Gospel Story Finder

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.

There was a young couple who found themselves deeply in love with each other, or so they thought. He was not living the standards, and they decided they would not at that time qualify for a temple recommend. Their marriage was a civil one when it could have been an eternal one. The years passed and children graced their home. There was no religious activity and little spiritual comfort when death stalked the premises and the marriage and sweet family relationships were terminated by the grim reaper.

There have been those who have finally found great joy in the gospel after having resisted it for years. Invariably they have said, “All these years we’ve spurned the missionaries. Why didn’t we listen sooner? We could have had many years more of the happiness we now enjoy.”

I remember how the shrill scream of a siren excited me whenever an ambulance went rushing by. Oh, how I wanted to be at the wheel of that machine, rushing to the aid of sick and injured people. As I grew older, my dream became a reality. I took first-aid classes, human science classes, and finally, an emergency medical technician training course that would make my dream come true.
I was just out of high school when I got my first job as an ambulance attendant for a private ambulance company. I had many opportunities open up for me at such a young age, and I progressed rapidly in my knowledge of emergency treatments. I learned many things about life that most people never learn until later. I was also exposed to many trials and temptations that I’d never come across before.
I worked in a non-Mormon atmosphere. It was the type of atmosphere that my church leaders always had warned me about, but at the time, I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about it. My work began conflicting with my church attendance. I started asking myself questions and often wondered about my future. I could see myself progressing into higher fields of medicine, and it seemed that nothing stood in my way. Then, on my nineteenth birthday, I made my way to California and applied to a hospital paramedic program. I was accepted, and could enter in the fall semester. I knew then that was exactly what I wanted to do.
Suddenly all thoughts of going on a mission left my mind. It was as if the decision not to go had already been made. Oh, sure, I always told my friends and family that I would go. I even told my employer I was planning on a mission. But all of that seemed unimportant now. All I could see was personal satisfaction, and I didn’t care what kind of spiritual development I’d miss. The voice of the prophet still echoed in my mind, “Every young man is to fulfill a mission.” But the thought always came back, “In two years’ time, look how far you could be as a paramedic.”
I didn’t know what to do! I knew deep down in my heart that a mission was the right thing, but I was blinded by worldly greed. The decision to go or not to go was constantly on my mind. I thought about it from the time I got up until the time I went to bed at night. Because we worked 24-hour shifts, I had lots of time to think.
One night right after I had gone to bed, I was awakened by the ring of the telephone. The highway patrol was calling for an ambulance to respond to a car-truck accident on the freeway, and soon I was at the scene of a two-car accident. A small car had run into the back of a large truck loaded with wooden fence posts. The badly mangled car had two occupants—a young couple that had recently been married. The husband, who was driving, had been killed instantly. His wife was critically injured. We worked desperately to save the slowly fading life of that beautiful nineteen-year-old woman. I thought to myself, How could something so terrible happen to this fine couple and totally destroy their future plans and happiness?
We rushed her to the hospital, where a team of highly trained doctors and nurses were waiting. Soon a helicopter arrived to transport her to a hospital in Salt Lake City, where she could receive special treatment for a severe head injury.
After I calmed down from the shock of such a terrible accident, I remembered talking to the highway patrolman who would be responsible for notifying the next of kin. I’ll never forget the solemn look on his face, and the glaze of tears in his eyes as he drove away. I thought to myself, What a horrible assignment! What if they were my parents being notified? Then another thought came to my mind: What will be the look on my face when I give an accounting to the Savior of the time I spent here in mortality?
The night air was chilled with a late frost. As I gazed up into the night, I noticed how clear and calm the sky looked. Tears ran freely down my cheeks, and I found myself pleading with the Lord for that young woman’s life. At that moment, when my heart actually seemed to swell painfully with love and compassion, I finally began to understand. Doctors and nurses and paramedics were wonderful, but they could only treat the body. They couldn’t heal the deeper wounds, the ones that would keep us from going home to our Father. Only one Physician could do that, and I was denying myself the chance to be his helper. I made a decision. I would do all I could to further the work of the Master Healer. I would serve a mission!
The days came and went. Finally, one month later, I learned my prayers had been answered. The young woman was released from the hospital, completely recovered. How I thanked our Eternal Father for that answer. But now came the biggest step of all, my mission.
As I prayed and prepared myself, the Spirit confirmed the fact that I was to serve my Heavenly Father in the mission field. I’ll never forget that calm, sweet feeling that came as the words fell from the lips of our stake patriarch, when he pronounced that blessing upon me. And I’ll never forget that same feeling as I opened the letter from a prophet of God, calling me to serve in the Pennsylvania Harrisburg Mission. Even as I served in Pennsylvania, as a representative of Jesus Christ, I had that special calm feeling, knowing that I had made the right choice.
Before I left for the mission field, I thought there was no feeling in the world like knowing someone was walking again because of your help, but I was wrong. There is no greater feeling in the world than knowing you helped someone in their search for true joy and happiness found in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I know this church is true with all my heart! I know that God lives, that he hears and answers prayers. I know that Jesus is the Christ, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is his church on the earth. My mission sealed those facts in my heart in a way no ambulance run ever could.

