves and others.”
With the means that we acquired, my brother and I were able to buy food, school supplies and clothes, and to focus on our studies without too much worry. Being independent, we started to grow.

When Nikolay Shaveko traveled to Poland from his home in Chernigov, Ukraine, he thought the trip would be routine—just another long bus ride across the border to buy children’s toys to sell at an outdoor market back home.
The year was 1995, and many changes were taking place in Ukraine, a former Soviet republic. “I was having great difficulties,” Nikolay says. Not only was he struggling with harsh economic challenges, he was also tasting religious freedom for the first time. He was hungering and thirsting for the truth.
In Poland, Nikolay met a group of Latter-day Saints from L’viv, Ukraine, who were also there on business. “They started speaking to me about God and about faith,” he says. When Nikolay returned home, he brought not only a load of toys to sell—but also a copy of the Book of Mormon and a great desire to learn more.
Nikolay’s wife, Lena, was frightened by his interest in a new religion. “There were so many churches coming into our country,” she says. “I didn’t know what to do.”
As Nikolay studied the Book of Mormon, his faith grew steadily. Then the Church members he had met in Poland visited him and his family. Impressed by their spirit, Lena now shared Nikolay’s hunger to learn more.
“We tried to find the Church in Chernigov,” Lena says. “But we couldn’t.” In the city of 350,000, there were no missionaries, no branches, no known members. The closest branch was 150 kilometers away in the capital city of Kiev. “So we decided to follow all the commandments we knew of—to obey the Word of Wisdom and pray,” she says. “Our family grew closer. We started to spend more time together.”
But they yearned to have a greater understanding of the gospel, to make covenants with the Lord, and to have fellowship with Church members. On Sunday, 24 November 1996, Nikolay, Lena, and their daughters, Anya, age 10, and Yulia, age 7, made the 150-kilometer journey to Kiev.
“When we arrived at the branch, we met the missionaries for the first time,” says Lena. “They thought we were already members!” The Shavekos were amazed by the love and welcome they received. “It’s in our blood not to smile a lot,” she says, “so we were surprised to see all the people smiling. We loved the spirit we felt.”
That was the first of many trips the Shaveko family made from Chernigov to Kiev for Sunday meetings. For months they never missed a Sunday, even though the 300-kilometer round-trip journey took 24 hours each weekend, the temperatures dipped to -30 degrees Celsius, and the trains were poorly heated. The train always made several stops along the way, including a seven-hour layover in a crowded station in the middle of the night. The Shavekos would leave home at 8:30 P.M. Saturday and return home at 8:30 P.M. Sunday—or they would leave at midnight and return home the following midnight. In Kiev they would take buses and subways to the rented building where the branch met, arriving just in time for the 10:00 A.M. meeting. Afterward they would mingle with members, eat lunch, listen to a missionary discussion or two, and then head home.
Traveling by bus would have been faster—only three hours each way because of a more efficient schedule. But bus tickets were too expensive. As it was, train tickets for four Sundays each month cost nearly half of Nikolay’s monthly income.
But the journey didn’t seem burdensome, remembers Lena. “We were happy. Even the girls didn’t complain, although sometimes they fell asleep on the way. When we received the Liahona at church, we would read the whole magazine on the way home using the dim overhead lights on the train. The inconvenience of the trip didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t important.”
Two missionaries, Elders Kent Averett and Derek Rowe, obtained permission from the mission president, Wilfried M. Voge, to travel to Chernigov a couple of times to teach discussions to the Shavekos in their own home. Since the home’s heating wasn’t adequate, the family and missionaries had to dress warmly. “But the presence of the Spirit in our gospel conversations warmed us,” says Elder Rowe.
On 5 January 1997, six weeks after their first visit to the branch, the whole family—Nikolay, Lena, Anya, and Yulia (who had turned eight)—were baptized.
After Lena became pregnant a few months later, she was unable to make the long journey to Kiev every Sunday. So the mission president authorized a variation in the schedule. Two Sundays per month, Nikolay and his daughters continued to travel to Kiev for meetings. On the other Sundays, missionaries held Church meetings in the Shaveko home. Talks and lessons were taken from the scriptures, Church manuals, and the Liahona.
But along with joy came persecution. “Some neighbors said, ‘Oh, the Orthodox Church isn’t enough for you?’ And they started giving us problems,” says Lena. “Some of them are not as close to us anymore.”
On the day of their baptisms, the Shavekos received wonderful news. A member in Kiev told them that while serving as a missionary three years earlier in St. Petersburg, Russia, she had taught the gospel to a Ukrainian family—a single mother named Alla Kurnosova and her young son, Vitaliy. They had joined the Church and returned to live in Chernigov, where Alla works as a tailor.
During the three years since Alla Kurnosova’s baptism, she had corresponded with missionaries she had known in St. Petersburg. “Through letters, they gave me hope and strength,” Alla says. She and 13-year-old Vitaliy had continued studying the scriptures. “It seems Vitaliy knows even more than I do,” says Alla. “He teaches me all the time.” Both prayed that the Church would come to Chernigov.
Their prayers and patience were finally rewarded. Alla and Vitaliy became close friends with the Shavekos. The two families took turns hosting the twice-a-month Sunday meetings with the missionaries. Nikolay and Vitaliy were assigned as home teaching companions and visited both families together.
The meeting in Nikolay and Lena’s home on Sunday, 1 June 1997, is typical of the meetings during those days. Twelve people are in attendance: Nikolay, Lena, Anya, and Yulia; Alla, Vitaliy, and Alla’s nonmember mother, Vera; Katya Malihina, a 19-year-old Church member from Kiev attending law school in Chernigov; and four missionaries who have been teaching the group—Elder William and Sister Manette Murri, Elder David Sills, and Elder Chris Colton.
Elder Sills conducts the meeting. Sister Murri plays the piano. (She has been encouraging Anya and Yulia to learn to play several hymns. Before and after the meeting, the girls demonstrate how well they are progressing.)
The opening hymn is “I Need Thee Every Hour,” and Vitaliy offers the prayer. The sacrament hymn is “Jesus Once of Humble Birth.” Nikolay and Elder Colton prepare the sacrament on a small table covered with a simple white cloth and offer the sacrament prayers. Vitaliy passes the bread and water. Then, as sunlight streams through the living room windows, the members and missionaries express love for the Savior and gratitude for the gospel.
Lena weeps as she expresses how wonderful it is to hold Church meetings in her home. “There are very few people here; everybody fits into one apartment,” she says. “In other places, there are more members of the Church, and everybody does not have the opportunity to bear his or her testimony every time.”
She tells about a visit she had with a woman during the week: “I had a feeling in my heart that I should share the gospel with her.” In return, the woman, a member of a Protestant church, shared with Lena the steps necessary to officially register the LDS Church in the city—making a complicated process seem manageable. “The woman and I were happy to have the opportunity to talk with each other about religion. We became good friends, sisters in faith, even though we have different religions. We are all children of God. I know God will always help us and that the Church will grow here in Chernigov.”
Nikolay expresses appreciation for “being able to bear my testimony freely and to show my feelings to other people. How wonderful it is to come to know the truth and to have faith in God and in Jesus Christ, our Savior.” Then he bears witness of the Word of Wisdom. “By following it, we can have a clean heart and a clean body,” he says. “Before, I was often a drunk man, but today I am bearing my testimony! When I began to live the Word of Wisdom, there was a big change inside of me. I look at life a lot differently than before. I don’t want to go back to the darkness we had around us. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has the truth and the commandments we should obey. We are coming closer to becoming like our Heavenly Father.”
Katya Malihina, the 19-year-old law student, says: “Yesterday I spoke with my friend about what Jesus Christ did for us. She asked me many questions.”
Young Anya Shaveko testifies: “I know Jesus Christ lives. The Church of Jesus Christ is true. It was restored through the Prophet Joseph Smith. I hope we can get a branch here as soon as possible so people can come more quickly to the gospel.”
Alla Kurnosova says: “I love the Savior with all my heart, and I try to live His commandments. After our meeting last Sunday, I spoke to my cousin about the Church. She was very interested and wants to come to our next meeting.”
Then Alla’s nonmember mother, Vera, speaks: “This is my first time to come to church here in Chernigov, but I attended several times in St. Petersburg. I have noticed here today the same feeling I had when I went to that branch—peacefulness in my heart. My soul is softened today. I think I will keep coming.”
“Love at Home” is the closing hymn. Eight-year-old Yulia offers the prayer.
Since that Sabbath day in 1997, much has changed for the Church in Chernigov. Nikolay and Lena have had their baby—a daughter named Lara. Alla’s mother, Vera, has been baptized. Vitaliy, now age 14, is preparing to serve a mission. The Church has been officially registered in the city, and a branch has been organized—with Nikolay serving as branch president. Full-time missionaries now live and work in Chernigov. Several more people have been baptized. And the growing branch has rented a small building in which to meet.
But other things have not changed. The branch members still care about and watch over one another. They still share the gospel with people they meet. And the Spirit of the Lord continues to burn brightly in their hearts and in their homes.
Best of all, on 8 August 1998 the First Presidency announced that a temple will be built in Kiev, Ukraine. Soon, when the members from Chernigov make the trip to Kiev, it will be to attend the house of the Lord.

