Gospel Story Finder

Mandy’s giving the lesson at the Cooper family home evening.
… so if we listen, the Spirit can tell us if we’re doing something wrong and need to repent.
After the lesson …
Good lesson on repentance, Mandy.
Hey, I heard about a great new ice cream shop. Let’s go there for our treat. I don’t know that neighborhood very well, but the GPS I got for Christmas should get us there.
Cool!
Turn left onto Jackson Street.
I think I know this area after all. If we go past Jackson a couple more streets and then turn, we can avoid some traffic lights.
Uh-oh!
Turn around and proceed to Jackson Street. Then turn right.
Guess I should have listened to that little voice the first time. Well, I’ve listened now, and I can get back on the right track.
Thanks, Dad. You just acted out my repentance lesson!

Before I became president of the Church, I was assigned as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to visit some of the countries of South America for various gatherings with the Saints. We were received well by the countries, by their officials, and by the press.
I was interested in a comment made by a representative of one of the largest papers in Brazil. She had heard my sermon the day before, on Sunday, in which I had spoken rather strongly about the restoration of the gospel. She asked me why Christ was crucified.
I answered: “Because he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’”
And her next remark shocked me: “He should not have said it, should he? He really was not, was he?”
I thought she was joking. I looked into her eyes for a moment and thought she was going to smile. But she did not. And I said firmly: “He said he was the Son of God because he was the Son of God.”
Later I read an article in the Easter paper of one of the largest cities in South America. The author was a minister with letters after his name. I read the entire article and in the half a page given front page notice, he never mentioned the Lord of heaven and earth, the Redeemer, the Savior. He always spoke of “Jesus.” He quoted two or three scriptures which mentioned Jesus of Nazareth as being more than the carpenter’s son, but never in his writing did he ever give any other title to the Christ who shed his precious blood for him.
During the same trip, I asked 400 missionaries gathered in a meeting, “What think ye of Christ and the claims that are made?” And I heard 400 inspiring testimonies from youth—sure testimonies, ringing with conviction.
I am reminded of what Paul said: “And I, brethren, when I came to you, came not with excellency of speech or of wisdom, declaring unto you the testimony of God.
“For I determined not to know anything among you, save Jesus Christ, and him crucified” (1 Cor. 2:1–2).
I could not see how we could really celebrate an Easter without discussing the Lord Jesus Christ. Why even the devils know that Jesus is the Christ. On one occasion the devils came crying out and saying, “Thou art Christ the Son of God. And he rebuking them suffered them not to speak: for they knew that he was Christ” (Luke 4:41). On another occasion “the evil spirit answered and said, Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are ye?” (Acts 19:15). And another time, “they cried out saying, What have we to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of God? art thou come hither to torment us before the time?” (Matt. 8:29).
I believe that there was a considerable conviction in the heart of Pilate, who was constrained by his conscience to let the Savior go free, but because of political ambitions and other reasons, in spite of his wife’s importuning, he delivered him to be crucified. But even after that, he wrote on the cross in three languages—Hebrew, Greek, and Latin—this famous statement: “Jesus of Nazareth the King of the Jews.” The Jews, offended, came and said:
“Write not, The King of the Jews; but that he said, I am King of the Jews.
“Pilate answered, What I have written I have written” (see John 19:19–22).
You have read of Nathanael, the man without guile, who said, as he saw the Christ: “Rabbi, thou art the Son of God; thou art the King of Israel” (John 1:49).
Paul had hardly made his transformation, had just barely received back his sight from his unusual experience when he went straightway into the synagogues and preached Christ, “that he is the Son of God.”
Why will the divines of the day purposely avoid the names of the Deity whom they would choose to call only Jesus? There are tens of thousands of Jesuses in the world. In all the Spanish-speaking countries you find them on every hand. They pronounce it Ha-sús, but it is Jesus. But there was only one Jesus who became the Prince of Light, the Author of our salvation.
Joseph Smith said: “I had actually seen a light, and in the midst of that light I saw two Personages, and they did in reality speak to me; and though I was hated and persecuted for saying that I had seen a vision, yet it was true; and while they were persecuting me, reviling me, and speaking all manner of evil against me falsely for so saying, I was led to say in my heart: Why persecute me for telling the truth? I have actually seen a vision; and who am I that I can withstand God, or why does the world think to make me deny what I have actually seen? For I had seen a vision; I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it, neither dared I do it; at least I knew that by so doing I would offend God, and come under condemnation” (JS—H 1:25).
You remember what Peter said when the disciples were asked, “Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?” They spoke up and said men thought him to be Elias or one of the other prophets, and then the Lord said again, and I can imagine his piercing eyes, wondering and expectant eyes, “But whom say ye that I am?” And the answer was one of the most stirring and glorious of all statements made, “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And the next statement must never be overlooked: “Flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven” (see Matt. 16:13–17). In other words, man has not told you this, but my Father has revealed it unto thee; a great revelation has come unto thee, and thou knowest it.
I asked 400 missionaries the Lord’s question which faces every man, woman, and child on this earth: “Whom do ye say that I the Son of man am?” And I was gratified at the hundreds of replies saying “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.”
And that is my testimony to you, that Jesus is indeed the Christ, the living Son of the living God.

Boy Scouts from the Elk Grove First and Third wards of the Sacramento California South Stake organized an ice cave freeze-out, an event they hope to hold annually. The winter camp was held at the 7,000-foot level on Echo Summit between Sacramento and South Lake Tahoe.
The group backpacked two miles on snowshoes to the main campsite. There they were taught basic snow survival techniques and how to build several kinds of snow shelters by experienced leaders. These shelters served as sleeping places for the Scouts during the nights when temperatures dropped to 15°F.
The Scouts were surprised to find very little spare time for fun or horseplay as nearly every available minute was spent in preparing and serving food, building snow shelters, learning survival techniques, or just staying warm by the fire. The Scouts found that the Boy Scout motto, “Be Prepared,” is more than just a motto. They found that extensive planning and preparation were essential for a comfortable snow camping experience.