Each night as we tucked our children into bed, we confidently told them yes, our family was going to go to the temple. As the time drew closer, we were able to give them a specific date.

On April 17, 1998, about six months after that life-changing day in our bishop’s office, John and I knelt at the altar of the Dallas Texas Temple with our five children. Many friends from our ward attended, and through their support I realized how eager they were for us to enjoy the blessings they knew in their own families. Without question, our sealing has been the single most important event in our life.

To my husband and me, the effects of our sealing seemed very tangible. For instance, we noticed a change in the atmosphere in our home, particularly in our children. They seemed more obedient, and while they weren’t perfect, they did consistently strive to make good choices and follow the commandments. We experienced an increase in family unity too.

Being brought up in the Church, I was always told by my friends and family that this was the true church. I never really denied it, but I never really bothered to find out for myself either. I just assumed it was true because everything pretty much made sense and my parents and everyone else seemed so sincere about it.
I had always planned to go on a mission, partially because I felt I was expected to and also because I felt I needed to. After I had received my mission call and before I was about to enter the Missionary Training Center, I really began to think and wonder about the truthfulness of the Church. I had never prayed to my Heavenly Father about knowing the truth, and now I was so close to going on my mission I felt I didn’t have the courage to ask. It was as if I was denying the truth.
When I entered the MTC, I did so with high spirits and was happy to be there. I was enjoying the knowledge I was gaining, but in the back of my mind the thought still lingered. I needed to know for myself if the gospel was true, but I continued to push the thought farther back in my head.
One day my teacher finished giving a great lesson. He then bore his testimony and challenged each of us to find out and pray for ourselves. I was almost in shock, feeling the lesson was aimed specifically at me. That night after our companionship prayer, I knelt down and asked Heavenly Father to help me know that what I was doing was right and that the Church was true.
I finished my prayer and waited and waited. Feeling nothing, I became discouraged and went to bed.
A couple of days later, I was doing my daily scripture study when I came across this scripture: “Verily I say unto you my friends, fear not, let your hearts be comforted; yea, rejoice evermore, and in everything give thanks;
“Waiting patiently on the Lord, for your prayers have entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth, and are recorded with this seal and testament—the Lord hath sworn and decreed that they shall be granted.
“Therefore, he giveth this promise unto you, with an immutable covenant that they shall be fulfilled; and all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory, saith the Lord” (D&C 98:1–3).
These verses really helped me understand the need for patience. A few days later at a fireside, we were talking about our prophets. I’m not the emotional type, but I’ll never forget that night. The Spirit was so strong in the room, and it was the first time I had ever felt the Spirit so strongly. Toward the conclusion, all the missionaries stood and sang “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet.” While we were singing, they had a movie on the screen showing pictures of the prophets. I was overwhelmed, choked up, and warm inside. I knew the Holy Ghost was testifying to me the truth, and that the prophet was leading the true Church.
I recently returned from serving my mission in the Tucson Arizona Mission. I am so grateful for that special day in the MTC. I realized it’s never too late or early to pray about the truth. I learned patience while also learning the Lord will answer our prayers.

I used to wear my headphones throughout the day, listening to music or YouTube. I wore them while eating dinner sometimes, insisting to my parents that I could still hear them. I noticed people wearing them during youth activities and thought maybe I should too. But I soon noticed that I was spending way too much time on my headphones and phone and not enough time on important things.
I didn’t want to put my headphones before Jesus Christ. I knew I needed to make a change. Instead of listening to random music in the morning, I listened to the youth song “I Am a Disciple of Christ” while reading my scriptures. As the singer bore testimony about Christ, I felt my testimony grow. I noticed I felt happier, and my relationship with Christ grew stronger. The lyrics often stayed with me throughout the day, reminding me to act and be a disciple of Christ.
While I didn’t fully take my headphones out of my day, I started wearing them less. By changing my unhealthy habit, I was able to put Jesus Christ first.
I know that even changing something as small as an unhealthy headphone habit can draw you closer to Christ.

