Gospel Story Finder

Right after the accident, my sister Nicole showed up with her friend on another four-wheeler, and two boys who saw us crash quickly drove up on their four-wheelers.
“My dad’s a nurse!” one boy said. While he called his dad for help, Nicole and her friend hurried back to our camp to get my dad.
That morning, nurse Mike Staheli had planned to head home from a weekend campout with some friends. But they felt prompted to stay one more day. I’m thankful they did.
While Mike gave me first aid and checked my vital signs, someone called for an ambulance. Mike feared that I had broken my arm and femur, cracked several ribs, and that I was bleeding internally.
Mike said the ambulance from a nearby town would likely arrive first, but my condition was serious enough that I should be airlifted to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah. A medevac helicopter was also called for.
When my dad and his friend Hector saw me, they knew I needed a priesthood blessing. My dad asked me, “Do you have faith in the power of the priesthood? Do you have faith that the Lord can help you and heal you?”
“I do have faith, Papá,” I told him. But at the same time, I wondered, “What if I don’t have enough faith?”
My dad anointed me, and Hector blessed me. As soon as the blessing began, my breathing slowed, I calmed down, and I felt warmth even though it was cold outside. I knew then that I did have enough faith and that I was going to be fine either way.
When the ambulance arrived, paramedics cut off my favorite soccer shirt and checked my vital signs. They had stabilized. The helicopter arrived a few minutes later.
When the helicopter landed at the hospital, I was rushed inside. Nurses and doctors began examining me and doing lots of tests, including an MRI. My dad and I expected the worst, and so did they.
But they found nothing! No broken bones, no internal bleeding, no sign of concussion. My leg still hurt a lot, though.
“This is a miracle!” a nurse told me. Later, one doctor said, “OK, Alan, looks like you can go home tonight.”
I was like, “Really?”
Because I still had a hard time walking, I stayed in the hospital overnight. I left the next morning with only a brace on my left wrist. A few weeks later, I was training again for soccer.
I wonder what would have happened if my dad and Hector hadn’t held the priesthood. I could have been a lot worse off. That day I realized how important the priesthood is. I learned that faith in Jesus Christ and the power of the priesthood can do miraculous things.
I also learned that priesthood holders have to be good examples. If we have the priesthood but choose to do things that are wrong, we show that we do not respect or honor God’s power. But when we set good examples, we show others that we honor the priesthood and know that the Lord can work miracles through us.
I’m grateful for my family and for the Church. I always think about the sacrifices my parents have made for me and my brother and sisters. They think about us first. My dad recently hurt his knee playing soccer and can’t work. A lot of people, especially from the Church, have blessed us with food and other things we need. To keep my faith strong, I pray every morning, go to seminary, and read scriptures every night with my family. That really helps me.
Alan on a walk with his family a few months following his accident.
Since my accident, I often think about how much God has blessed me. Every time I have a problem now, the first thing I do is go straight to Him. I feel that if He loved me enough to bless and help me through my accident, He can help me through anything.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

This afternoon I want to describe and discuss a spiritual impression I received a few moments before I stepped to this pulpit during the Sunday morning session of general conference last October. Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf had just finished speaking and had declared his powerful witness of the Savior. Then we all stood together to sing the intermediate hymn that previously had been announced by President Gordon B. Hinckley. The intermediate hymn that morning was “Redeemer of Israel” (Hymns, no. 6).

Now, the music for the various conference sessions had been determined many weeks before—and obviously long before my new call to serve. If, however, I had been invited to suggest an intermediate hymn for that particular session of the conference—a hymn that would have been both edifying and spiritually soothing for me and for the congregation before my first address in this Conference Center—I would have selected my favorite hymn, “Redeemer of Israel.” Tears filled my eyes as I stood with you to sing that stirring hymn of the Restoration.

Near the conclusion of the singing, to my mind came this verse from the Book of Mormon: “But behold, I, Nephi, will show unto you that the tender mercies of the Lord are over all those whom he hath chosen, because of their faith, to make them mighty even unto the power of deliverance” (1 Ne. 1:20).

My mind was drawn immediately to Nephi’s phrase “the tender mercies of the Lord,” and I knew in that very moment I was experiencing just such a tender mercy. A loving Savior was sending me a most personal and timely message of comfort and reassurance through a hymn selected weeks previously. Some may count this experience as simply a nice coincidence, but I testify that the tender mercies of the Lord are real and that they do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence. Often, the Lord’s timing of His tender mercies helps us to both discern and acknowledge them.