Mark Bennett from Camarillo, California, is not only into Russian, but has been into Russia as well. As a priest from the Camarillo First Ward, Camarillo California Stake, Mark was one of three high school students who participated with several college students in a four-week travel study program in Moscow and Kiev in the summer of 1977.
“We studied the language three hours each morning, and spent the afternoons visiting places of interest in Russia,” explained Mark. Because he was the only LDS participant, he conducted his own personal worship services on Sunday.
Mark’s firsthand experiences in the Soviet Union helped him earn the title of champion of the Southern California Regional Olympiad of Spoken Russian last February. A panel of teachers and professors asked contestants questions on everyday life in Russia, literature, culture, geography, and history. Participants were then given a half hour to prepare an oral summary of a story in Russian. After winning the Southern California title, Mark went on to place third in the Olympiad’s Pacific Coast regional competition in Seattle, Washington.
Mark, a 1978 graduate of Camarillo High School, is a freshman at Brigham Young University.

“When I was eleven, the Fourth of July was a real big event in Spanish Fork. World War II had begun, and the whole town was having a parade to send off the men who were leaving to serve in the war. The night before the Fourth I went outside to play. I sat on the porch, and my mother said, ‘You’re not going to go anywhere, are you?’ I said, ‘No, I’ll stay here.’
“Then my friend Mark came across the street and said, ‘I have a big box of firecrackers. Let’s go up to Janet’s and show the girls how to light them!’ I forgot that my mother had asked me to stay home. The only thought in my mind was to go up to Janet’s and light some firecrackers.
“We lighted all the firecrackers that would light, and the remainder we put in a cardboard box and set on fire. Mark and I were both burned in the resulting explosion. In fact, our faces, chests, hands, and arms were burned so severely that it didn’t look like we were going to make it.
“Sister Hill, Janet’s mother, came out when she heard the explosion, and she saw five kids on fire. Somehow the fires were put out, and she calmly took us into the house, knelt us down in the living room, and offered a prayer. Then she called the doctor, and we went down to Dr. Moody’s office.
“He operated on my face to put it back together. Before he started, I asked my father to give me a blessing. Dr. Moody was also an elder, so the two of them administered to me. My father said in the blessing that if I would have faith, the Lord would make me well. You have to remember that at that time my father was an alcoholic. But when he said that the Lord would make me well, I knew it was true.
“Then Dr. Moody began to work on me. I didn’t have any anesthetic because they were afraid of shock. into my mind came the words of one of my mother’s favorite hymns:
O how praying rests the weary!
Prayer will change the night to day;
So when life gets dark and dreary,
Don’t forget to pray.
(Hymns, no. 31.)
“I couldn’t speak, but I could hum. For the whole two and a half to three hours while the doctor was trying to fix my face, I hummed that hymn. When he was finished with me, I looked just like a mummy. My face and arms were all wrapped up with bandages. It appeared that I had lost the sight of one eye and severely damaged the other. My hands were as black as shoe leather, and they were hard and crinkled.
“All five of us were healed and back in school in the fall. Janet had a severely damaged finger, Mark had burns on his face, as I did, and on his arms, but we were all back in school. Someone in the ward had placed our names on the prayer roll in the temple. To Mother that was tantamount to saying, ‘Don’t worry, if your names are on the prayer roll in the temple, you can just count on being healed.’ And we were.”

I want to tell you of an incident that happened many years ago. Two of our sons, then little boys, were wrestling on the rug, and they had reached that line which separates laughter from tears. So I worked my foot carefully between them and lifted the older one back to a sitting position on the rug. As I did so, I said, “Hey there, you little monkeys. You’d better settle down.”
To my surprise he folded his little arms, his eyes swimming with deep hurt, and protested, “I not a monkey, Daddy, I a person!”
The years have not erased the overwhelming feeling of love I felt for my little sons. I was taught a profound lesson by my little boys. Many times over the years his words have slipped back into my mind, “I not a monkey, Daddy, I a person!” I was taught a profound lesson by my little boy.
Now the cycle of life has moved swiftly on, and both of those sons have little boys of their own, who teach their fathers lessons. They now watch their children grow as we watched them. They are coming to know something as fathers that they could not be taught as sons. Perhaps now they know how much their father loves them. Hopefully, they know as well why prayers begin “Our Father who art in heaven.”
All too soon their children will be grown with little “persons” of their own, repeating the endless cycle of life.