Several years ago, my family and I decided to hike a mountain trail in Iceland to see a famous waterfall. We had never been on this mountain. We were uncertain about the trail, and we are not experienced hikers.
We watched others start up the trail and followed. Soon, they were out of sight, and so was the trail. We looked carefully and noticed piles of intentionally placed rocks, called cairns, at regular intervals marking the path to the waterfall. We became confident that if we could find the cairns, they would lead us to the waterfall.
Patches of ground near the trail featured white, fluffy cotton grass,1 which grows in marshy terrain. Stepping into the cotton grass always left us with muddy, water-filled shoes. We learned that the cotton grass marked a path we did not want to follow.
The trail was not easy. Sometimes it was steep, and we became tired. But we persisted, paying careful attention to the cairns and avoiding the cotton grass. Finally our efforts were rewarded. We reached the magnificent waterfall and enjoyed the view from the mountaintop and the refreshment of the water.
As we trekked down the mountain, we saw dangers we had not seen before. The cairns had helped us avoid deep pools of water and steep cliffs. We were grateful those cairns led us safely to our goal.
On our summer hike, we were free to choose a different path to the top of the mountain, but a different path might not have, and likely would not have, led to the waterfall. We could have been delayed because we were stuck in the mud, been stymied by dangerous cliffs, or given up because of tiredness. Staying on the path provided the most direct and sure route to our destination.

Lorenzo Snow was one of the few early Church leaders who had an opportunity for formal college training. Young Lorenzo attended Oberlin College, a Presbyterian college with a national reputation for its progressiveness. It was one of the first American colleges to admit young women equally with young men. In 1830, a group of prominent young men who had banded together to oppose slavery moved as a group to Oberlin. In 1836, they persuaded Charles Finney, a prominent minister, to come to Oberlin as professor of theology. All of this happened about the time Lorenzo Snow attended school there.
Lorenzo went to Oberlin, “full of worldly aspirations, with bright prospects and means to gratify my ambition in acquiring a liberal college education.” Coming from a wealthy family, he had many friends and relatives who watched eagerly for him to achieve high honors in life. One of his acquaintances, William McKinley, later became president of the United States. Lorenzo was expected, as were all respectable young men of his day, to develop a certain degree of piety and concern for religious matters. Yet, as he observed happenings around the campus, he wrote to his sister, Eliza, “If there is nothing better than is to be found here at Oberlin College, goodbye to all religion.”
Eliza, always close to her brother, had worried about him because of his interest in military affairs. Born in 1814, at the end of America’s “second war of independence” and during the Napoleonic era, Lorenzo had been attracted by the glamour of a soldier’s life. Eliza had always worried that her brother’s life would be cut short on some foreign battlefield. Her mind, however, had been turned to religious matters. She, along with her mother and sister, had joined the Church and moved to Kirtland, Ohio, while Lorenzo was at Oberlin. Sensing that he, too, might find satisfaction in the gospel, Eliza watched for an opportunity to bring Lorenzo to Kirtland, where he might come to know the Prophet Joseph Smith and be influenced by him.
Lorenzo had met Joseph Smith briefly in 1831 in Hiram, Ohio, and felt that the Prophet was “honest and sincere.” At that time, he said, “A light arose in my understanding which has never been extinguished.” Later, while studying at Oberlin, Lorenzo met David W. Patten, an Apostle, and discussed the gospel further with him. As a result, he began to argue in defense of the Church—and fell out of favor with students and professors at the college.
In the early days of American education, every respectable scholar was required to learn Hebrew and Greek. In 1836, Joseph Smith and other Church leaders in Kirtland, Ohio, had organized the School of the Prophets and had employed a Hebrew scholar, Dr. Joshua Seixas, to teach there. Lorenzo had just completed his study of classical languages at Oberlin but had not as yet mastered Hebrew; so Eliza invited her younger brother to come to Kirtland and study Hebrew. He accepted. Lorenzo probably never dreamed what a change would be effected in his life by his journey to Kirtland.
In Kirtland, Lorenzo was deeply impressed by Joseph Smith, Sr., the Patriarch of the Church and father of the Prophet. Still wrestling with his pride and worldly ambitions, Lorenzo found himself caught in a spiritual struggle. He listened to the Prophet as he spoke on occasion, “filled with the Holy Ghost, speaking as with the voice of an archangel and filled with the power of God.” The Prophet’s face lightened until it appeared as “the whiteness of the driven snow.”
Lorenzo’s soul responded—but his mind held back. What would it mean to his friends and relatives who were anticipating a brilliant future for him if he were to “disappoint those expectations and join the poor, ignorant, despised ‘Mormons,’” as they were then regarded?
Father Smith was sensitive to the problems of young Lorenzo and advised him on one occasion, “Don’t worry, take it calmly and the Lord will show you the truth of this great latter-day work, and you will want to be baptized.” This comment startled the young man, but as he continued to seek the Lord, the Patriarch’s promise was fulfilled. Lorenzo was baptized in 1836, at the age of twenty-two. Yet he still felt incomplete. He desired to have all doubt removed; he wanted a greater confirmation of the Spirit than he had previously received.