Now, I wish to move to a different matter. I spoke of this same thing many years ago. I repeat it because those who heard it then have long since forgotten, and those who did not hear it need to hear it. It concerns President Joseph F. Smith, who served as President of the Church from 1901 to 1918, altogether 17 years.
Joseph F. Smith was the son of Hyrum Smith, who was the brother of the Prophet Joseph and was martyred with him in Carthage. Joseph F. was born at Far West, Missouri, on November 13, 1838. He came out of Missouri as an infant. As a lad not yet six years of age, he heard a knock on the window of his mother’s home in Nauvoo. It was a man who had hurriedly ridden from Carthage and who told Sister Smith that her husband had been killed that afternoon.
When he was nine, he drove an ox team with his mother across the plains to this valley. At the age of 15 he was called on a mission to Hawaii. He made his way to San Francisco and there worked in a shingle mill to earn enough money to buy passage to the islands.
Hawaii was not a tourist center then. It was populated by the native Hawaiians, who were, for the most part, poor but generous with what they had. He learned to speak their language and to love them. While serving there he experienced a remarkable dream. I quote from his narrative concerning this. Said he:
“I was very much oppressed [when I was] on a mission. I was almost naked and entirely friendless, except [for] the friendship of a poor, benighted … people. I felt as if I was so debased in my condition of poverty, lack of intelligence and knowledge, just a boy, that I hardly dared look a … man in the face.
“While in that condition I dreamed [one night] that I was on a journey, and I was impressed that I ought to hurry—hurry with all my might, for fear I might be too late. I rushed on my way as fast as I possibly could, and I was only conscious of having just a little bundle, a handkerchief with a small bundle wrapped in it. I did not realize … what it was, when I was hurrying as fast as I could; but finally I came to a wonderful mansion. … I thought I knew that was my destination. As I passed towards it, as fast as I could, I saw a notice [which read B-A-T-H], ‘Bath.’ I turned aside quickly and went into the bath and washed myself clean. I opened up this little bundle that I had, and there was [some] white, clean [clothing], a thing I had not seen for a long time, because the people I was with did not think very much of making things exceedingly clean. But my [clothing was] clean, and I put [it] on. Then I rushed to what appeared to be a great opening, or door. I knocked and the door opened, and the man who stood there was the Prophet Joseph Smith. He looked at me a little reprovingly, and the first words he said: ‘Joseph, you are late.’ Yet I took confidence and [replied]:
“‘Yes, but I am clean—I am clean!’
“He clasped my hand and drew me in, then closed the great door. I felt his hand just as tangible as I ever felt the hand of man. I knew him, and when I entered I saw my father, and Brigham [Young] and Heber [C. Kimball], and Willard [Richards], and other good men that I had known, standing in a row. I looked as if it were across this valley, and it seemed to be filled with a vast multitude of people, but on the stage were all the people that I had known. My mother was there, and she sat with a child in her lap; and I could name over as many as I remember of their names, who sat there, who seemed to be among the chosen, among the exalted. …
“[When I had this dream,] I was alone on a mat, away up in the mountains of Hawaii—no one was with me. But in this vision I pressed my hand up against the Prophet, and I saw a smile cross his countenance. …
“When I awoke that morning I was a man, although only [still] a boy. There was not anything in the world that I feared [after that]. I could meet any man or woman or child and look them in the face, feeling in my soul that I was a man every whit. That vision, that manifestation and witness that I enjoyed at that time has made me what I am, if I am anything that is good, or clean, or upright before the Lord, if there is anything good in me. That has helped me out in every trial and through every difficulty” (Gospel Doctrine, 5th ed. [1939], 542–43).
The core of that meaningful dream is found in the reproof given by Joseph Smith to young Joseph F. Said the Prophet, “Joseph, you are late.”
Replied Joseph F., “Yes, but I am clean—I am clean!”
The result of that dream was that a boy was changed into a man. His declaration “I am clean” gave him self-assurance and courage in facing anyone or any situation. He received the strength that comes from a clear conscience fortified by the approbation of the Prophet Joseph.

Let me provide an example. When I first visited Czechoslovakia, accompanied by Hans B. Ringger, long before the freedom bell sounded, I was met by Jiri Snederfler, our leader through this dark period, and Sister Olga Snederfler, his wife. I went to their home in Prague where the branch met. Displayed on the walls of the room in which we assembled were picture after picture of the Salt Lake Temple. I said to Sister Snederfler, “Your husband must truly love the temple.”
She responded, “I, too; I, too.”
We sat down for some soup Sister Snederfler had prepared, after which she brought out a treasure trove: an album containing individual pictures of the missionaries who were serving there in 1950 when the government edict came for the mission to be closed. As she slowly leafed through the pictures of different missionaries, she would say, “Wonderful boy, wonderful boy.”
Brother Snederfler has been a courageous Church leader in Czechoslovakia and has been willing to put everything on the line for the gospel. When the opportunity came that we would seek recognition for the Church in that country, the government leaders, then Communist, said: “Don’t send an American. Don’t send a German. Don’t send a Swiss. Send a citizen of Czechoslovakia.”
There were ominous implications in that particular statement because to have admitted that you were a church leader during this period of the prohibition of religion was tantamount to possible imprisonment. And yet, this call came to Brother Snederfler to be the designated person to go before the government and to forthrightly state that he was the leader of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for all of Czechoslovakia and that he was seeking recognition for his church. He later told me that he had been somewhat frightened and had asked for the prayers of his brothers and sisters in the Prague Branch. He went to his sweet wife, Olga, and said to her: “I love you. I don’t know when, or if, I’ll be back, but I love the gospel, and I must follow my Savior.”
With that spirit of faith and devotion, Brother Snederfler went before the government officials and acknowledged that he was the leader of the Church and that he was there to seek a restoration of the recognition the Church had enjoyed long years before. In the meantime Elder Russell M. Nelson had been working tirelessly to bring about the desired decision. Later, Brother Snederfler heard the good news: “Your church is again recognized in Czechoslovakia.” How eager Brother Snederfler was to tell his dear wife and the other stalwart members of the Church the wonderful news that once again missionaries could come to Czechoslovakia and the Church could provide a haven for freedom of worship in that nation. It was a happy day for Czechoslovakia.
Where are Jiri and Olga Snederfler today? Just last month they responded to their calls to serve as temple president and matron of the Freiberg Germany Temple, where faithful members of the Church in Germany, Czechoslovakia, and surrounding nations attend. These two saintly souls find themselves each day in the Lord’s house they so dearly love.
And what of Richard Winder, one of the former missionaries of whom Olga Snederfler exclaimed, “Wonderful boy, wonderful boy”? He is now the president of the Czechoslovakia Prague Mission, responding to the call to him and his wife, Barbara, to reopen the work in that country.