For me it had been a really rough week, and nothing had gone right. I had one thing after another just fall in on me. I got a D on a test in one of my favorite classes, and I had another test coming up in my worst class. Only two days before, I had gone to traffic court for a ticket I had received, and it cost me 25 dollars. But that wasn’t enough. During the same week I caught a bad cold and had to do push-ups for getting my fifth tardy in P.E.
It was just one thing after another all week. I kept asking myself what I was getting punished for, what I had done wrong.
When I finally got to school on Thursday (I was ten minutes late because of a flat tire), I received a call slip from my counselor, who informed me that all of my classes had been changed. That meant new classes, new lunch period, new teachers, new everything! That was the last straw. After third period I took off for home, and I decided I wasn’t coming back until next Monday.
That’s when it happened. On my way back home I was walking down the street when I noticed a person keeled over on the grass next to the curb. As I got closer, I saw it was a very old lady. She was just lying there, motionless. I thought, “That’s all I need—some old lady to die right in front of me.” So I just walked on. When I had gone a few yards I stopped and sort of turned my head to look. She was still lying there, motionless. I thought to myself, “Should I try to help her? I have enough troubles. Let someone else help her.” So I walked on.
Then I stopped again, and the first good thought I had all day came to me—what if I were in her shoes and I was the one who was down? So I turned around and looked. She was still lying there. I went back to her. She wasn’t dead; I could see her breathing.
I put my hand on her shoulder and asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?” I guess I kind of startled her, because she immediately came to. She asked me to help her up. When I got her on her feet, she said she was very embarrassed, and she wouldn’t cause me any more trouble, and I could leave. But as soon as I let go of her she started to fall. I quickly grabbed her. That’s when I insisted on walking her back home.
She was small, very old, and had a personality like I had never encountered in an older lady before. I could tell she was scared because she gripped my arm like an eagle. She said she had been confined to her bed by her doctor, who had told her she had only about four months to live. All she wanted to do was to get out of bed and just talk to someone because she was lonely. She had walked down the street, become dizzy, and fallen.
I told her about my week and my problems, and she said something that changed my whole perspective. She said, “Don’t give up. When you are down, there will always be someone or something that will pick you up. Look at me. I was down, almost dead, when you came along and picked me up and gave me your friendship, the one thing I needed most.”
When we got to her house, she thanked me and ordered me back to school. I agreed to go, though I wanted to stay and visit. I was on my way back to school when the thought occurred to me—the good I had done her she had given right back to me without my even knowing it. In a very real sense she had lifted me off the ground and put me back on my feet and taught me a principle I’ll never forget.
I suppose if you tried to list the things I have in common with a 90-year-old woman it would be pretty hard. But we found each other and exchanged something that was missing in both our lives. I gave her friendship and a reason to live, and she took me, an empty body with nothing but bad thoughts, and filled me with happiness and love. That day I developed a special feeling for a little old lady who also found a place in her heart for me.

Nara is also the home of another kind of spirit, a spirit typified by a young group of Latter-day Saints who met on the way home from school at Nara’s Kintetsu train station. Their bishop, Tatsuo Taura of the Nara Ward, Osaka Japan Stake, had invited them to meet him on their way home from school for a walk in the park.
“When I was small, I used to come to the park often with my parents,” said Akie Tanaka, 17. “But now I’m so busy with school I don’t get many chances. When the bishop asked us to come, I thought it sounded fun.”
It’s only a block or two from the train station to the park. As we walked up the hill, the bishop explained that he just wanted to spend a little bit of time with the youth, some time in a relaxed situation, time to become better friends.
“I talk to you all individually during interviews,” Bishop Taura said. “Today let’s just have some fun together.”
He stopped to buy some wafers to feed the deer, then passed the wafers out to the teenagers. As if on cue, the deer trotted over. So many swarmed around Akie that it seemed they were welcoming back an old friend. Overwhelmed, she started giggling and found it hard to stop.
“I wasn’t scared,” she said. “I like deer. But I was holding some food, and they mobbed me to get at it. It was funny to see them all sticking their tongues out at me!”
Akie wasn’t the only one pestered by a persistent deer. One doe kept staring at Seiji Nakanishi even when the food was gone. “Finally she licked my hand, then turned and walked away,” Seiji said. Quickly the herd moved on, although one or two of the animals turned and paused before bounding off into the woods. “It was almost as if they stopped to say good-bye,” said Masatoshi Hirata, 17.
Masatoshi and Seiji, 16, are making friends with Yuji Oki, 15, who was baptized a week ago.
“I’m a deacon,” Yuji said. “I’m proud to be a Latter-day Saint, excited to hold the priesthood. And I’m glad that the others in the ward are my friends. There is strength in associating with other priesthood bearers, a reassurance that God will help us meet our responsibilities.”
As we left the deer behind and headed for a shrine, all three young men were talking about missions—about preparing for them, earning and saving money for them, about seeking the Spirit even now so they would know how to follow it later.
Masatoshi, who is a priest, said, “Soon I will be in the mission field. But right now I have lots of missionary opportunities here. Just think, if everyone in Nara would become a Latter-day Saint, what blessings it would bring! They could strengthen their families, work toward everlasting life, prepare to live together as families forever. Can you see why going to church is my favorite thing?”
We walked far. We saw the reflection of the Kofukuji Pagoda in Sarusawa Pond. We looked at the tombstones, the bright red gates and columns, and the thousands of brass and carved stone lanterns of the Kasuga Shrine. We climbed steep wooden stairs to buildings where samurai warriors used to live. We marveled at the immensity of Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, which Japanese ancestors built with sincerity and faith. The young Japanese Saints talked again about their own faith, their own hope for the future.
“There’s a girl with us today who is not a member,” Akie explained. “It’s the first time I have met her. I’d love to tell her about my experiences with the gospel—good things, testimonies that people bear. I wish I could tell her all about these things. I wish I could tell everyone.” And a few minutes later, Akie was talking with Satomi Fujioka, 18, the new girl in the group. They were laughing, telling stories, and fast becoming friends. And becoming friends, as Akie will tell you, is the first step toward sharing anything.
Yuji stopped for a minute and sat on a bench to rest. Our loop through the park was complete, and it was time to head back to the train station. But first we all decided to drink a carton of mandarin orange juice to cool off after our hike.
“You know,” said Yuji, looking back at the enormous wooden gate that is merely the entrance to the more enormous Todaiji Temple, “perhaps someday there will be as many Mormon temples as there are shrines in Japan. It’s exciting to know I can play some small part in spreading the gospel in this land.”
Seiji nodded his head in agreement. “There are many monuments here,” he said, “many treasures. But the gospel is a bigger treasure. After all, it is the most important thing in my life.”
Mariko Tange, 18, a Laurel who joined the Church just four months ago, also nodded her head. “I get so busy I forget sometimes how important the Church really is,” she said. “I’m really glad we came here today.”
There was less conversation on the way back to the station than there had been on the way to the park. Maybe we were just tired. Maybe we were all talked out. But it seemed more like we were thinking, thinking about the spirit that unites us as members of the Church. That spirit will grow in the hearts of the Saints in Nara, the same way it grows in the hearts of Saints everywhere. It is a spirit that makes all men noble, a spirit that makes all men free. And as it is shared with friends, families, and neighbors, the Nara said to be “home of Japanese spirit” may also become known as a place where the Spirit of God is at home.