Mara loved making people smile. She made her schoolteacher smile when she raised her hand to ask questions. She made her sister, Marcella, smile when she said nice things to her.
Then Mara would smile too. It felt good to help other people be happy.
But there was one time each week when Mara hardly ever smiled. That time was early Sunday morning. That’s when Mara and Marcella were always the most tired. Rushing around to get ready for church made them extra grumpy. Then there was the long walk to church. It was more than a mile away! Mara and Marcella often got there late. They would miss the first part of Primary.
“We miss you when you’re not here on time,” Sister Lima said one day. She was the Primary president of their ward in Brazil.
Mara knew she should get to church on time. But how? Then Mara got an idea. The next Saturday night, Mara decided to try something new.
Instead of sneaking bedtime snacks after dinner, Mara brushed her teeth. Most days Mama had to remind the girls to turn off the TV and go to bed. Even then they would play and whisper under their covers until late at night. Sometimes they stayed up so long they could hardly keep their eyes open. They had to wiggle to keep from falling asleep.
Tonight Mara put on pajamas and hopped right into bed. Mama didn’t even have to remind her. She started looking at the pictures in the front of her Book of Mormon.
“What are you doing?” Marcella asked.
“A test,” Mara said. Her mind was full of happy thoughts. Plus she was already feeling sleepy.
The next thing Mara knew, the sun was peeking through her window. It was almost time to get ready for church. Instead of feeling yucky, Mara felt great. Her head didn’t feel fuzzy. Her body didn’t feel tired.
She got to Primary even before some of the leaders.
“Thank you for being such a good example to the other children,” Sister Lima said.
Now it was Mara’s turn to smile. She decided she would always go to bed early on Saturday. That way she would be able to spread smiles all Sunday long.

A few weeks ago at a fast and testimony meeting at our ward, I watched a little boy on the back row mustering up courage to bear his testimony. He made three or four false starts and then sat down. Finally it was his turn. He squared his little shoulders, walked bravely up the aisle to the stand, took the two steps up to the level of the pulpit, stepped over and put his hands on the pulpit, gazed into the congregation, smiled—and then turned around, went back off those two steps and down the same aisle to his mother and father. I looked at you tonight in this vast Conference Center and thought of those listening in and could appreciate more fully the actions of that little boy.

When I heard that Mama, Papa, and I were going to California with a whole shipload of Latter-day Saints, I was excited and couldn’t wait for the trip to begin. The minute I saw the Brooklyn anchored in the East River, my heart started banging in my chest. Everything a company could possibly need in a new settlement was lugged on board and stowed in the hold.
On Wednesday, February 4, 1846, after several delays, the ship was finally ready to leave New York. We waved good-bye to the friends and relatives who had gathered on the dock, and were soon on our way on the cold, gray, rough Atlantic Ocean.
No one had warned me that I might be seasick, and I never imagined that someone could die at sea! A raging storm was the farthest thing from my mind—but the terrors of the trip started right away.
One morning, Papa and I watched from the deck as the sky darkened and a strong gust of wind whipped by. Seamen suddenly appeared on the run, shouting instructions to each other. They scrambled up the masts and began taking down the sails. The captain came out of his cabin and told all passengers to go below. “We might be in for a bit of a blow,” he said. “You’ll be safer in your rooms.”
We lurched along, fighting to stay upright. I’d just eaten breakfast, and my stomach felt squeamish.
When we got to the cabin, Mama had already climbed into the bunk and was hanging on so tightly that her knuckles were white. Our belongings had been tossed into a tangled heap on the floor. The furniture slid in one direction, then another, mashing things together as the ship tipped back and forth in the rough water.
Something was banging up on the deck.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“They’re battening down the hatches,” Papa said.
“Battening?”
“Fastening canvas across the stairways by nailing on narrow strips of wood called battens.”
“You mean they’re nailing us in?” I felt all smothery just thinking about it. I never could stand to be in tight places. The thudding of the hammers overhead made me feel as if I were in a coffin with the lid being nailed down. “How can we get out?” I shouted in a panic.
“We can’t,” Papa answered, pushing me into the bottom berth just before a heavy chest skidded into me, “but the water can’t get in, either. That’s the idea.”
“What if I get sick?” I felt more and more like I was going to every minute.
“There’s the chamber pot,” Mama said.
“They’ll probably leave the hatchway to the captain’s cabin open,” Papa said. “He may need to come down for some reason, and it’s not exposed to the storm like the ones on the deck.”
Even though I knew that the captain’s hatchway was not for the use of the passengers, I felt better knowing that there was a possible way to get out.
All the lamps were extinguished except two in the hall. I hated the darkness.
The dim lights flickered as the tempest blustered and roared. I heard thundering thumps as huge waves crashed over the deck. I felt each upward thrust as the Brooklyn was lifted high on the surging crests. My breath was sucked out of me just as if I’d been punched in the stomach when the ship then dropped deep into the following yawning troughs of the wild and angry sea. The tired timbers of the old ship groaned and creaked as if they were splitting apart.
Babies screamed. Children cried out. The sick groaned for help. Mothers soothed and sang or joked or scolded. Men’s voices could be heard above the others, some impatient, some comforting.
“Don’t forget,” one brother said reverently, “that Jesus Christ stilled the storm on the Sea of Galilee.” We prayed and sang hymns—louder and louder as the storm’s fury increased.
The fire in the stove had been doused, so no food could be cooked. It didn’t matter—no one on that rocking, rolling ship wanted to eat, anyway. Almost everyone was seasick.
The storm raged and roared all day. When night came, Papa tied us in our berths so that we wouldn’t be tossed about like beans in a bag. I slept little, hoping and praying for the storm to end. It didn’t. It got worse.
By morning, water was outside our door.
“How’d it get here?” I asked Papa.
“It must have come down the captain’s hatchway. It either washed through his cabin—or his cabin’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“A storm like this could shatter it or sweep it right off the deck.”
“The captain too?”
“It’s possible,” Papa said. “But I doubt it.”
“Neither my cabin nor I have been swept away yet, lad,” Captain Richardson said, appearing behind Papa, “but I’m here to speak seriously to all the passengers.”
The singing stopped immediately.
“My friends,” he began, “there is a time in every man’s life when it is fitting that he should prepare to die. That time has come to us, for unless God interposes, we shall all go to the bottom. I have done all in my power, but this is the worst gale I have ever known since I have been master of a ship.”
One man replied, “Captain Richardson, we were sent to California. We shall get there.”
Another said, “Captain, I have no more fear than though we were on solid land.”
The captain shook his head in disbelief at their calmness. As he left, he muttered, “They are either fools and fear nothing, or they know more than I do.”
The wind-driven sea continued to lash and crash against the ship for four terrifying days. The foul air below was almost unbearable. “I can’t breathe,” I gasped, and Papa braved the dangers to take me up the only open hatchway.
We met the captain on the deck and watched the spars whip dangerously as the ship rolled on the rough sea. Then a Baptist—the captain—and two Mormons—Papa and I—prayed together for the safety of the ship.
The storm ended. The Brooklyn had survived the first terrifying trial of the voyage. But the Atlantic adventures were just beginning!
(To be continued)