I remember attending a meeting near Bancroft, Idaho, years ago. It was sponsored in part by the extension service of the University. We’d had a wonderful meeting, and after it was over, I was greeting some of the wonderful farmers who were there, and among them was a man by the name of Brother Yost, and I said, “Brother Yost, how are things out on the farm?” Brother Yost said, “Oh, things are fine, Brother Benson, but I’m about 20 thousand dollars worse off than I was three days ago.” I said, “What’s the matter—another frost?” He said, “Yes, it hit the wheat just in the dough stage, and you know what that means.” He said, “We’re starting the mowing machines in the morning, but everything’s all right. We’ve still got a little wheat in the bin, and we’ve got at least part of our year’s supply laid away. We’re not going to starve, and there’ll be another crop.” As we left him, I said to my wife, “What a wonderful spirit.”

We drove on down to Logan. We had our children with us, and we stopped on Main Street to go into a grocery store to pick up a few cookies for the kiddies. And who should I meet on the sidewalk but Brother Yost. I said, “Well, what are you doing way down here?” He said, “Brother Benson, it’s our day to go to the temple.” And I said, “Well, reverses don’t dampen your spirits any, do they?” Then he taught me a lesson. He said, “Brother Benson, when reverses come we need the temple all the more.”

Dusty “has a tremendous ear for music,” according to David Hatch, one of Dusty’s piano teachers. “One day he came over to practice a piece—a very difficult work—called Bach’s Invention no. 6, which requires both hands to do a lot of moving. I taught Dusty how to make his hands move correctly and expected him to go home and practice it for a week as my other students do. But Dusty immediately played the movement back to me, as if he’d always known how to play it.”

“Dusty practices as much as two hours a day,” said his mother. “That requires a lot of dedication and self-discipline that most six-year-olds don’t have.”

Dusty enjoys other activities besides playing the piano. He likes to play with his neighborhood friends, help his mom cook, and spend time with his grandmother.

Once when Dusty and his grandmother were watching television together, an opera came on. “I asked Dusty if he’d like to watch cartoons or some other program,” his grandmother said. “But he said he’d rather see how the opera turned out.”

Dusty’s four brothers and sisters have also developed interests in music, which include playing the violin, cello, harpsichord, and flute. And Dusty’s mom and dad believe that his interest in cultural events has helped the whole family enjoy a wider variety of entertainment. “He has helped us become more interested in things like opera and ballet,” his mother said. “It’s a great learning experience for all of us.”

As for Dusty’s future, his mother said that he may continue his music lessons until he is eighteen, and then go on to become a professional. Dusty, however, said that he’d rather be a chef at a Japanese restaurant “where the waiters chop up the food in front of your table!”

A giraffe, a lion, a tiger, a zebra, and an elephant lived together in the jungle. Or rather they all lived in the jungle but not exactly together. Often they were angry and cross with each other and none was a friend to the other. They were always complaining and finding fault.
The tiger complained because the zigzag stripes on the zebra made him dizzy.
The zebra complained about the giraffe’s long neck. Whenever the two of them talked together, the zebra got a stiff neck from looking up so high.
The giraffe found fault because the lion’s loud snoring kept him awake.
The lion complained because the elephant was so huge he shut out the sun when the lion wanted a sunbath, and the elephant in turn was always cross because the tiger hid in the tall grass and scared him.
And thus it went day after day. Complaints, complaints, complaints!
Then one lazy afternoon when the tiger awakened from his afternoon nap and peered through the grass to see if the elephant were near, he saw the zebra trotting about in the sunshine. Maybe it was because he was still a bit sleepy, but the thought crossed the tiger’s mind that the zebra’s stripes looked very pretty in the sunshine.
When the zebra came close, the tiger yawned a little and remarked, “That black and white outfit of yours is not bad at all. If I half close my eyes, I don’t get a bit dizzy.”
This pleased the zebra and he trotted off, arching his neck and flicking his tail. He saw the giraffe eating from the high branches of the acacia tree. And, still feeling good about the tiger’s compliment, he said to the giraffe, “Your long neck is certainly perfect for reaching so high. How do things look from up there?”
“The air is clear and bright and all is peaceful,” answered the giraffe, lowering his head to the zebra’s level. And so they visited and walked a while on that sunny afternoon until it was time for the giraffe to move off to a shady spot for his afternoon nap.
The lion had chosen the same shady spot and was already dozing and snoring there. For a minute the giraffe felt cross. Then he stretched his long neck and took a few nibbles of tender leaves before closing his eyes. The lion’s snoring was rhythmic and steady, and soon the giraffe was gently nodding to its beat. He quickly fell asleep and dreamed a pleasant dream.
They both awoke at the same time. The lion yawned and the giraffe stretched his neck. The giraffe spoke first. “Your snoring was very soothing,” he said, “almost like a lullaby.”
“Thank you,” answered the lion. “That was kind of you to say so.” Feeling pleased, he walked off through the tall grass to find a spot to sun in.
The sun was too bright and hot and soon the lion wished he were back under the tree in the shade. Just then the elephant plodded by on his way to the waterhole. As he passed the lion he cast a big shadow and for an instant the lion felt cool.
The lion arose and moved along with the elephant. “May I walk in your shadow to the waterhole?” he asked politely. “You make an even deeper shade than the acacia tree.”
“Come along,” said the elephant. “My shadow does me no good but I’m glad you can use it.” Together they went to the waterhole.
Later when the elephant moved off for his evening meal in the tall grass, the tiger crept up and scared him. The elephant jumped a little and said to the tiger, “My word! You certainly move quietly. Even with my big ears I didn’t hear you coming.”
The tiger was pleased and stopped to show the elephant just how he placed his paws on the ground so no noise could be heard.
The jungle is the same. The trees stand still. The grass waves in the breeze. The sun shines brightly. But there is a difference.
Now the giraffe, the lion, the tiger, the zebra, and the elephant live together in the jungle as friends.