I was 18 when I received my national service call-up papers. They instructed me to report for my medical. At the time, I was working as an apprentice cooper, had a great group of friends and was surrounded by a close-knit, loving family.
Although I had known that it was only a matter of time before I was called up, when it came, I was very apprehensive, being concerned about the expectations of army life, and sad about leaving my family and friends. However, it gave way to excitement at the thought of going abroad, making new friends, and learning new skills.
After being found medically fit, I was immediately required to report to the Royal Fusiliers barracks at the Tower of London, where their training unit was based. A four-month military training course followed, with about 80 other recruits, to prepare us for active service, anywhere in the world. We were then transferred to a transit camp in Kent to await our orders to be shipped to the battalion located in Khartoum, Sudan. This was subsequently changed and instead a group of us were transferred to the Queen’s Royal Regiment. They were serving in Malaya (now Malaysia) assisting the Malayan Police in combatting raids by insurgent groups. These groups were carrying out attacks on the local civilian population, including farmers, rubber plantation workers, and others.
At the end of World War II several British colonies were seeking for independence. In the case of Malaya, the Communist-influenced Malayan National Liberation Army initiated armed guerrilla insurgencies. As a result, Britain, along with other Western allies, sent military personnel to Malaya to act as an anti-insurgency force. Hence our deployment to Malaya. On 13 December 1954 we set sail aboard HMTS Asturias, heading for Singapore. We arrived on 1 January 1955 after a wonderful three-week journey, though military training continued throughout.
During this period, I gained a greater realisation of what it meant to be on active service, namely carrying a rifle and possibly being engaged in gun battles. That made it a little scary, but I was mindful that my personal safety and that of my comrades was paramount. Overnight we travelled by military train from Singapore to an area called Negri Sembilan in the west of Malaya. We were required to take anti-malarial medication daily, failing to do so being a disciplinary offence. Carrying our rifles was also compulsory.
At base we commenced the next part of our intensive training. This included four weeks of acclimatisation to the Malayan weather and jungle training, where the heat averaged 90-95F at midday. This was essential given the hostile environment in which we would be working. I was also detailed to begin training as a signaller, responsible for military communications, which meant carrying a military 68T radio wireless set on all operations.
During the remainder of my service in Malaya, approximately 18 months, I worked as part of a 200/300-man ambush unit. Our role was to protect the civilian population from insurgents who got into their kampongs (traditional villages), often to steal food. On other occasions, for about ten days each time, our duties involved patrolling specified areas deep in the jungle. In hot, humid, and wet conditions, while carrying our rifles, ammunition and ration packs of food, a path had to be cleared by chopping down trees and bushes as we walked. My load was heavier due to the 68T wireless set, to send situation reports back to headquarters.
There were many highs and lows, especially when two members of our unit were killed, but we had to remain strong and focussed. These activities continued until I was demobbed in 1956. I returned home with mixed emotions, sorry to be leaving fellow soldiers behind, but very elated to be reunited with my family and friends.
Within a week of my return, my mother organised a party. It was wonderful. I eventually settled back into civilian life. I worked as a labourer until I was employed as a wood worker; I continued doing this for the next 46 years, until I retired. Undoubtedly, the dedication, loyalty, and discipline I had learnt in the army influenced my work ethic.

Some four and a half centuries after Columbus, Admiral Richard Byrd displayed these same qualities in the exploration of the North and South Poles. In March 1934, only 40 years ago, Admiral Byrd isolated himself in the wastes of Antarctica in a little 9-by-13-foot hut buried in the snow. There he planned to remain during the six-month-long night, making weather observations. He took this task on himself. He would not order any of his men to do it. On May 28, fumes from the stove nearly killed him. Though he was critically sick, he refused to send an SOS to the main camp at Little America, 123 miles away. He preferred to die rather than call any of the men to make the dangerous journey during that treacherous season of constant night. But this was not his closest call to death.
That came one day when he went outside to check the instruments in the midst of a raging blizzard. When he tried to get back inside the hut, he found the trap door frozen. He pulled and yanked, exerting all his strength. It was like trying to pull open a locked bank vault. The door was frozen solid. He tried to scrape off some of the snow around the edges. He threw himself on the door, trying to break the ice by the pressure of his body. He pulled, tugged, pushed, and pounded until he was worn out: Then he was terribly cold, even through his heavy clothing. His fingers were numb, losing feeling. He was alone in the vast Antarctica, the frozen, wild wastelands.
The wind tore at him, screaming like 10,000 triumphant devils. He was about to panic. Ten minutes more in the cold and it would be too late! With the mighty effort of his will, he resisted panic; he prayed. He forced himself to rest quietly, to think, to concentrate. Suddenly he remembered—a shovel! The other day when he had been checking the instruments, he had left a shovel outside. He crawled around. It had snowed a great deal in the past two days. Where was the shovel? He slipped and fell, and as he crashed, he struck something hard. He seized it; he had the shovel!
Now, back to the trap door of the hut! Somehow he got back. Somehow he wedged the handle of the shovel under the handle of the trap door. His hands were almost useless by this time. He threw his body across the handle of the shovel and, God be praised, the ice cracked and the door opened. With the last of his dwindling strength he forced it open enough for him to tumble through the opening and down inside the hut. This was the bravery, the trustworthiness, the faith of the explorer.