“Not Ivy! She’s a girl,” Braden whispered behind Adam.
But Adam was team captain for dodgeball for the day, and he had made his choice. “I pick Ivy,” he repeated a little louder. Tyler, the other team captain, smirked. Even Coach Garcia looked surprised at Adam’s second pick.
Ivy looked surprised too and then shyly stepped forward. Braden groaned.
Ivy wasn’t just any girl. She was the smallest girl in the class. She didn’t look very fast, and the ball seemed bigger than she was. “She probably can’t even lift the ball,” Braden said as Ivy walked over.
“Maybe she’ll be our secret weapon,” Adam said, trying to sound sure. But that’s not why he had picked her. Ivy had once told Adam she didn’t like it when they played sports because she was always picked last. The other boys teased Ivy, but Mom and Dad had told Adam that boys should show respect for girls. So he picked Ivy. As he watched Tyler pick the biggest boy in class, Adam gulped. What would this game be like?
After everyone was on a team, Coach Garcia blew the whistle, and the teams ran to opposite ends of the court. Coach Garcia handed Tyler the ball, and Tyler scanned Adam’s team before he focused on Ivy. He pulled back his arm and let the ball fly.
Bam! The ball smacked the ground and bounced without hitting anyone. Adam blinked. Ivy had moved just in time. Everyone around him seemed surprised, but Adam just smiled. Maybe picking Ivy had been a good idea after all.
The game continued. Tyler kept trying to hit Ivy with the ball, but she kept dodging and diving out of the way. No one could hit her with a ball. Tyler and some of his teammates were so busy trying to get Ivy out that they didn’t spend much time aiming for anyone else. Adam grinned—Ivy’s size actually made her better at dodgeball because being small and fast made her harder to hit.
At last Adam’s team won the game. “Secret weapon was right,” Braden said. “Ivy’s pretty good.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “Next time, she’s on my team. We’ll win for sure!” Ivy smiled as she walked back to class, surrounded by teammates.
Adam couldn’t stop smiling as he followed the group. He had been nice to Ivy, and he had helped the other boys respect girls a little more. The greatest secret weapon wasn’t a secret at all—it was just being kind.