A therapist in Chile noticed that several people in her branch seemed depressed and lonely, especially during the winter months.
Meanwhile, when asked about challenges in her area of South Africa, a therapist mentioned addiction and economic difficulties.
And a therapist in Portugal brought up how social media pressure seems to be contributing to significant anxiety in the young people she knows.
Challenges like this exist pretty much everywhere, don’t they? True, some specific pressures and stressors might be unique to a culture or circumstance. But in many ways, the patterns of mental health challenges are universal.
“It is crucial to remember that we are living—and chose to live—in a fallen world where for divine purposes our pursuit of godliness will be tested and tried again and again,” said President Jeffrey R. Holland, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Understanding this, and knowing that Jesus Christ is the Master Healer, professionals within the Church have created mental health resources to help members connect with hope and help. These resources acknowledge both what we understand scientifically about mental health as well as what we understand spiritually about gospel truths.
Whether or not you currently struggle with feeling emotionally well, these resources are worth exploring. Chances are, someone in your sphere of influence does struggle from time to time. By understanding the situation and what help is available, you will be better equipped to be an answer to their prayers. And you’ll be strengthened in the process.
In the Gospel Library, the Church provides many resources for those who are struggling, as well as for their loved ones and leaders.
In the Gospel Library app, look for a tile labeled “Life Help.” Tap on that to display a variety of topics, including “Mental Health.”
At ChurchofJesusChrist.org, look under “Libraries,” “Life Help,” and “Mental and Emotional Health.”
“Many factors can contribute to mental health challenges—genetics, environment, impairing accidents, life circumstances, and, at times, choices,” states one section. “Regardless of the contributing factors, we can draw strength from the Savior.”
In some languages, you’ll see links to crisis helplines around the world. Many countries now offer free, confidential services through phone calls or text messaging. Ward and branch leaders could encourage members to add these numbers to their list of contacts to be ready to use if they ever feel they are in crisis.
Additionally, this Life Help section shares real-life accounts of those who have found peace despite emotional and mental health challenges.
“One of the hardest things about mental illness is that you feel really isolated and alone,” said Eldon, who was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
Connecting with therapists and medication, accepting love from friends, adjusting expectations, and being willing to embrace the Lord’s help have all been tools that Eldon practices as part of his wellness journey. “You can do more than you could do on your own if you rely on the Savior,” he said.