For my eighth birthday, my dad decided to take me to general conference. He tried really hard to get tickets, but he couldn’t find any. We decided to just try and get tickets the day of conference before it started. It was pouring rain. We were asking people if they had any extra tickets, but no one did. My dad asked a man if he had any extras. He said he didn’t, then he turned around and said, “Actually, I do have one extra ticket,” and he gave it to us. Then another kind woman gave us a ticket. During conference, I felt a good feeling inside. Afterward, my dad and I said a prayer thanking Heavenly Father for all the special things He did for us that day.

A woman came home from sacrament meeting, sighed deeply, and said to her husband, “I think I’m losing my testimony. I wasn’t spiritually filled or uplifted at all today.”
A natural reaction would be to attempt to solve the problem by immediately giving advice. But if you move too fast from listening into proposing solutions, you are skipping over the chance to really understand your spouse’s feelings. And you may seem insensitive—or even smug and self-righteous. Problem-solving comes after real listening and understanding have taken place.
In this case, the husband responded, “Losing your testimony? What made you feel that way?” He showed that he cared, and he gave his wife a chance to probe her feelings more deeply.

One of the especially happy times in my life happened when I was 17 years old. My friends and I went to a fireside where the speaker taught us about our Savior’s love. He told us that we could have confidence in the Savior, that He would lead us, that He would be there for us, that our faith in Him could increase and we could feel greater happiness than we had ever known.
But we needed to do something: We needed to choose to believe in the Savior and His love, we needed to ask for His help, and then we needed to practice thinking about Him all through the day.
The speaker suggested that to help us remember to think about the Savior, we could listen to the school bell that rang often during the day. Each time we heard the bell, we were to say a silent prayer, even with our eyes open, even walking down the hall. We could thank our Heavenly Father for our blessings, especially for our Savior. We could tell Him of our love and ask for His help. He taught us that in just a few seconds, many times during the day, we could practice thinking about our Heavenly Father and the Savior.
There was something else: The speaker suggested that almost immediately we move from praying for ourselves to praying for someone else—a friend, a teacher, a stranger—and asking Heavenly Father to bless that person.
He also warned us that although all of this might seem awkward at first, if we chose to try, we could truly be filled with His love, our faith really would grow, and we would feel joy.
That sounded wonderful to me. I decided to try.
I could not believe how many times the bell rang each day! When I heard it, I stopped. “Heavenly Father, thank you. Please bless me and bless Dorene. I know she’s having struggles.” It was awkward at first, but soon I found myself thinking about Heavenly Father and the Savior not only when the bell rang but many times during the day. I remember walking across a muddy field one morning and seeing a tiny yellow flower. It was probably a weed, but to me it was beautiful, and I felt that He had created it just for me. I loved Him so much. My faith had increased, and I was happy.

Three months passed before doctors diagnosed his problem—a rare neurological condition. By then it was too late for him to return to the mission field, but he didn’t stop being a missionary. After eight years of friendship with Daniel, Kristen finally agreed to learn about the gospel. She hadn’t believed in Christ—until Daniel began teaching her. Then I knew I was witnessing another miracle.
Two weeks before Daniel had originally been scheduled to come home, Kristen was baptized. Daniel’s most difficult trial had turned into a precious blessing.

One came in the October 1856 general conference as President Brigham Young announced to the congregation that handcart pioneers were still on the trail and late in the season. He declared: “Your faith, religion, and profession of religion, will never save one soul of you in the celestial kingdom of our God, unless you carry out just such principles as I am now teaching you. Go and bring in those people now on the plains, and attend strictly to those things which we call temporal, … otherwise your faith will be in vain.”2
We remember with grateful admiration the men who headed off to rescue those suffering Saints. But what did the sisters do?
“Sister [Lucy Meserve] Smith recorded … that after President Young’s exhortation, those in attendance took action. … Women ‘[removed] their petticoats [large underskirts that were part of the fashion of the day and that also provided warmth], stockings, and every thing they could spare, right there in the [old] Tabernacle, and piled [them] into the wagons to send to the Saints in the mountains.’”3
Several weeks later, President Brigham Young gathered the Saints again in the old Tabernacle as the rescuers and the handcart companies got closer to Salt Lake City. With great urgency, he pleaded with the Saints—especially the sisters—to nurse the sufferers and feed them and receive them, saying: “Some you will find with their feet frozen to their ankles; some are frozen to their knees and some have their hands frosted. … We want you to receive them as your own children, and to have the same feeling for them.”4
Lucy Meserve Smith also recorded:
“We did all we could, with the aid of the good brethren and sisters, to comfort the needy. … They got their hands and feet badly frosted. … We did not cease our exertions [un]til all were made comfortable. …
“I never took more satisfaction and, I might say, pleasure in any labor I ever performed in my life, such a unanimity of feeling prevailed. …
“What comes next for willing hands to do?”5

Five months ago, my wife, Diane, and I went to Africa with Elder and Sister David A. Bednar. The sixth and last country we visited was Liberia. Liberia is a great country with a noble people and a rich history, but things have not been easy there. Decades of political instability and civil wars have worsened the plague of poverty. On top of that, the dreaded Ebola disease killed nearly 5,000 people there during the latest outbreak. We were the first group of Church leaders from outside the area to visit Monrovia, the capital city, since the World Health Organization declared it safe to do so after the Ebola crisis.