The vast snow-covered plains loomed against a frozen blue-white sky. For as far as the eye could see, there were no signs of life, and the sun was a mere sliver of white in a frozen dome of sky.
Sentar shivered, then followed Bratsk from the pine-covered lean-to. He stood and brushed the snow from his knees. “Put your eye shield on, or the snow will blind you!” Bratsk growled irritably. “It is bad enough that I have to cross these mountains—but to drag a youth like you along makes it even worse!”
Obediently Sentar did as he was told, then pulled his cap snugly down around his ears. “Yes, that is better,” he agreed as he breathed puffs of frozen air.
Bratsk attached his snowshoes to the bottom of his fur boots. “We will have to follow that trail,” he grumbled, pointing, “up through the high pass and beyond to the village of your grandmother. We must reach our destination before nightfall, for there is little shelter for anyone who tarries on the mountains after dark. Use your energy wisely, lad, for you will surely need every bit of it to get to your grandmother’s village.”
Sentar nodded. He followed Bratsk through the unbroken snow. For hours they trudged across the vast snow-covered mountain, struggling step by weary step. Each peak looked like the one before it. Sentar felt as if they were moving across a very narrow trail over the very top of the world, as if one careless step in either direction could send him sliding down the side of a hundred icy ravines to his death. At a stand of rocks, Sentar finally paused to catch his breath. As he stood panting, he heard a small noise and looked down. There, on a narrow ledge, was a boy half-buried in the snow.
“Look, Bratsk! Someone has fallen over the cliff!”
Bratsk turned and looked over his shoulder. “That is nothing to us! We need all our energy just to reach our destination. It would seem that he has already reached his!” With a gesture, he turned back along the trail, anxious to continue.
“Wait, Bratsk,” Sentar pleaded. “It will be no danger to you—I will climb down and see if I can help!” He knelt and swung his legs over the side of the ledge. “Hello!” he shouted hopefully. His words reached out in all directions and bounced back hollowly. Still, he thought he saw the boy’s hands move ever so slightly. “He is alive!” he shouted. “I saw him move!” Again his words echoed from every frozen surface. Quickly Sentar slipped his pack from his shoulders and crawled carefully but eagerly over the side.
Bratsk stopped on the trail above. “Do not do this thing!” he warned angrily. “If you do, you do it alone!”
Sentar looked up into Bratsk’s face. “We cannot pass him by and leave him here to die!”
Bratsk’s eyes narrowed. “You do not know the way of the mountains!” he thundered. “You are young and do not understand. The boy is as good as dead already! If you attempt to rescue him, two bodies will freeze in the snow instead of one! Then what will I tell your grandmother? Save your strength for yourself!”
Sentar then looked down again and shook his head. He knew that if he left the boy to die, part of him would die too. He had to do what he knew was right. “I cannot leave him.”
Bratsk scowled. “Then good-bye, Sentar. I will tell your grandmother that wolves ate your hide!”
“Bratsk!”
But the guide had already turned his back on Sentar and was continuing silently through the snow.
With a sinking heart, Sentar watched Bratsk disappear along the ridge. Then the youth uncoiled his rope and tied it to a rock. Slowly he lowered himself onto the ledge. Carefully he turned the boy onto his side. The boy moaned softly, and Sentar was encouraged. “You will be all right,” he promised as he gently rubbed the boy’s hands together. “I will help you.”
Sentar strapped the boy to his back and struggled back up to the trail. Gasping, he collapsed on the snow and rested. As soon as he had caught his breath, he staggered to his feet again and, carrying the boy on his back, trudged along the trail. As nightfall came, the snow began again, driving in blinding waves. Sentar stopped and lowered the boy to the ground, for he could no longer see the way. Desperate, he hollowed an opening in the snow and crawled inside it, dragging the boy with him.
The next morning, Sentar moved on with his burden. As he traveled, he spoke reassuring words, not only to the unconscious boy but also to himself. “I can do it,” he mumbled wearily. “I know that I can do it! If I do not try, I would not be able to live with myself. Even if we do not make it, well, at least we tried.”
Finally Sentar stood gasping on a slope. He could see his destination below, where smoke spiraled from stone chimneys. “We’ve made it, my friend,” he exulted. “Soon you will have hot food and the shelter you need. You will be cared for properly.”
The people greeted Sentar joyously, and his grandmother quickly took them into her home. Later, as Sentar sat by the fire, his grandmother came from the other room. “The boy will live?” he asked.
Grandmother nodded and smiled. “Yes, he is young and will be fine.”
“But what was he doing on the mountain?” Sentar wondered.
“We will have to ask him when he is well enough to talk,” Grandmother replied. “Perhaps he was lost. Bratsk, however, was not as fortunate as you.”
Sentar’s forehead creased. “What of Bratsk?”
Grandmother shook her head slowly. “His feet were badly frostbitten, and he is in much pain.”
Sentar frowned. “How can that be? Bratsk knows the mountains far better than I, and I reached my destination even without his guidance and with a burden he would not share.
She nodded. “When you cared enough to carry an unknown boy over the snow-covered mountains, you drew warmth from your efforts, and the boy you carried drew warmth from you. You helped each other live. You see, many times a burden is also a blessing. Always remember, my son, reaching your destination is rarely more important than what you do along the way.