She was young and beautiful—young enough to be largely unaware of the grace that unfolded with bashful uncertainty as the days passed. But in the third month of her 17th year, she died, cut down by a rare disease.
He was 18 and her friend. They never really dated. He had kissed her once at her 16th birthday party in front of her mother and everybody. He had done it as a joke, so that no one could accuse her of being “sweet 16 and never been kissed.” But she had always seemed too young for him to consider her seriously.
They both lived in a small town in Montana. To the east was prairie, and to the west a range of mountains.
Because of the few LDS students in the high school, Dave and Cathy attended early morning seminary. Each morning at 5:00, he jabbed at the buzzing alarm clock, struggled out of bed, showered, dressed, ate a hurried breakfast, and drove to her home to pick her up. She often kept him waiting, but finally she would rush out—a book, a purse, a piece of toast in one hand, a hair brush and a coat in the other.
One evening in April, her mother phoned Dave to say, “Cathy won’t be going to school tomorrow, so you won’t need to pick her up for seminary. She isn’t feeling well.”
That was the beginning.
Dave graduated from high school in May, was ordained an elder in June, and began working in a clothing store in order to earn money for his mission. Each day after work he visited her. On the days when she was feeling better, he found her in the backyard.
Her backyard had once been mostly lawn. But through the years the vegetable garden had been enlarged until now there was left only a small strip of lawn in front of the patio. Even with the threat of losing all the lawn to the needed vegetables, her mother always insisted that a patch of flowers be preserved.
One day when he came, Cathy was lying on the lawn, her chin propped up by her two hands, intently studying the determined efforts of several bees that were working the flower garden. Dave paused at the gate and quietly watched her. She wore a pair of Levis and a western-style shirt. Since he had visited her last, her long hair had been cut into a more practical summer style.
When he finally went through the gate, she turned and sat up.
“I wish I could spend all day watching flowers grow,” he teased.
She stood up and came over.
“Who cut your hair?” he asked.
“My mother. Do you like it?”
“I like it fine.”
They walked together, inspecting the long straight rows of beets, lettuce, and tomatoes.
“Did you have a date last night?” she asked.
“Yes, with Karen. We played miniature golf.”
“Do you like her?”
“I don’t know. She’s okay. It’s hard to get involved with anyone when I know I’m going on a mission in four months. Maybe she’ll write to me.”
He picked a small flower for her from a bush that clung to the trellis by the house.
“Will you write to me?”
“What do you want, a fan club? ‘Dear Elder Dave, you are so great! All us girls at home are just sighing our lives away until you return.’ Is that right?”
“It’ll do,” he grinned. “And I’ll write each of you a mimeographed letter. ‘Dear Sister Friend, We baptized 500 last week. I’m trying to remain the humble self that you’ve all grown to love. I hope that none of you are dating while I’m away.’”
“Is that the way it’s going to be?” she asked.
“I guess not,” Dave replied.
“Dave,” she said, suddenly serious. “You will be a good missionary, won’t you? You’ll remember the Savior and represent him properly?”
“I hope so,” he answered.
They sat on the lawn chairs on the patio.
“I was sitting here this morning,” she said, “looking at the flowers in the garden. I remembered what the Savior said: ‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow.’ Where’s that found in the Bible?”
“I thought I was finished with scripture chasing when I graduated from seminary,” he teased.
“Okay, I won’t press you. Anyway, that’s not my question. I had a picture in my mind while I was thinking. I want to tell you about it.”
She held the flower he had given her in both hands and studied it carefully.
“It’s early morning,” she began. “There are mists still hanging over the Sea of Galilee. A lone man walks along a path leading away from a small fishing village. It’s the Savior. He walks up the slope away from the water. As he walks, he comes upon a patch of wild flowers. He kneels down to get a closer look. He reaches out and touches the petals. He bends over to examine the insides of the blossom. My question is, what does he see?”
“A flower.”
“Is that all? Just a flower?”
“What else could he see?”
“Jesus was given the responsibility by Heavenly Father to create this earth. At one time, he knew the purpose of every feature of that flower. Did he remember all of those details? Or did his great mind understand the function of each part of the flower just by careful observation? That’s my question.”
“I can’t answer that.”
“I know, neither can I. But I don’t believe that he ever considered anything to be common. I think he valued the beauty of every sunset, each view of the Sea of Galilee—in sunshine or in rain. I believe that he was sensitive to beauty. When he said, ‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow,’ I believe that he had considered those lilies in greater detail than most of us ever will.”
Her father, home from work, came through the gate and began to pull some weeds from the garden. He was a quiet man who took pride in straight, neat rows of vegetables. Often when he worked, he whistled a tune with no recognizable melody.
He picked half a dozen strawberries, washed them off with the hose, and brought them over for Dave and Cathy to sample.
“They’re coming along nicely, aren’t they?” he asked.
In June Cathy spent a week out of town undergoing tests at a university medical center. When she returned, she didn’t look any better, and her parents were strangely evasive when asked what the specialists had found.
As the summer passed, Dave could see that she was slowly getting worse. Often when he came, she was in bed. Sometimes he only stayed a minute because she looked tired. But she enjoyed seeing him, and some days she felt good enough to talk.
“Dave,” she said on one of his visits, “I found a scripture for your mission.” She reached for the triple combination on the table by her bed, and, finding the place, read aloud: “‘Therefore, O ye that embark in the service of your God, see that ye serve him with all your heart, might, mind and strength, that ye may stand blameless before God at the last day.’ (D&C 4:2.) How’s that?” she asked.
“You’re determined to make me a good missionary, aren’t you?” he asked.
“There’s so much to be done. I wish I were going to be around to help.”
He looked up, trying to read her face.
“I know what’s happening. I’m dying.”
“No, you’re not.”
“We traveled a thousand miles to see a team of doctors. After two days, we came home. My parents never say anything about the results. They won’t talk about it. Now my dad asked me about taking a vacation to California. He wants to cash in his life insurance to get the money so we can all fly down. We’ve never gone on a big vacation like that before. When my parents come into my room, they’re both so cheerful. But yesterday I heard my mother in her room crying. And the worst part is that we can’t talk about it. We spend 20 minutes talking about the weather, clinging to the topic as if it were a life raft.”
Just then her mother came in the room with another vase of flowers. Cathy’s bedroom was filled with potted plants and cut flowers given to her by friends. Her mother picked up two vases of old flowers and left the room.
Cathy continued, “Dave, I need you to talk to. I can’t talk to my parents yet. I need to tell someone how I feel so I can define it in my mind and see the limits of my fear and measure it. There must be boundaries to it.”
They talked for a long time. Mainly he listened as she tried to find out if she could face her future.
“I know that none of us can be guaranteed a long life and that Heavenly Father won’t deny me any blessings. But I don’t want to leave this earth. I like it here.”
Before he left, she asked, “Will you give me a priesthood blessing?”
“Shouldn’t your dad do that?”
“He’s already administered to me. I need a priesthood blessing so that I can face it and so that my parents and I can talk.”
“I can have the bishop come over,” he said weakly.
“No, you’ve got all the priesthood you need. I want you to give me a blessing.”
“I’ve never given a priesthood blessing.”
“It doesn’t need to be today,” she said.
“Do you mind if I talk to your dad and the bishop about it? If they approve, I’ll be glad to.”
Sunday afternoon he arrived prepared. He had spent two days in reading. He had talked to Cathy’s father and the bishop and asked for their help and counsel. They had encouraged him to respond to Cathy’s special request. He had fasted and prayed since Saturday morning.
When he came, she was waiting for him, sitting in a chair in her bedroom.
He stood behind her. The room was silent except for the outdoor sounds coming through the open window. He placed his hands lightly on her head, touching the silky texture of her hair. Closing his eyes, he paused and then began, “Catherine Edmonds, by the power of the Melchizedek Priesthood which I hold, I place my hands on your head to give you a priesthood blessing …” The words seemed to flow easily and naturally. He blessed her that she would be comforted and that she would be able to talk openly to her parents about her condition.
When it was over, they both felt peaceful. He helped her into bed, sat down in the chair, held her hand, and talked with her until she fell asleep.
Monday afternoon when he came again, she was lying outside in a recliner. Her father was building a screened-in room with a covered roof so that she could spend more time outside.
“Daddy,” she asked, “could we move those potted plants from my room out here? I’d like them planted in the garden with the other flowers.”
“I don’t see why not,” her father answered. “Are you getting tired of them in your room?”
“No, I just want them to be here in the sun.”
The next day when Dave arrived, her plants had already been transferred to the garden.
“Don’t they look good?” she asked him. “I’ve been watching them all day. The bees have been visiting them. Out here they have the sun and the warm soil. I’m glad they’re out here. Look at all they’d miss if they were still cooped up in the house.”
Saturday he worked in the morning, but he took the afternoon off so he could be with her. They sat together in the enclosed patio.
In the late afternoon, dark clouds, which had been building to the west of them all day, finally moved in.
Her father gently asked, “Don’t you want to come inside? It looks like rain.”
“No, I like it out here. Let me watch the rain.”
The summer storm struck with fury. The large drops were driven almost sideways by the wind.
Then the hail came. At first it was just one or two scattered, marble-sized stones striking the grass and bouncing back. But as the storm approached, the crashing of the hail on the green fiberglass roof of the patio sounded like hundreds of cannon rounds.
In a few minutes it was over. The lawn was covered with a layer of white.
Her father stood up and walked out into the garden. Standing in the light rain, he silently observed the damage. He picked up a broken stem from a tomato plant, examined it, and then let it drop back to the ground. He slowly made his way to the flower garden. The flowers had been flattened to the ground.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have moved these plants out here,” he said. “They would have been safe inside.”
She stood up and, with some difficulty, went to her father.
“No, Daddy. I wanted them here in the garden. They were safe inside, but out here, even though it was only for a few days, they’ve had the warm sun and the bees and the gentle summer wind at night. I’m not sorry we brought them here. It was worth the chance just to have them in the garden—even for a short time.”
Somehow they both realized that now they were talking about more than flowers. He held his daughter close to him while she repeated softly, “Daddy, it’s going to be all right.”
The next day she told Dave that she and her parents had finally talked about the future.
Two weeks later she was admitted to the hospital.
Three weeks later she died.
Some who attended the funeral may have wondered why, instead of the customary wreath of flowers on the casket, the family placed there a bouquet of flowers from their garden—flowers that had endured the hail and yet lived on.