On a very hot and humid Sunday morning, we traveled to a rented meeting facility in the center of the city. Every available chair was set up, totaling 3,500 seats. The final count of attendees was 4,100. Almost all who came had to travel by foot or some form of inconvenient public transportation; it was not easy for the Saints to gather. But they came. Most arrived several hours before the appointed meeting time. As we entered the hall, the spiritual atmosphere was electric! The Saints were prepared to be taught.

When a speaker quoted a scripture, the members would say the verse aloud. It did not matter—short scripture or long; the entire congregation responded in unison. Now, we do not necessarily recommend this, but it was certainly impressive that they could do it. And the choir—they were powerful. With an enthusiastic choir director and a 14-year-old young man at the keyboard, the members sang with vigor and strength.

Then Elder Bednar spoke. This, of course, was the anticipated highlight of the gathering—to hear an Apostle teach and testify. Clearly with spiritual direction, partway through his remarks, Elder Bednar stopped and said, “Do you know ‘How Firm a Foundation’?”
It seemed that 4,100 voices roared in response, “YES!”
He then asked, “Do you know verse 7?”
Again the entire group answered, “YES!”

The arrangement of the mighty hymn “How Firm a Foundation” sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir for the last 10 years has included verse 7, which was not sung much previously. Elder Bednar instructed, “Let’s sing verses 1, 2, 3, and 7.”

Without hesitation, the choir director jumped up and the Aaronic Priesthood–bearing accompanist immediately began to energetically play the introductory chords. With a level of conviction I have never felt before in a congregational hymn, we sang verses 1, 2, and 3. Then the volume and spiritual power was elevated when 4,100 voices sang the seventh verse and declared:
The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose
I will not, I cannot, desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never, no never, I’ll never, no never,
I’ll never, no never, no never forsake!

In one of the most remarkable spiritual events of my life, I was taught a profound lesson that day. We live in a world that can cause us to forget who we really are. The more distractions that surround us, the easier it is to treat casually, then ignore, and then forget our connection with God. The Saints in Liberia have little materially, and yet they seem to have everything spiritually. What we witnessed that day in Monrovia was a group of sons and daughters of God who knew it!

It was almost Halloween. Every year the Master Monster Makers built a frightening monster for the Halloween party at the church. The boys were busy bringing monster parts to Billy’s backyard.
Billy had a big cardboard box that a washing machine had come in, and many smaller boxes. He also had some coat hangers for fastening the boxes together.
Tommy brought ropes and a worn-out tent that his brother had given to him.
Donald brought spray paints and a plastic bucket.
“We are the Master Monster Makers,” they said. “We make the best monsters!”
Billy’s little sister, Cathy, came outside. She had a toy megaphone in her hand. When she talked through it, her voice was very loud.
“Can I help?” she asked. “We could put my megaphone in your monster.”
“Sorry,” said Billy. “You are not one of the Master Monster Makers. You would only get in the way.”
Cathy shouted, “I would not!”
Billy shook his head. “No.”
Cathy put the megaphone to her mouth and shouted, “YOU ARE NOT VERY NICE!”
“Quiet, mega-mouth,” said Billy.
The Master Monster Makers laughed. Cathy turned and marched back inside. The boys started working.
Billy put the boxes together to make the monster’s body.
Tommy wrapped the tent around the boxes, then tied on ropes to make the arms move.
Donald painted the monster scary colors. He put the little bucket on top for a head.
The Master Monster Makers worked hard all morning. At last Billy put an awful Halloween mask on the monster’s head, and the three boys stood back and admired their work. The monster looked so real that they thought it might reach out and grab them.
“That’s the best monster we’ve ever made,” said Donald. The others agreed.
Cathy came out of the house with her megaphone. “Is anybody thirsty?” she asked. “I poured you some cold root beer in the kitchen.”
The Master Monster Makers were all thirsty. They hurried inside.
“That was nice of Cathy,” said Donald, sipping through a straw. “I thought she would still be mad.”
“Me, too,” said Tommy. “Maybe we should have let her help.”
“No,” said Billy. “She doesn’t know anything about making monsters.”
The three boys finished their drinks and went back outside. They wanted to thank Cathy for the root beer, but they didn’t see her anywhere. They were alone with the monster.
“It sure looks scary,” said Billy.
“Yes,” said Tommy. “Spooky.”
“Ooooohhhhh …”
“What was that?” asked Donald.
The monster’s arms came up a little.
“It—it moved!” Tommy croaked.
The monster’s arms went up high. It growled, “COME HERE, LITTLE BOYS. I AM VERY HUNGRY!”
“It’s almost like it’s alive!” yelped Billy.
“Neat!” Donald squawked.
“Who thought of that?” the Master Monster Makers asked each other.
Just then they heard the monster again. It giggled.
Giggled?
“Oh,” said Billy. “I know.” He marched right up to the monster and banged on its chest. “OK,” he said. “Come on out, Cathy.”
There was silence for a minute. Then Billy’s little sister poked her head out. “How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“Monsters don’t giggle,” said Billy.
Cathy climbed out of the monster with her megaphone. “Are you angry?” she asked.
Billy thought for a minute. “I guess not,” he said. “I didn’t think you could make our monster any scarier. But you did.”
“You sure did,” agreed Tommy and Donald.
The boys looked at each other. They all had the same idea at the same time.
“Cathy,” Billy asked, “would you be the monster’s voice at the Halloween party?”
“That would be fun!” Cathy exclaimed.
“We are the Master Monster Makers,” they all four shouted, “and we make the best monsters!”