When I turned 18, a lot of members in my ward and stake began telling me I should go on a mission. Even though I had always planned to serve a mission, I didn’t like all the pressure.
Soon I began my first year of college. As a result of hard work, I won a scholarship that allowed me to study in Germany. Germany was very different from my native country, Mexico, but I became immersed in the culture and learned the language quickly.
Eventually I was offered a permanent job at a prestigious European company. Serving a mission suddenly felt more like a duty than a desire. I thought that I could take this job and enjoy worldly success.
One snowy day I traveled to the city of Heidelberg with my friend Melanie. After several hours, the highway was covered with snow, and we became sleepy. We were driving around 65 miles (105 km) per hour when we passed through a red light and hit a bus.
When I woke up, I saw the police, the ambulance, and Melanie, who was crying. The car was destroyed, and I was still in it. Tears came to my eyes when I realized how blessed we were to be alive. I began praying and thanking my Heavenly Father for letting us survive, but a new fear came to me—I was not able to move my legs.
On our way to the hospital, I heard the nurses saying that if I had a spinal injury, I probably wouldn’t be able to walk again. I prayed with all my heart to my Heavenly Father. First I thanked Him again for letting me survive, realizing that my life was not my own. Then I promised Him, “If my legs are OK and I can walk, I will serve a mission with all my heart and mind.”
After four hours at the hospital, my diagnosis was promising: I would walk again. I no longer had any hesitation about serving a mission. Instead I felt a strong desire to share my testimony that God lives, that He is our Father in Heaven, and that He can perform miracles in our lives.
After that experience I decided not to take the job I’d been offered. I knew that my time and everything I have belong to the Lord. Why shouldn’t I give Him a little of that time and serve Him for two years?
After graduating, I was called to serve in Frankfurt, Germany. During my mission I testified of my Heavenly Father. I know that He lives, that He is my Father, and that He protects me. He has given me my life, and it will always belong to Him.