While I was serving in Venezuela, we taught a man who had investigated many churches but still had not found what he was looking for. He loved everything we taught him about the Church, but he did not feel he had received an answer through prayer. He began to have a lot of doubts. Then his doubts disappeared. He told us that he had been jogging in the park when he found a Liahona on an empty bench. He sat down and read it, and it answered his questions. He then was able to set a baptism date. Thank you for the Liahona!Elder Jordan Eves, Chile Viña del Mar Mission

Food Banks
Along with other areas of the country, people struggled to make ends meet on reduced incomes due to being furloughed or losing their jobs. Members of the Telford Ward and the local community generously collected over £5,000 worth of food for three local groups: the Telford Food Bank, the Interfaith Emergency Food Service (Interfaith Council), and KiP@Maninplace, who assist the homeless. Bishop Pointer was also able to draw on funds from the Church’s COVID-19 Emergency Relief programme to provide additional food for the Interfaith Council children’s breakfast project. This project provides breakfast (and lunch) to about 1,250 children on Saturdays to the value of £5,000. Members, including his own children and the full-time missionaries, assist the bishop (working alongside numerous faith groups) in sorting out the breakfast provisions every Saturday morning and delivering breakfast parcels to families who are unable to collect them.

Several months ago, after boarding an airplane scheduled to fly to Phoenix, Arizona, the passengers found themselves retained on the ground because of foggy weather. While we were waiting, the door of the airplane opened several times and others joined us, even though it was half an hour or more after the plane should have departed.
A young teenager took the vacant seat beside me. After a short time, he looked toward me and said, “Hey, mister, are you a Mormon?”
I said “Yes” and inquired why he asked.
He reported, “I joined the Church several months ago, but I don’t know whether I believe it anymore.”
We talked about the gospel. I bore my testimony. We discussed many things relating to the Church and to life. Meanwhile, the plane had left Salt Lake and was winging its way south.
This fine young man who wanted to have his testimony reaffirmed and strengthened was willing to do something about it. Cody and I are pen pals now. When I think of him, I recall a wonderful young man, searching for truth, needing a little reassurance, and seeking it on his own. He took responsibility.

As a young missionary in Germany, just a month or two in the field, I had two similar experiences that affected my testimony of the Book of Mormon in a profound way.
One morning as we were tracting, my companion and I knocked on the door of a minister of a prominent church. He invited us in, asked us to be seated at his table, and then immediately began to attack the Book of Mormon in a highly agitated and animated way. I understood most of what he was saying, and the contentious spirit in which he was saying it was unmistakable, but my lack of proficiency with the German language made it difficult for me to respond. My senior companion, a strong and outstanding missionary, simply bore a powerful testimony of the book, and we excused ourselves and left. My heart was pounding. I believe I was shaking a bit. I felt troubled.
A week or two later we met a man while street contacting who agreed to an appointment. We set a time, and he gave us his address in Bückeburg, a picturesque little town several miles from our assigned city of Minden but still in our area.
It was winter, and on the Sunday morning of our appointment, we mounted our bicycles and pedaled the entire distance, bucking a strong, cold headwind. Cold and panting, we pressed the doorbell on the man’s apartment building, and he buzzed the door open. We climbed the stairs to his apartment, and he let us in. Immediately we recognized a contentious spirit in the room—the same spirit we had felt a few weeks earlier in the home of the minister.
Our host did not invite us to sit down. Instead, he left the room for a moment. He returned carrying several editions of the Bible, dropped them on the table, and said in a very loud and defiant voice, “So you want to talk [religion], do you?” Then, pointing to the window, he bellowed, “Good, but first throw your Book of Mormon in the Weser [River]!”
A couple of weeks had passed since our experience with the minister, and I was now able to say a sentence or two in German. I attempted to do so. Once again, my senior companion simply bore a strong, quiet testimony of the Book of Mormon and politely thanked the man for his time. Then we excused ourselves and rode back to Minden, this time with the wind at our backs.
I had a testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, or so I thought at the time. But it became painfully clear after those two experiences, so close together in time, that my testimony was neither deep nor strong. I was unsure of myself and of my ability to truthfully bear witness of the Book of Mormon in a powerful and convincing way.
I made up my mind that if I were to have a successful mission, I had better make sure my testimony of the Book of Mormon was true and strong. I went to work on it. I read and prayed and thought and contemplated. Ultimately, the Lord blessed my efforts. A testimony came to me and has never left; rather, it has grown stronger through the years.
I have thought often of those two experiences. I am grateful to a wise and steady companion, and in a way I am thankful for an unwitting minister and a rather fanatical man, who figuratively took hold of my shoulders and shook me. To this day, well beyond 40 years later, I remember their names and the details of our meetings. When I think of them, the great passage from 3 Nephi comes to mind:
“And according as I have commanded you thus shall ye baptize. And there shall be no disputations among you, as there have hitherto been; neither shall there be disputations among you concerning the points of my doctrine, as there have hitherto been.
“For verily, verily I say unto you, he that hath the spirit of contention is not of me, but is of the devil, who is the father of contention, and he stirreth up the hearts of men to contend with anger, one with another.
“Behold, this is not my doctrine, to stir up the hearts of men with anger, one against another; but this is my doctrine, that such things should be done away” (3 Nephi 11:28–30).
I think too of the great words of Paul to the Galatians: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance” (Galatians 5:22–23).
These are the fruits I experience when I read the Book of Mormon. Reading its pages, contemplating the transcendent doctrines of Christ it contains, attempting to apply these in my life—all this settles in my mind and in my soul as a “mighty change” (Mosiah 5:2; Alma 5:14) in my heart, one that gives me resolve to do better; to be a little kinder, less critical, more generous; and to share with others the great blessings the Lord has given me.
These are the fruits of the Spirit of God. These are the fruits of the Book of Mormon.