When I heard that I had won a scholarship to do the cultural exchange in Argentina that I had always dreamed of, I could never have imagined that it would be the beginning of such a big change in my life.
I arrived in Rosario, Argentina, where I lived with a family who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And thus started a year of spiritual adventures, talking with the missionaries and attending seminary and institute. I wanted to know everything, and I could feel that what I was learning about the gospel was blessing me in so many ways.
In a short time I was able to obtain a strong testimony of the truthfulness of the doctrines I was being taught: faith, love, patience, charity, trust, and obedience to the commandments of the Lord, which He has given us to protect us from pain.
He does not want us to go through pains without purpose. He loves us so much, and He wants to prove it so much. But sometimes, through our own choices, we close that door, we separate ourselves from Him, and then it is in our own hands. We must then take that first step toward the recovery of peace in our hearts. This is something I would experience for myself.
After months of learning, missionary lessons, and classes, I experienced adversity in one of its most painful forms—adversity that confronts you with feelings of the past, tempts you to make incorrect decisions in the present, and tries to ruin the future you always dreamed of. I learned that affliction sometimes (and many times) comes from somewhere you never expected.
Being worthy and virtuous in thoughts and acts had always seemed part of who I was, up until then. I knew that the things that I was about to do weren’t right, that people I once trusted were about to go off-road, and that I had actually already begun creating a distance between me and my Heavenly Father. I knew that now was the time when I needed to choose whether I would continue this or stick to the values I had always honored. So I had to find that strength inside of me that told me that I couldn’t ruin these dreams so easily. I couldn’t ruin my hope of an eternal family and a loving husband. Something in my life was wrong, and I knew it had to change.
That feeling, together with the young testimony that had begun to flourish in my heart, and true angels in my life who were always there to help me, saved me from being lost and made me so strong again that I could choose to turn back toward the Lord in time. And I know that He always was there, blessing me in my efforts to listen to His voice and to stay worthy of eternal blessings.
When I think about that time that I went through now, I think of courage for not having surrendered, courage for having always demonstrated my values, and the faith I had and still have.
Although the time of repentance that followed was a time of pain, of recognition of wrong feelings and moments, and of humility, I am so grateful for it—and I always will be. Grateful for the fact that, at the right time, I could feel that my Heavenly Father had forgiven me, that He continues to love me, and that He always will.
The part that cost me the most was learning to forgive myself. I remember how I felt, unworthy and without beauty, neither on the outside nor on the inside. But my Savior was always there, giving me strength and inspiration. He put the right people on my path who helped me to learn even more about the Church, since I had returned to Belgium. They loved me for who I am and helped me love myself again and recognize that this experience didn’t have to be a pain that I carry in my backpack of life forever. I could see that I had the opportunity to choose, to experience how strong my testimony already was by defending my values. Now I see that because I worked on strengthening my testimony through this experience, I can be a blessing in the lives of so many people, near and far.
Don’t fear. Never give up, and always defend your values. Always keep in mind how beautiful and what a blessing it is to share that love for the Savior and have His pure love as a foundation on which to build a relationship and a future family. If you choose to be obedient and choose Heavenly Father in all things, sooner or later, eternal blessings will come. Do not worry if you can’t see them now, but trust that every day, a little more, you will see the hand of the Lord in your lives. Spring will start in our hearts and eternal flowers will begin to bloom.
I was baptized on March 16, 2019, in my ward in Belgium, and I am so happy to have taken this first step on my way to eternity. Yes, I will encounter more challenges along the way—we all will—but with my testimony in my heart, I am ready to face them, since I know Whom to choose.

“A perfect chance to explain” is never lost on these girls. They even take advantage of local holidays to share the gospel. For example, April 23 is “Día de San Jorge,” which is very similar to Valentine’s Day in other countries. It also happens to fall on the anniversary of the death of Cervantes, the great Spanish writer. So the tradition in Catalonia, the part of Spain where Barcelona is located, is for men to give women a rose on this day—and for women to give men a book.

The LDS girls in Barcelona adapted the tradition. They made roses out of crepe paper, inserted them in copies of the Book of Mormon, and helped the missionaries give them away. No one turns down a book or a rose on April 23rd.

As Sister Johnson and I were raising our children, we encouraged each of them to learn to play a musical instrument. But we would allow our children to take music lessons only if they did their part and practiced their instrument each day. One Saturday, our daughter Jalynn was excited to go play with friends, but she had not yet practiced the piano. Knowing she had committed to practice for 30 minutes, she intended to set a timer because she did not want to practice even one minute longer than was required.

As she walked by the microwave oven on her way to the piano, she paused and pushed some buttons. But instead of setting the timer, she set the microwave to cook for 30 minutes and pushed start. After about 20 minutes of practice, she walked back to the kitchen to check how much time was remaining and found the microwave oven on fire.

She then ran into the backyard where I was doing yard work, yelling that the house was on fire. I quickly ran into the house, and indeed, I found the microwave oven in flames.

In an effort to save our home from burning, I reached behind the microwave, unplugged it, and used the power cord to lift the burning microwave off of the counter. Hoping to be the hero and to save the day as well as our home, I swung the flaming microwave in circles with the power cord to keep it away from my body, got to the backyard, and with another swinging motion flung the microwave out onto the lawn. There we were able to extinguish the fiery flames with a hose.

What had gone wrong? A microwave oven needs something to absorb its energy, and when nothing is on the inside to absorb the energy, the oven itself absorbs the energy, becomes hot, and may catch on fire, destroying itself in a pile of flames and ashes. Our entire microwave went up in flames and burned because there was nothing on the inside.