The glacier glows from deep within, pulling scarce light from a gray day and turning it an eerie blue. Mostly, the glacier is dirty white. But from parts of the vertical face comes faint, cold blue fire. “Ice blue” is a real color.
At the glacier’s foot a shallow lake of ice melt is dotted with an occasional miniature iceberg. A stream of glacial water tumbles into the lake with a distant, dull rumble. It’s the only sound you hear until—
Splash! “Whoop!” Someone has just jumped into the lake. Or fallen. Or been pulled. Youth of the Juneau Alaska District are holding their annual games on the sandy shore. Relays rage back and forth across a shallow inlet. Put on hip boots, wade-run through thigh-high ice water, take off the boots and hand them to a teammate for the return trip. Splash! Someone else has tried to run too fast. Again, a sharp intake of breath and “whoop!”
Soon, a stout rope is drawn across the same inlet and the teams take sides, muscles straining, heels dug into the sand. Rhythmic chants of “pull … pull … pull” echo across the lake. Inch by inch the losing team is drawn toward the incredibly cold water.
Incredibly, too, some of the youth who didn’t get wet in the relay or tug-of-war give berserk yells and wade into the bone-chilling water for the sheer daring of it. Afterward, when everyone has dried off and is back at the chapel warming up, the kids explain. It’s not insanity, just enthusiasm.
Juneau is Alaska’s capital, beautiful and interesting but a challenging place to live. There are no highways to other major cities. To get to the rest of Alaska—and the rest of the world—you either fly or you load the family car on a ferry boat. Both are expensive, so you try to find most of your fun close to home—like the Mendenhall Glacier just a few minutes from town.
Close to home there’s plenty of cold and snow in winter, lots of clouds and rain the rest of the time—more than 100 inches of precipitation a year. So, the young women just plan their camps by the calendar, not by the weather forecasts. If you let the probability of rain stop you, next thing you know, you could start worrying about the possibility of bears. Instead, you take along rain gear and a few armed priesthood brethren. And you go enjoy camp.
School football and soccer games are rarely canceled for rain. Baseball is often played under conditions that would be a “rain-out” in the lower 48 states. In a climate like this, trees grow tall, roofs grow moss, and these LDS kids have grown an attitude that seems to say, “No matter where you live—live. Jump into life with both feet.”
No, the rope’s not for the weatherman. We’re still on the subject of jumping. Carly Perkins and Shannon Orme are members of the Juneau Jumpers, one of the largest rope jumping teams in the world. “It’s about the only thing we can do that’s indoors and doesn’t cost much,” explains Carly. “And since it’s always raining, it’s something to pass the time.”
But what a way to pass the time! According to Shannon, 10 minutes of rope jumping equals about 20 minutes of jogging. “If we didn’t keep the Word of Wisdom, we really wouldn’t we able to do this,” she adds. Qualifying for the “double unders”—two passes of the rope on each jump—requires doing 200 in a row without a mistake. Then there are the “quadruple unders” … !
Add complicated routines with multiple ropes and jumpers, and you can see that competition rope jumping is as different from the schoolyard variety of rope jumping as the Monte Carlo Grand Prix is from driving school. So who teaches all of this? Sure, there are adult coaches, but it’s the team members themselves who train new candidates for the team and literally teach each other the ropes. You work with another team member to qualify for new routines. “Even freestyle, we have to do it with someone else so they learn it too,” Shannon says. “You learn to get along with pretty much everybody,” adds Carly. There’s no “king-of-the-hill” mentality on this team. You only progress and go on the road trips by being willing to help others reach your own level of accomplishment.
That’s a lot like the attitude you find among the LDS youth of Juneau, Alaska. For example, at the lake and at the chapel afterward was a fellow student who was being friendshipped by some of the LDS kids. Having seen them in action, she announced that she was ready to talk to the missionaries. You know that when she does talk to the missionaries, she’s going to have a big team backing her up and teaching her the ropes. Around here, they don’t just jump into life with both feet. They like to take a friend along.
Sometimes the world can seem like a pretty cold place. But LDS kids in Juneau have learned that if you jump in with both feet—and help someone else do the same—life can be great no matter where you live.

President Wilford Woodruff recorded more about that incident. He wrote: “On Sunday night the Prophet called on all who held the Priesthood to gather into the little log school house they had there. It was a small house, perhaps 14 feet square. But it held the whole of the priesthood of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who were then in the town of Kirtland. … When we got together the Prophet called upon the Elders of Israel with him to bear testimony of this work. … When they got through the Prophet said, ‘Brethren I have been very much edified and instructed in your testimonies here tonight. But I want to say to you before the Lord, that you know no more concerning the destinies of this Church and kingdom than a babe upon its mother’s lap. You don’t comprehend it. … [It] will fill North and South America—it will fill the world.’” (In Conference Report, 6 April 1898, page 57.)

About a year after my husband and I were married, my youngest brother’s three daughters came to live with us. My husband’s youngest sister and a girlfriend of mine also asked if they could stay with us for a while, and since we didn’t have any children, we welcomed all of them. Suddenly we were no longer just a couple; we were a large family.
Prior to this time, my husband and I were not too serious about holding home evenings because it was just the two of us, but with the new additions to our family, we decided to implement the program earnestly in our home.
From our first family home evening together, our Mondays were never the same, nor will our lives be the same, because of those wonderful experiences. Our usually quiet home started to be filled with music. The children who couldn’t read started to learn and developed a love for it. Those who were shy and hesitant to accept assignments developed confidence and showed eagerness to contribute, even volunteering to do special presentations. There was excitement throughout the week as everyone talked about what we had done the previous Monday night and what we were going to do the next one. Excitement would build as Monday neared and as family members were busy making preparations for their “big surprises.”
The promise of an exciting home evening even became a motivation for all to do their assigned household chores. Each home evening brought insights and discoveries that enriched our lives.
My nieces have since returned to their father, my sister-in-law has moved out on her own, and my girlfriend now lives in a dorm close to the school she’s attending. We’re back to being just a couple again. But we are still having those fun-filled, meaningful home evenings. Sometimes we invite other families to join us, and other times we take pleasure in just getting to know each other better, working out our problems together, and expressing our appreciation for each other. Our themes and activities continue to be simple and focused on meeting our needs.