Then Twain describes, with an eye single to humor, his visit to Brigham Young, a man who was “quiet, kindly, easy-mannered, dignified, [and] self-possessed,” who had “a gentle craft in his eye that probably belonged there.” Twain says he kept trying to draw out President Young on government, politics, and Congress, but the President ignored him, and Twain “subsided into an indignant silence.” At the end of the interview, claims Twain, Brigham “put his hand on [Twain’s] head, beamed down on [him] in an admiring way and said to [Twain’s] brother: ‘Ah—your child, I presume? Boy or girl?’” An excellent rejoinder—even if it isn’t true.

My father was the great-grandson of Charles Shumway, the first convert to the Church in our family. The missionaries found him living in the state of Wisconsin and shared the gospel with him. He was so happy that the next day, when he went to the sawmill where he worked, he told his coworkers what the missionaries had told him. One big man did not agree with his message and beat him up. He crawled back home, wounded.
When he had healed, he told his family, “I have to go find out if Joseph Smith really exists and if there really is such a thing as a prophet, like those missionaries told me.” He traveled to Nauvoo, and when he got there, yes sir, there was a prophet.
He returned home for his wife and family, headed toward the Mississippi River, built a raft, and floated back down to Nauvoo. For the rest of his life, he followed the prophet and tried to do exactly as he was directed. Under the direction of Brigham Young, he led the first company of Saints across the Mississippi after they were driven out of Nauvoo. He came into the Salt Lake Valley with Brigham Young on July 24, 1847. Later, President Young asked him to settle in Arizona. He did, and that’s where my family has stayed ever since. Thanks to my great-great-grandfather who accepted the gospel, my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my father, and I have all been active members of the Church.

Ricky lay sprawled across his checkered blue bedspread, scratching his curly brown head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me this year,” he muttered. It sure was different being in the Senior Peewee hockey league. Ricky had only scored two goals this year. Steve had made nineteen, and Kevin twelve.
Ricky had scored lots of time in the Junior Peewee league last year, but play was a lot rougher this year. The players checked each other a lot more and a lot harder. Ricky probably got the brunt of it because he was the smallest of the nine-year-olds—and all the ten-year-olds were bigger, of course. It sure was hard for him to get a breakaway with the puck.
Ricky heard the doorbell ring and ran downstairs to answer it. “Hi, Kev.”
“Want to come out and play road hockey with me?” Kevin asked.
“Sure!”
“I’ll play goalie first,” Kevin offered.
“Great!” Ricky exclaimed. “I need all the shooting practice I can get!”
Ricky ran toward Kevin, “deking” back and forth with his stick and the old tennis ball, trying to jockey his friend out of position. Although Kevin was good at defending the net, Ricky got the ball in several times.
“How come you don’t do that on the ice when we’re playing a real game?” Kevin asked.
“It’s a lot easier playing in rubber boots instead of skates,” answered Ricky. “Besides, at the arena all you big guys hog the puck.”
The next day Ricky hurried home from school and gulped down a couple of oatmeal cookies along with his milk.
“I really want to get a goal today,” he told his mother as he gathered his hockey equipment. “There are only two games left to play this season.”
The team always did lots of warm-up exercises before the game started. Ricky didn’t like the warm-ups. Even though he knew they helped him to be a better hockey player, he still liked the games best.
When the coach blew his whistle, the two teams hurried to their boxes. Ricky was on the Lions’ team, and today they were playing against the Royals. Ricky’s coach told the team members what positions to play and made sure that every boy had equal playing time.
The Lions played hard, but with just a little over a minute left in the game, the Royals were beating them 5–0. As the players fought over the puck, Ricky edged back so that he wouldn’t get hit. Kevin brushed by him and skated into the middle of the skirmish. He stole the puck and made a quick wrist shot. The puck skittered past the sprawling goalie into the net. Ricky wished he had done it.
The game ended with the Royals winning 5–1.
“You know what, Kev?” Ricky said on the way home. “I really wanted to get a goal today. I even prayed to Heavenly Father to please let me score. I thought for sure He would help me, but He didn’t.”
Kevin was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Maybe the Royals’ goalie and the other players asked Heavenly Father to help keep the puck out of the net.”
“I never thought about that,” Ricky said. “Well, we still have one game left on Friday.” When Friday finally came, Ricky was one of the first players on the ice. Every moment of playing time he got, Ricky was working just as hard at getting the puck from the other team as he was at passing and shooting. He didn’t just stay back and wait for a pass as he had done before. Not once was he able to get the puck into the other team’s net, but time after time he rescued the puck from in front of the Lions’ net.
When the final whistle blew, the Lions had won by one point. All the boys on the team let out a big cheer, but Ricky could hardly hide his disappointment at not having scored. His eyes burned as he headed for the dressing room to hand in his team shirt.
A few minutes later, however, he came out with his face beaming. “You know what Coach said to me?” he asked Kevin. “He said that I played my best game ever today! I may not have gotten a goal, but I did help the team win the game.”
“You sure did,” Kevin said as he ruffled Ricky’s hair. “Not letting the other team make a goal is as important as scoring any day—maybe even better.”
“Come on,” said Ricky. “Let’s go home and get out the old stick and tennis ball. Maybe I’ll be a defenseman next year.”