A few years ago, my dad’s appendix burst, which was a tender mercy.
Most people wouldn’t say that getting appendicitis and having emergency surgery is a miracle, but it was for my dad.
When the doctor removed my dad’s appendix, he found cancer in it.
Luckily, after some testing, doctors found the cancer hadn’t spread. With his appendix removed, he was cancer free.
When we had time to process this situation, my family felt grateful that my dad’s appendix had burst.
The cancer in his appendix was subtle, and without the emergency surgery, it’s likely it wouldn’t have been noticed until it was too late.
Some people may consider my dad’s story a lucky coincidence, but my family and I know it was a miracle from God.
We may not notice God’s involvement in our lives until we reflect on past experiences. In the moment, my family didn’t think appendicitis was a blessing. We didn’t realize the importance of my dad’s emergency surgery until after the doctor found cancer.

The setting for my final example of one who persevered and ultimately prevailed, despite overwhelmingly difficult circumstances, begins in East Prussia following World War II.
In about March 1946, less than a year after the end of the war, Ezra Taft Benson, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, accompanied by Frederick W. Babbel, was assigned a special postwar tour of Europe for the express purpose of meeting with the Saints, assessing their needs, and providing assistance to them. Elder Benson and Brother Babbel later recounted, from a testimony they heard, the experience of a Church member who found herself in an area no longer controlled by the government under which she had resided.
She and her husband had lived an idyllic life in East Prussia. Then had come the second great world war within their lifetimes. Her beloved young husband was killed during the final days of the frightful battles in their homeland, leaving her alone to care for their four children.
The occupying forces determined that the Germans in East Prussia must go to Western Germany to seek a new home. The woman was German, and so it was necessary for her to go. The journey was over a thousand miles (1,600 km), and she had no way to accomplish it but on foot. She was allowed to take only such bare necessities as she could load into her small wooden-wheeled wagon. Besides her children and these meager possessions, she took with her a strong faith in God and in the gospel as revealed to the latter-day prophet Joseph Smith.
She and the children began the journey in late summer. Having neither food nor money among her few possessions, she was forced to gather a daily subsistence from the fields and forests along the way. She was constantly faced with dangers from panic-stricken refugees and plundering troops.
As the days turned into weeks and the weeks to months, the temperatures dropped below freezing. Each day, she stumbled over the frozen ground, her smallest child—a baby—in her arms. Her three other children struggled along behind her, with the oldest—seven years old—pulling the tiny wooden wagon containing their belongings. Ragged and torn burlap was wrapped around their feet, providing the only protection for them, since their shoes had long since disintegrated. Their thin, tattered jackets covered their thin, tattered clothing, providing their only protection against the cold.
Soon the snows came, and the days and nights became a nightmare. In the evenings she and the children would try to find some kind of shelter—a barn or a shed—and would huddle together for warmth, with a few thin blankets from the wagon on top of them.
She constantly struggled to force from her mind overwhelming fears that they would perish before reaching their destination.
And then one morning the unthinkable happened. As she awakened, she felt a chill in her heart. The tiny form of her three-year-old daughter was cold and still, and she realized that death had claimed the child. Though overwhelmed with grief, she knew that she must take the other children and travel on. First, however, she used the only implement she had—a tablespoon—to dig a grave in the frozen ground for her tiny, precious child.
Death, however, was to be her companion again and again on the journey. Her seven-year-old son died, either from starvation or from freezing or both. Again her only shovel was the tablespoon, and again she dug hour after hour to lay his mortal remains gently into the earth. Next, her five-year-old son died, and again she used her tablespoon as a shovel.
Her despair was all consuming. She had only her tiny baby daughter left, and the poor thing was failing. Finally, as she was reaching the end of her journey, the baby died in her arms. The spoon was gone now, so hour after hour she dug a grave in the frozen earth with her bare fingers. Her grief became unbearable. How could she possibly be kneeling in the snow at the graveside of her last child? She had lost her husband and all her children. She had given up her earthly goods, her home, and even her homeland.
In this moment of overwhelming sorrow and complete bewilderment, she felt her heart would literally break. In despair she contemplated how she might end her own life, as so many of her fellow countrymen were doing. How easy it would be to jump off a nearby bridge, she thought, or to throw herself in front of an oncoming train.
And then, as these thoughts assailed her, something within her said, “Get down on your knees and pray.” She ignored the prompting until she could resist it no longer. She knelt and prayed more fervently than she had in her entire life:
“Dear Heavenly Father, I do not know how I can go on. I have nothing left—except my faith in Thee. I feel, Father, amidst the desolation of my soul, an overwhelming gratitude for the atoning sacrifice of Thy Son, Jesus Christ. I cannot express adequately my love for Him. I know that because He suffered and died, I shall live again with my family; that because He broke the chains of death, I shall see my children again and will have the joy of raising them. Though I do not at this moment wish to live, I will do so, that we may be reunited as a family and return—together—to Thee.”
When she finally reached her destination of Karlsruhe, Germany, she was emaciated. Brother Babbel said that her face was a purple-gray, her eyes red and swollen, her joints protruding. She was literally in the advanced stages of starvation. In a Church meeting shortly thereafter, she bore a glorious testimony, stating that of all the ailing people in her saddened land, she was one of the happiest because she knew that God lived, that Jesus is the Christ, and that He died and was resurrected so that we might live again. She testified that she knew if she continued faithful and true to the end, she would be reunited with those she had lost and would be saved in the celestial kingdom of God.8