Christopher’s heart was heavy as he walked slowly to the family car after Primary. Why does everyone but me hear the still, small voice? he wondered.
In fast and testimony meeting, Brother Johnson told of an experience he’d had while driving across a lonely stretch of highway. The still, small voice had told him to take a different route home, one that would add about ten miles to his trip. Although he had been eager to get back home from his business trip, he obeyed the prompting. On his detour, he came across a rollover accident. A young family had been traveling a long way to visit relatives. When the father, who was driving the car, fell asleep, the car had drifted too close to the side of the road and had rolled off a steep embankment. Brother Johnson was able to help the young family by calling for help on the phone he carried in his car and by administering first-aid to the father, who had some serious cuts and bruises.
Bishop Benson told how he had been prompted by the Holy Ghost to check on Sister Henderson during the week. Sister Henderson was a widow who lived about two miles up a dirt road off the main highway into town. When the bishop went to see her, he found that her furnace had broken down. She didn’t have a telephone and was no longer able to drive, so she had prayed to Heavenly Father for help. The still, small voice had told her that all would be well.
Later, Christopher’s Primary teacher, Sister Woolett, had given a lesson about the Holy Ghost. She told about when the still, small voice had warned her to check on her sleeping child. When she did, it appeared that everything was all right. But as she turned to leave, the voice again told her to check on her boy. This time she went over to the crib and looked more closely at him. There, next to him, was a large, jagged piece of glass. A framed picture that had been hanging above the crib had somehow fallen. Most of the glass and the frame had fallen behind the crib, but the large, jagged piece had fallen next to her sleeping son.
Sister Woolett also related an incident from the lesson manual about one of the prophets being warned of danger by the still, small voice.
Why can everyone hear the still, small voice but me? Christopher wondered again. He knew that following his baptism almost two years ago, he was given the gift of the Holy Ghost when he was confirmed. So why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me?
“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Melinda excitedly started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher just sadly stared at the floor of the car.
“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.
A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Melinda quit chattering.
“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as the car turned into the driveway.
Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”
Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know that the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.
“Listen, Son,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell that you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”
Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get into trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”
Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person who ever lived on the earth was Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”
“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.
“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember that good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain and after telling us the truth? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”
“It was?”
“Or how about the time when we were reading from the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was really talking about in the parable about the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”
“Wow! I never thought about it that way before!”
“And,” said Mom, “remember when you got lost in the shopping mall last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling letting you know what to do was also the Holy Ghost.”
Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him, even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I couldn’t remember it. Then I said a quick, little prayer, and suddenly my talk came back to me. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember things is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“Wow! Now I understand! All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!”

The noise of Harry rattling the door brought me back to the top of the World Trade Center. He was trying to gain access to the rooftop observation area, but it was locked and a sign said the wind was so strong no one would be allowed outside.
“Sorry,” he said. “That’s the best we can do.”
And I remembered again. I remembered his patience as he explained to me over and over the subway system the morning the group went to the Statue of Liberty, and finally how he said, “Just follow me and don’t get lost.”
I remembered the wind whipping over the bow of the ferry and the steamy cups of hot chocolate the young women shared back on the pier. I remembered stopping to read plaques at the statue and the young members’ feelings of pride in their country and in their hometown that were genuine and unpretentious.
And then I remembered interviewing some of the group in between meetings on Sunday. The young women’s lesson had been on developing a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. The young men had discussed morality. All of them had commented afterward about the influence the lessons exerted throughout the week.
“These activities and lessons keep us together,” Mary said. “We share our testimonies and they grow. We treat each other like brothers and sisters because we are.”
Mary Ann nodded agreement. “From my friends’ testimonies, I can build my testimony. They are a great influence on me.”
“The lessons help me keep my mind off things I shouldn’t think about,” Harry said. “I have a strong testimony of the gospel, and I know it’s good to be together with my friends in church. I need the recharge I get from being with them.”
“As you can see, we have a lot of fun together. We like each other a lot. But the neatest thing is that when I leave, I feel the Spirit coming with me, helping me choose wisely and do what’s right,” Mary Ann said.
“I’m glad to have friends who help me honor my priesthood,” Frank said. “When I carry the sacrament, I feel proud.”
And that made me think of a comment one of the adults made that same Sunday. “I admire these kids tremendously,” he said. “New York is beautiful and fun, but it’s also a difficult place to live righteously. There’s a lot of pressure on these kids from their friends not to follow the teachings of the prophets. I think they’re real heroes to live the gospel as they do.”
The group walked to the south side of the tower for one last look at the Statue of Liberty. One thought lingered in my mind. I was in the company of heroes. Real heroes, with a mission—to live and share the gospel with all of New York City. Somehow, in my heart, I knew they would be equal to the task.

Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared a childhood experience that impressed upon him the importance of a loving family. When he and his brothers were boys, their mother had radical cancer surgery that made it very painful for her to use her right arm. With a family of boys, there was a lot of ironing, but as his mother ironed, she often stopped and went into the bedroom to cry until the pain subsided.
When Elder Christofferson’s father realized what was happening, he secretly went without lunches for almost a year to save enough money to buy a machine that made ironing easier. Out of his love for his wife, he set an example of nurturing within families for his boys. Of this tender interaction, Elder Christofferson said, “I was not aware of my father’s sacrifice and act of love for my mother at the time, but now that I know, I say to myself, ‘There is a man.’”4

It was the start of a fine spring day in Spain in 1983, and the barracks felt more confining to me than usual. But I was looking forward to this day because in the midst of my one-year mandatory service in the Spanish military, I had been given a one-day leave. I took great care in dressing so no flaw in my uniform would prevent me from passing inspection and leaving. My plan was to take a military bus to the city of Burgos, meet my friend Ricardo, and spend the day with him.
I had no problems with the inspection, and soon I met Ricardo, who was waiting with his car in Burgos. To my surprise, he had brought along a mutual friend, a young woman named Mari Carmen. I had first met Mari Carmen while she was serving as a missionary in Galicia, the region of Spain I am from. I was delighted to see her again, and the three of us decided to spend the day at a nearby park.
Ricardo parked his car at a quiet spot on the banks of the Arlanzón River, and we talked about our lives and the experiences we were having. I told them that the army had really put me to the test, spiritually speaking. Despite some pressure, I was keeping the commandments. But I felt bad that I was not able to exercise the Melchizedek Priesthood, which I hold, because there were no opportunities to do so. At times I had even wondered if I was still worthy of those divine powers.
Mari Carmen told us that she, too, was having a difficult time. She was seeing a man who had asked her to marry him, and she felt overwhelmed with the importance of making the right decision.
When the day drew to a close, Mari Carmen asked me if I would give her a priesthood blessing for additional strength and guidance. I was surprised at her request and also apprehensive. I did not feel prepared to give her a blessing, nor did I feel I could give her the help she needed. But at her insistence I decided I would try.
We went back to the car, and Mari Carmen sat in the front while Ricardo and I sat in the back. I asked Ricardo to say a prayer first so the Spirit would inspire my words and the power of the priesthood would be in my hands. His prayer immediately brought me a feeling of peace, and my fears vanished.
Then, assured that we were in a quiet place and would not be observed or disturbed, I placed my hands on Mari Carmen’s head. As I began to speak, words of comfort and encouragement came abundantly to my lips. I have never been able to remember exactly what I said, but when I finished, my heart was filled with emotion and Mari Carmen’s face was bathed in tears. She told me the things I had said were exactly what she needed to hear. She now felt she could make a correct decision concerning the marriage proposal.
Ricardo quickly moved into the driver’s seat so he could get me back to the bus stop on time. Before I knew it, I was saying good-bye to my friends and boarding a dirty military bus. But even the marked contrast in environment could not erase the feeling that had come over me—the assurance that the Lord blesses people by the power of the priesthood. As I lay on my bunk that night, I again felt an overpowering sensation of peace pass through my being. I was grateful to my Father in Heaven for his confidence in me.
Seven or eight months later, my friend Ricardo was married, and I went to Madrid to attend his wedding. Mari Carmen, who had recently married the man she had told us about, was also there with her husband, Fernando. Fernando gripped my hand firmly and looked me in the eye. “I am so grateful,” he said, “that you were able to give a blessing to the person who is now my wife. Thank you very much.”
His words left a deep impression on me. I cannot imagine a greater privilege than acting in the name of the Lord to bless the lives of people like Mari Carmen and Fernando.

I remember one time Elder Charles A. Callis in a Council of the Twelve meeting. There was a rather spirited discussion on some questions. One of the Brethren said, “You had better listen to Brother George Albert Smith, the President of the Twelve, because he may be the next President of the Church.”
Brother Callis smiled and said, “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure. Three times in my life I have chosen the next President of the Church, and all three of them died before they came to the presidency.” The Lord only knows, and for us to speculate or to presume is not pleasing in the sight of the Lord.