Let’s compare John’s experiences with those of a Latter-day Saint teenager named David.
In open defiance and rebellion against his father, David stole the family car. Succumbing to the excitement of high speed, he failed to negotiate a turn, rolled the car several times, and was critically injured. Fortunately, those who were riding with him received only minor injuries.
The family and ward members fasted and prayed for David’s recovery. He was given a special blessing by his home teachers and was visited often in the hospital. Even the other young men in the accident and their parents visited and expressed hope for his recovery. Although David was left somewhat crippled and scarred, he recovered and everyone thanked the Lord for preserving his life.

Raquel “Liriel” Domiciano was about to sing in front of millions of people. Was she worried about messing up? A little. Was she worried about what to wear? Naturally. But what worried her most?
Only 19 at the time, Liriel, a member of the Church for five years, wanted to stand as a witness “of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).
Liriel was about to perform in Brazil’s largest televised talent competition, the Raul Gil Amateur Show. She had been told she couldn’t say anything about her religion. But she knew that many of Brazil’s Latter-day Saints would be watching, and she wanted everyone to know she wasn’t ashamed of the gospel. After praying in her room before her first performance, she looked up and saw her Young Women medallion. It was the answer she had been looking for.
Liriel wore her medallion during every level of the competition. Eventually she and her partner, tenor Rinaldo Viana, won the contest, signed a recording contract, and watched as their first CD became the second-highest classical best-seller in Brazil’s history, with more than one million copies sold.
Almost overnight, Liriel and Rinaldo were a huge hit. But Liriel’s success is based on years of preparation, during which she trained herself as a lyric soprano. She credits her participation in the Young Women program with preparing her for life.
Wearing the medallion as she performed was her way of letting people know she was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and willing to stand as a witness, even in front of millions.

Mark Ray of Tempe, Arizona, says many of his friends aren’t LDS, but he doesn’t see that as a problem.
“I think it’s all right to have nonmember friends, but we must not be overly influenced by them. I do lots of things with nonmembers, but I don’t compromise my standards.
“Once I was on a school biology trip to California with some kids I knew. That night, when we got to the hotel room, they broke out some beer. I said, ‘No thanks,’ and just sat around. I felt kind of dumb at first, but they didn’t push it.
“Most of my friends know I’m a Mormon, so that saves me from saying no very often. They already know my standards.”

Brother Thamas, a thin elderly man, sat by himself, often some distance from the other members who gathered to greet each other at the beginning of our Sunday meetings. His was a small figure, humble in appearance. He had been recently baptized and had no family. His Spanish, although understandable, was a mixture of Portuguese, French, German, English, and his native Hungarian. In brief conversations with those members who tried to fellowship him, he spoke of faraway Hungary.
One day the bishop asked him to speak for a few minutes in sacrament meeting. He was surprised but accepted. We too were surprised to hear his name announced. We prepared ourselves for a brief and simple testimony.
But once he stood at the pulpit, this brother’s appearance was transformed in a most remarkable manner, and he immediately captured our attention. His posture became erect, almost military, although he wore no uniform or medals. His manner was that of a soldier—old, but proud. Slowly but confidently he began his compelling story.
During World War II he had served in an infantry battalion in an area where constant combat covered the earth with blood, pain, and death. His squad was commanded by a sergeant who had earned the hatred of his men through extraordinary harshness. One terrible night a mortar shell exploded not far from the sergeant, critically wounding him. The commanding officer stopped a dilapidated truck that often passed by to pick up the wounded and dying and take them behind the lines to be cared for or buried.
The squad watched the fate of their dying leader from a distance. Not one went to help him. The officer asked for a volunteer to carry the man to the truck and accompany him behind the lines. No one volunteered.
Then, after something of a pause, Brother Thamas stepped forward. “Moved by compassion,” he told us, “I decided to carry the unfortunate fellow and go with him on his trip. I took care of him the best I could during his long and painful ride.
“I returned later in search of my squad. When I reached the front, I learned that fierce bombardment had wiped out a large number of men on the awful night of my departure. Not one man from my squad had survived apart from myself. And then I understood. I thanked God for having moved me to compassion. He saved my life and gave me a chance to hear the restored gospel.”
Our simple affection for a bent old man changed to appreciation, admiration, and gratitude for his having shared an example of the pure love of Christ.