“GOLD! Gold!” I shouted, running my fingers through the sand. Everywhere I looked, gold sparkled in the sand. It wasn’t fool’s gold, either—it was real! That’s why it’s called Gold Bluffs Beach.
Above the sound of the rushing waves, my sister, Lisa, was calling, “Ryan, come wade in the ocean with me.”
I paid no attention but began stuffing my pockets full of sand and gold. Soon my pockets were bulging, so I bent over and poured sand inside my shoes.
“What are you doing?” a voice behind me boomed.
I looked through my legs at Lisa. “I’m gathering gold,” I replied, my head still upside down. “I’m going to be rich. I’m going to buy a swimming pool and the fastest bicycle in the neighborhood and—”
Lisa wasn’t listening. “Mom and Dad want you to come see the Roosevelt elk,” she said.
Trying to follow Lisa down the beach wasn’t easy. I could barely waddle along in my lumpy shoes full of sand. But I was not giving up my gold.
The next day I came prepared. I brought a big garbage bag from our campground. After Mom fell asleep on a beach blanket and Lisa and Dad went for a walk in the redwood trees on the bluff, I began furiously scooping the glittering sand into my bag.
“What are you doing?” asked a voice.
Startled, I looked up into the puzzled face of a boy a few years older than I.
“I’m going to get rich on this gold,” I announced.
“Well, you’re going to have a rough time of it,” he laughed. “No one has ever figured out how to get the gold out of the sand.”
“How do you know?” I retorted.
“I’ve lived here all my life,” replied the boy. “My father’s a ranger at this park.”
“Well, I bet my dad can get the gold out of this sand. He’s an engineer, and he can do anything.”
“I wish you luck,” the boy said with a shrug.
I watched him saunter down the beach, then settle on a smooth, whitened log and begin to read a book. He often looked up and gazed thoughtfully at the ocean, then underlined something or wrote a few words in the book’s margin.
Once he called to me and motioned down the beach. “See the elk—aren’t they magnificent! That one bull really has a big rack of antlers.”
I glanced at the big animals in the distance. Their chocolate-colored heads and necks stood out against their creamy bodies.
I looked down again. Gold was more exciting than elk. Heaving the bag over my shoulder, I searched for the sand with the most sparkles. When my bag got heavy, I began stuffing sand in my pockets. I decided to rest on a log near the trees at the edge of the beach. I struggled over to it, turning my back to drag the bag the last few feet. Just as I reached the log, I lost my balance and keeled over backward, landing in a heap on the other side of it.
Suddenly I flinched. My hand was resting on something soft and furry. Then something bleated loudly right in my ear. I jerked around. Right in front of my freckled nose was a black quivering nose. My eyes traveled past the long, floppy ears to the brown, spotted body. “An elk calf!” I gasped.
The tiny elk bleated again. Then I heard an enormous grunt.
“Look out!” shrieked the boy with the book.
I staggered up. In horror, I saw a huge cow elk charging down the beach toward me, her ears flattened against her head.
“She thinks that you’re hurting her baby,” cried the boy. Dropping his book, he ran toward the cow, trying to distract her.
I grabbed the top of my sack and tried to drag it with me, but it snagged on the log and broke. Gold-filled sand spilled all over as I lumbered away without it. Then the sand spilled from my pockets—the seams had broken from its weight.
Shaking with fear and exhaustion, I looked over my shoulder. Snorting and pawing, the cow had stopped beside her calf. She glowered at me a long time before finally lowering her head to nudge her baby.
The boy rushed up beside me. “Are you all right?” He led me to his log where I collapsed, trembling.
His small book still lay there where he had dropped it. The Pearl of Great Price—so he likes treasure, too, I thought. I got up shakily, lamenting, “We have to go back to Fremont tonight, and now I have to start all over again to get more gold.”
The boy shook his head. “After all this, I thought that maybe you’d give up.”
“Oh no,” I said, “I want to be rich.”
“What would you do if you were rich?”
“I’d buy the tallest stilts in town, a life-size transformer, maybe a whole toy store!” I was still dreaming about my toy store as I asked, “What would you get if you were rich?”
“All the money in the world couldn’t buy what I want most.”
“Really?”
He looked wistfully out at the sunlight dancing on the water. “I want to give my mother back her eyesight.”
Suddenly I forgot about my toy store.
The boy gazed down the beach, where the elk were now frolicking in the surf. They bounded and kicked and tossed their heads. “Sometimes I bring my mother here. She can feel the warm sand squish through her toes. She can hear the waves lap on the beach. But it’s not the same as seeing those beautiful elk splashing in the water, or a pink sunset stretching across the ocean.”
He motioned toward the redwood forest on the bluff. “Sometimes I take her walking in there. She can hear the breezes rustling, and she can feel the rough bark of the huge trees. But it’s not the same as being able to look up and up along one of them until it towers out of sight.
“But my mother says that she’s happy. She says that it gives her comfort to know that the very biggest ones were living when Jesus Christ was born. She says that when she’s resurrected, she’ll see the redwoods and the ocean and the elk with her own eyes. Best of all, she’ll see the Savior with her own eyes.”
“Oh,” I gulped, not knowing what to say.
The boy chuckled, not unkindly. “You know, you remind me of the man who built his house upon the sand.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been building your dreams on a pile of sand. Even when you were charged by a dangerous elk, you tried to drag your sand with you. For me, I’d rather build my dreams on something that can’t spill out of my pockets.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A faith in God like my mother’s,” he answered.
“Oh,” I said. I pointed to The Pearl of Great Price. “Is the ‘house on the sand’ story in that book?”
“No, it’s in the Bible and the Book of Mormon.”
I’d never read the Bible, and I’d never even heard of the Book of Mormon. “So what’s in this book?”
“It explains a lot about why God created us.”
“Wow!” As I reached for the book, Dad called. I groaned, “Oh, no! I have to go now. I really wanted to see that book.”
“Quick,” the boy said, “write down your address on my bookmark, and I’ll ask some people I know in Fremont to give you one, OK?”
“OK!” I said, scribbling my name and address. “Thanks.”
As I hurried off, I looked back at The Pearl of Great Price in the sand. I had forgotten all about the gold there.