Maria stirred her scrambled eggs around and around with her fork. “Mom,” she asked, “do we have to go to church next Sunday?”
Mother looked surprised. “Why, of course!” she declared. “We always go to church on Sunday.”
Maria continued to play with her food. Finally her mother asked, “Are you still worried about your talk?”
Maria nodded. She and two other children had been asked to give talks in Primary. Because it was the week of the Mormon Pioneer celebration, the topic of the talks was to be “pioneers in my family.” Maria and her mother had been members of the Church for only a few years.
Mother had told Maria that her Primary teacher probably didn’t realize this. She suggested that Maria talk about the early Mormon pioneers instead. Maria had followed her mother’s advice, but she felt uneasy about it because she wasn’t really following the assigned topic.
Maria finished her breakfast and hurried to school, but all day long she worried about her talk. It seemed forever until the three o’clock bell rang. When she came home, the apartment was empty. Mother wouldn’t be home from work until six o’clock, so Maria fixed herself a snack and thought about her talk. Finally she decided that since she couldn’t talk about pioneers in her family, she simply wouldn’t give a talk at all. Maria was sure Sister Robinson would understand. Besides, Jason and Nancy would still be speaking.
When her Primary teacher answered the phone, Maria explained why she couldn’t give the talk. Instead of agreeing with Maria, Sister Robinson said, “I gave the assignment to you, Maria, for a very special reason. Why don’t you ask your mother if you can come over to my house after dinner, and we’ll talk about it.”
Later that evening Maria went to Sister Robinson’s house. When she returned home, she had a talk all ready for Sunday.
After the opening exercises in Primary on Sunday, Jason stood up and told about his ancestors who had left Norway in 1860 and sailed to America. They had been persecuted in their homeland because they were Mormons.
Nancy read excerpts from her great-grandmother’s diary. It told how she had traveled west in a covered wagon and settled in the Salt Lake Valley.
When Maria walked up in front of the class, her knees were wobbly because she had never given a talk in church before. She was grateful for her notes, because suddenly she had forgotten everything she was supposed to say. Finally, after a quick look at her notebook, Maria began: “Five years ago my mother and I were living in Germany, where I was born. I was in kindergarten then, and my mother was in medical school, studying to become a doctor. My father had just died. The following year my mother graduated, and she had the opportunity to do her internship in Baltimore, Maryland. That’s how we came to the United States.
“On the plane coming over, we sat next to two young men who said they were Mormon missionaries. They had spent two years in Germany preaching the gospel. My mother and I had never met a Mormon before, and we thought they were very brave to leave their homes for such a long time.
“After we had been living in Baltimore for about six months, my mother found out that a doctor she was working with was a Latter-day Saint. She told him about the two missionaries she had met and how impressed she had been by them. The doctor invited us to his home later on, and we began to attend church with him and his family. After a few months my mother was baptized. When I turned eight, I was baptized too.”
Maria paused and looked out over the room. “When Sister Robinson asked me to talk about pioneers in my family, I told her we didn’t have any. I thought pioneers were only people who lived a long time ago, like Nancy’s great-grandmother. Then Sister Robinson asked me to look up the word pioneer in the dictionary. I did, and it said that a pioneer is a person who goes before others and prepares the way for them. So, because my mother and I are the first Latter-day Saints in our family, we are pioneers!
“It’s a great responsibility to be a pioneer, because it’s up to us to set the example for our descendants. But I know that if I stay faithful to the Church, maybe a hundred years from now another girl will stand up in Primary and tell about how her great-grandmother Maria came from Germany with her mother and joined the Church.”
When Primary was over, several people came over and told Maria how much they enjoyed her talk. One sister said that she, too, was a convert but that until Maria’s talk she had never thought of herself as being a pioneer.
When Maria left church, she knew that this was one Pioneer Day that she would always remember.

I realize very well the obstacles faced. Many are the times when it seems absolutely impossible to maintain the proper standard of appearance.
In the mission field where I labored, we were normally interviewed by the president at conference time. In most cases, we traveled to the conference and did not do normal missionary work at this time. Thus, it was easier to make a presentable appearance, and, of course, we always tried to look our very best.
One particular time, however, the president made a tour of all the cities to interview each missionary. It happened that our interviews were to be early in the morning. We did our best to get ready and then realized that it was raining heavily outside. I will never forget the shocked look on the face of the president and his assistant as we drove up to the small meeting hall on our motor bikes. I have to admit that we must have presented an amusing sight, emerging out of the early morning darkness, draped completely in our drab, shapeless, rain ponchos, hunched over our bikes, with rain dripping off our noses and chins.
If a sister can laugh at those times when a radiant appearance is impossible and work smartly behind the scenes to look her best when it is possible, she will feel better herself, she will look better to others, and the Spirit will be better able to work through her, for she will be a pure and holy vessel, inside and out.

When I was about five years old, my father left my mother, my four siblings, and me. My mother had also been abandoned by her parents when she was small, so she had no family to turn to for support. We didn’t have enough money to rent a house, so instead we rented a plot of dirt. We built our home of scrap wood, paper, and plastic with a roof made of dried leaves. We had no furniture other than a hammock, which two or three people would often share, and our bed, which we made from a few flattened cardboard boxes. We had no running water, no electricity. We had nothing.
Mom worked as a housekeeper and did people’s laundry. I went with her to the river and helped the best I could; then we would walk for hours delivering the clothes. This time working side by side was precious for me. It is when I built a relationship with my mother.
Even though we worked hard, we never seemed to have enough money. Sometimes we would have hardly anything to eat. My mom gave us her food and sometimes went for days without any for herself. We would drink water and go to bed because it was all we could do to avoid the hunger pangs.
Do you know how to split one egg among six people? I do.
I had a small group of friends when I was young, but as we grew up, we took different paths. The girls turned to selling their bodies to make money, and the boys would steal. When they invited me to join them, I felt something inside tell me it wasn’t right. I know the Lord was aware of me even then, before I was a member of the Church, and I have continued to see evidence of His hand in my life.
My siblings and I had long been on a waiting list for public schools. When our opportunity to enroll finally came, my mother told me good things about school. She said if I took education seriously, I would be someone someday. I will never forget her words: “I am sorry that I am not able to provide a good life for you. I am sorry that you had to learn the hard way the importance of work so early in your life, but now you will have the opportunity to get an education. Whatever happens, never give up school because it is the only thing that will take you away from this life.”
Once I was in school, we had to be inventive to come up with school supplies. I would find blank pieces of paper in garbage cans and bring them home. My mother sewed them together to make a notebook. She would buy a pencil to divide in three so my two sisters and I could each take a section to write with at school. Our other two siblings were not yet old enough to come to school with us.
Because my mother had suffered so much her entire life, she didn’t believe there could be a God. Throughout my childhood, neither did I. But as I got a little older, I started asking questions about God. I asked myself why my family never had a chance to have a good life and why I never had toys, enough food, or new clothes. Every time I asked these questions, I felt somehow in my heart that I wasn’t alone. This feeling comforted me for many years.
When I was about 13 years old, Latter-day Saint missionaries came to our home. They answered all of my questions and taught me about Jesus Christ. They told me there was a church where I could learn more about the gospel in special classes for people my age. They taught me how to pray. They told me about the Book of Mormon. When I was baptized, none of my family came.
I felt lonely, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I was introduced to a new life—a life of hope, happiness, faith, and love. My peers, I knew, were seeking solace in drugs and immorality. I found mine in a loving Heavenly Father and the gospel of His Son. After my baptism I knew that the Lord had been aware of me my entire life.
I learned a lot about the gospel. I met people who shared my beliefs. Some of the members got to know a little bit about my life when they visited me at home. They generously helped me buy clothes and shoes for church and notebooks for school. I babysat regularly for Church members and made more money than I ever had before. Because I was so young, it might have been easy for me to stray from the gospel. But with the support of Church members, I remained firm in my newfound faith.
The gospel truly changed my life. After I was baptized, I felt I had more energy to learn in school. I learned a lot and became a tutor. If I did not know a subject, I would study until I knew it so well I could teach it. I used the money to help at home.
I received my patriarchal blessing and was counseled to serve a mission because the Lord reserved a special blessing in my mission that would change my life forever. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew I would understand in time if I was obedient.
I served in the Brazil Curitiba Mission from 2000 to 2002. Through my association with a particular companion, I was able to go to the United States to study. I knew this would indeed change my life forever. I knew my Heavenly Father was aware of me and had a specific plan for me. This opportunity to further my education was an answer to my prayers.
I knew that it would be challenging to learn a second language, but I also knew it was possible if I worked hard enough. I studied at the Brigham Young University English Language Center and spent up to 10 hours a day in the library. One of my teachers suggested we pray for the gift of tongues, so every night I prayed and asked Heavenly Father for this gift. He certainly helped me.
After I completed my studies at the English Language Center, I was accepted at several universities. I decided to attend Brigham Young University–Idaho and apply for the nursing program. I heard that it was very difficult to get into the program, especially for international students. So I studied my hardest. My friends teased me, saying I should move into the library because I spent so much time there. Even when it closed, I went home and kept studying.
When times were difficult, I remembered the words of President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008): “You need all the education you can get. Sacrifice a car; sacrifice anything that is needed to be sacrificed to qualify yourselves to do the work of the world.”1 I knew those were the words of a prophet of God, and I took them seriously.
When I was accepted to the nursing program, my heart filled with gratitude and happiness. I knew it would be hard and I would have to continue to make sacrifices, but I knew the Lord would be with me.
While in school, I met my husband, and we were married in 2007. My mother also joined the Church that year. She told me that she had never known why I was so happy, even with all the terrible things that had happened to us. But once she joined the Church, she understood. The gospel of Jesus Christ has blessed my family, and I’m happy to see my mother blessed after all the sacrifices she has made. I will always be grateful for her.
By the beginning of 2010, I was preparing for graduation—and was pregnant with our first child. Two months before I was to graduate from the nursing program, I had complications with my pregnancy, and our baby was born via cesarean section. My teachers told me I should take time off from school and graduate later. But I was so close—only two months away!
So my husband and I carefully organized our time so we could properly balance our priorities and I could complete my education. I scheduled my study time so I could give my husband and our son the attention they needed. Sometimes my husband’s parents stayed with our son while I was in class. Two great classmates helped me review class materials. I felt that the Lord had sent all of these people to support me through this difficult time.
After graduation I passed the state certification exam and started working as a nurse to help support our family while my husband completes his education. Even though I am not planning on working once my husband starts his career, if a tragedy or economic hardship requires me to work in the future, my education helps me feel prepared to do so.
Mom was right: education does have the capacity to change lives. It has changed mine, and it will change the lives of my children. I hope they will realize that I am successful because I followed the Lord’s plan for me. He wanted me to get an education, and He helped me every step of the way. I hope my children learn how to work like I did and that they come to value education as much as I do.