As he sat there, staring sullenly at the floor and wrestling with his frustrations, I cradled him in my heart. He wanted to communicate as sincerely as I, but neither of us was having much success.
I felt that if I could just hug or hold him again—the way I did when he was small—maybe he would know of my love and concern. But at 16, my son was embarrassed by affectionate displays, especially from his father.
“I’ll never make it,” he moaned. “You expect too much, and I’m just not good enough.”
“That’s not true,” I said. My voice rose as I thought back on my adolescent insecurities. “Why, when I was your age …”
“Dad, you don’t understand,” he interrupted. “I don’t think you’ll ever understand!”
Of course I understood! My heart ached with important things I wanted to tell him—lessons I yearned to teach him. He wasn’t being fair. After all, I wasn’t that old. And it wasn’t that long ago that I had been in his place.
How many times had I sincerely told him about my own frustrations as a teenager? How many good scriptures had I quoted him? How often had I sat him down and given him good, sound advice from my own experience?
If he would just hear me out, he would realize I knew what I was talking about. But I couldn’t get him to understand because I couldn’t get him to listen to me. As he stood abruptly and prepared to leave, I called him back.
“Son, why don’t you ever listen?” I asked.
For the first time during our argument, he looked directly at me. His look startled me, but not nearly as much as his reply.
“Dad, all I ever do is listen to you. My question is, why don’t you ever listen to me?”
At first, his question surprised and upset me. Even if I had expected him to do all the listening, was that so wrong? After all, I was his father.
As I sat there, I suddenly realized that what my son had said was true. I had been talking and preaching to him when I should have been listening. My concern for him was proper, but how I expressed that concern was not.
During the next few days, I realized I had been proud of the wisdom I wished to share, but I had not learned the importance of listening. I had unintentionally been telling my son that my experience and ideas were more important than his. I cringed at my insensitivity.
My son wasn’t the only person I had not heard. I had also failed to listen to the Lord’s anointed, who have counseled parents to “spend a great deal of time listening, not just telling. This listening should be done with an open mind and heart. When children feel they can talk freely about their feelings, problems, and successes, wonderful relationships develop between parents and children” (Ben B. Banks, Ensign, November 1993, page 29).
I realized I couldn’t hope to understand my son if I continued to look at him strictly from my point of view. And I couldn’t comprehend his perspective without truly listening to him as well as to the Spirit—with both ears and heart.
I saw clearly that listening is a way of showing love. It is one of the ways we show affection for our children, even when they are too old to be cradled in our arms. By listening, we also show respect and love.
After considerable thought and repentance, I tried again.
“Do you have time for a talk?” I asked my son. “I’d like another chance.”
“Do we have to, Dad? I know you mean well, but I’d really rather not.”
“I’d like to change roles this time,” I said. “How about if you talk and I listen? I understand your disbelief, but I’ll offer advice only if you ask for it.”
His smile was a welcome contrast to the look he had given me a few days earlier. For a change, I really listened. A few times, I had to stop myself from speaking, but I learned more about my son during a half hour of listening than I had learned during several years of lecturing.
That conversation was the first of many heart-to-heart talks. I think we can share just about anything now. We don’t always agree. But by listening, we have come to understand one another and to avoid some of the pitfalls that marked our earlier conversations.
A willingness to communicate, Paul says, is part of “a good foundation against the time to come” (1 Tim. 6:18–19). Listening with our ears and our hearts may not be easy, but it is always essential—especially for family members who need a hug.

Upon authorization by the First Presidency, I was privileged to dedicate the land of Hungary on Mt. Gellért in Budapest, Easter Sunday, 19 April 1987. Two days later, Elder Ringger and I met with the chairman of the Council of Religious Affairs, Imre Miklos. Our reception at first was a bit tense. It was clear that we were neither welcome nor wanted. Things were not going particularly well. But then I felt impressed to let this leader know that two days prior to this meeting, I had offered a special apostolic prayer for his country and for its people. As this was mentioned, his countenance changed. Now he was listening. A meeting planned for thirty minutes lasted an hour and a half. From that point forward, he became our friend and advocate. Several subsequent meetings were successfully held. Fourteen months later, Elder Ringger and I returned to Budapest for formal ceremonies with Mr. Miklos on 14 June 1988 that confirmed official recognition for the Church in Hungary.

In October 1989, the annual seminar for all European mission presidents and their partners was held in Budapest. President Thomas S. Monson and Sister Frances J. Monson joined us. On the very date of that seminar, October 17, the Hungarian Parliament changed the name of their country from the Hungarian People’s Republic to the Republic of Hungary. That country had now become a democracy.

A new mission was opened 1 July 1990, with James L. Wilde serving as president. Our chapel in Budapest was dedicated by President Monson, and several congregations are developing there and in other centers of strength.

HI! My name is Brittany Scott. I want to tell you about Richie Tanner, a special member of our Primary class. What makes Richie special? Well, he’s developmentally delayed, or what some people call mentally handicapped. He looks like most ten-year-old boys, but he acts younger—like maybe a five-year-old. He doesn’t speak very clearly yet, and it takes him longer to learn things.
Richie and I are in the Valiant B class in the Monument Park Ninth Ward, Salt Lake Monument Park Stake. There are five children in our class: Steven Jones, Marcus Foulger, Michael Knudson, Richie, and me. Our teacher is Janet Fawcett. She’s great! She always tells Richie what a good job he’s doing when he listens quietly to the lessons. Sister Fawcett calls on Richie to say prayers and to answer questions. She treats him like everyone else, and she tries to help Richie learn the gospel, just as she helps us.
Richie hasn’t always been able to sit through a lesson. So our Primary has tried different ways to help him. He used to have a special teacher, Sister Neva Clayton, just for him. She would sit with Richie in our class and take him out in the hall if he got noisy or disrupted the class in some other way. But now Richie can sit in class all by himself, just like everyone else!
I’ve seen Richie make good progress: he talks better, he pays attention longer, and he sings in Primary programs. I hope that someday Richie will be able to give a talk by himself.
Richie’s brothers, Michael and Russell, and his sister, Anne, help him come to Primary. He really likes Primary, and he likes to be with all the Primary children because they let him know that he belongs there. Richie adds a lot to our Primary, and he always listens to the other children when they give their talks. He sets a good example for all of us.
Sometimes I wish that I could be more like Richie, because he’s so gentle, friendly, honest, appreciative, and sincere. Richie shows his love in special ways. He’s my friend! I hope that Richie thinks of me as a true friend too. Richie is one of the neatest boys I know!

A few years ago, the missionaries held an activity and gave all the youth a challenge to go without their phones and social media for a few days so that they could be more centered on the gospel and be able to share it with others. I accepted the challenge and shared the gospel with a friend and told them about the missionaries’ challenge. That friend became interested and started meeting with the missionaries. He was baptized a few months later.

Richard used to go to parties a lot. But after the last one, he says, “I saw things there, and I didn’t feel right. For some reason I knew I didn’t belong.”
He left the party and vowed to become more involved in service, schoolwork, studying the scriptures, and listening to good music—and to not watch so much television.
“It was hard,” he says. “I wanted to keep up with things going on outside. I didn’t want to be a social hermit. But I felt that if I was going to go on a mission, and if I was going to get married in the temple, and if I was going to receive callings, I had to be worthy.”

And the missionaries were grateful for chances to share their testimonies. One day when they were running drills with the Russian team, an interpreter asked, “What training methods do you use?”
Elder Condie hesitated. The mission president had said the elders could practice only on Saturday mornings and play games only on Wednesday nights. They were missionaries first, so they didn’t train more than that. He wasn’t sure what to tell the interpreter about why their team did so well. Then an idea came.
“The Word of Wisdom,” Elder Condie said. The interpreter looked confused. “We don’t drink coffee, tea, or alcohol, or smoke tobacco,” Elder Condie explained. At that time lots of people drank and smoked, even athletes.
When the interpreter told the Russian team what Elder Condie said, they just stared. They were amazed at how long the missionaries could play before getting tired. Because the Mormon Yankees followed the Word of Wisdom, their bodies were healthy and strong.

Nearly 28 years ago I desired to attend a general conference of the Church and drove 14 hours to be in Salt Lake City for the conference. I entered Temple Square at 8:00 a.m., where the line outside door number 10 was all the way across Temple Square and halfway down the south side of the Assembly Hall. I was nearly 300 feet from my goal. The usher called out that the Tabernacle was full. People dropped out of line, and I inched forward.

At five minutes before 10:00 I was the only person standing in front of my chosen door. The door opened, and the usher said, “Are you still here?” He closed the door, and my heart sank. As the choir began to sing the opening hymn at 10:00 sharp, the door opened one more time, and the usher beckoned me inside. He placed me on half a seat and behind a post, but a welcome seat it was! I was able to sustain the Lord’s chosen leaders and hear their counsel that special day, just as we have done here this afternoon.

It was the day after Christmas, 1946, in Santa Clara, Utah. As a young nine-year-old boy, I asked my mother if I could take my Christmas gift, a new bow and arrow set, and go up on the hill behind our home to hunt for rabbits. It was late in the afternoon, and Mother was reluctant, but with my coaxing she agreed to let me go, but only if I was back home before dark.
As I reached the top of the hill, I put an arrow on the bow and started walking quietly through the sage and chaparral bushes, hoping to see a rabbit feeding at the base of the brush where the tender grass was still green.
I was startled by a large jackrabbit that jumped out from a sage bush right in front of me. I pulled back on the bow, taking a quick aim, and let the arrow fly at the fleeing, darting rabbit. The arrow missed, and the rabbit disappeared through the brush ahead.
I went to where I thought the arrow had hit the ground to retrieve it. Only three arrows came with the bow, and I didn’t want to lose this one. I looked where the arrow was supposed to be, but it wasn’t there. I looked all around the area where I was sure it landed, but I couldn’t find it.
The sun was setting in the west; I knew that it would be dark in about 30 minutes, and I didn’t want to be late getting home. I searched again the area where the arrow should have been, looking carefully under every bush, but it was not to be found.
Time was running out, and I needed to start for home to get there before dark. I decided to pray and ask Heavenly Father to help me find the arrow. I dropped to my knees, closed my eyes, and prayed to my Father in Heaven. I told Him I didn’t want to lose my new arrow, and I asked Him to show me where to find it.
While still on my knees, I opened my eyes, and there in the sagebrush immediately in front of me, at eye level, I saw the colored feathers of the arrow partly hidden by the branches. I grabbed the arrow and began to run for home, arriving there just before dark.
I will never forget that special experience. Our Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. That was the first time I had prayed for Him to help me, and He did! That evening I learned to have faith and trust in my Heavenly Father.