Gospel Story Finder

A young friend of mine, whom I will call Alan, recently ran his first marathon—a distance of 26.2 miles. He had set his goal several months in advance, learned what preparation was required, and disciplined himself to follow a rigorous training schedule. He sought the advice of experienced runners and read articles on running a marathon. He practiced running the marathon route and planned a strategy for traversing the hilly course.
Finally, the day of the marathon arrived; it would be the culmination of months of training, discipline, and sacrifice. He got off to a good start in a large crowd of runners. He felt strong and confident, following his predetermined strategy. About eight miles into the race, on a downhill part of the course, he caught up with an experienced runner, Brent by name, who had given him sound advice during his training. Alan decided to match his stride to Brent’s disciplined and experienced pace.
As they passed the eighteen-mile mark, Alan struggled to stay with Brent so someone he knew would be by his side if he began “hitting the wall.” Hitting the wall means feeling a sudden urge to quit, encountering an almost tangible barrier that requires a tremendous effort to overcome. It often comes at about the twenty-mile mark.
For the next two miles, Alan kept pace with Brent. Then it hit him. He felt a sudden loss of energy, an almost overwhelming desire to stop or walk. “Stay with me,” Brent said. “We all feel it at some point. You can get through it. I’ll help pull you through.”
Somehow, Alan continued. He and Brent began to pass spectators. He knew his wife, children, and other family members would be watching about one mile ahead. Drawing on the strength provided by thoughts of his family, he was able to hang on until the desire to quit left him.
As they finally neared the finish, Alan found the last mile to be the hardest of all. Alan and Brent crossed the finish line just five seconds apart. Alan was more exhausted than he ever had been but was elated because he had beaten his goal by more than fifteen minutes and had finished among the top twenty-five runners.

I’d like to share the story of one of these many family caregivers, my friend whom I will call Debbie.
When Debbie was 62, she and her husband invited her 86-year-old mother to live with them. Debbie’s mother had mid-stage Alzheimer’s disease and was unable to care for herself. Debbie lamented that her once sweet, temple-serving, ministering, Relief Society president mother was ravaged by Alzheimer’s disease. Now Debbie was required to care for her mother, the same person who had provided care for her and so many others throughout her life.
Debbie had to assist her mother with all the activities of daily living like dressing, bathing, and eating. Her mother continually repeated questions about what was happening. She frequently became disoriented and often fought against the care she was receiving because she could not remember what was happening or why it was happening. She became agitated and often lost her temper.
Her mother suffered from sundowning, which meant she was confused about when to sleep and when to be awake. Debbie awoke in the middle of the night to find her mother wandering through the house extremely anxious and disoriented. Since her mother no longer recognized Debbie’s husband, Debbie was the only one who could calm her mother down.
Twice Debbie’s mother was able to leave the house and start walking down the street in the middle of the night. The first time it happened, Debbie fortunately heard the front door close and was able to retrieve her mother before she had wandered too far. However, the second time, her mother left the house undetected, and Debbie received a phone call at 3:30 a.m. from the local police letting her know that her mother had been found walking down the road in only her nightgown.
The continual stress and effort that Debbie gave to care for her mother became intense. She did not know where to turn for help. Her two siblings didn’t accept that their mother had Alzheimer’s disease, nor that the symptoms were as bad as Debbie described. Their denial was reflected in the lack of assistance they offered. Since both of them lived hundreds of miles away, they were unable to regularly visit or offer help anyway.
Debbie felt awkward turning to friends, ward members, and other neighbors because she wasn’t sure how to explain her mother’s condition, and her mother didn’t respond well to new people. Debbie rejected the idea of getting help from professional services because she felt responsible to serve and care for her mother. Moving her mother to an assisted-living community was out of the question as well since her mother had once said she didn’t want to go to any place like that.
Week after week and month after month, Debbie continued giving more and more care to her mother. She focused less and less attention on her own health. One afternoon about 20 months after Debbie’s mother moved into Debbie’s home, Debbie’s husband returned from the store to find his mother-in-law agitated and pacing around the kitchen. He found Debbie collapsed on the living room floor. She was breathing but unconscious. She was taken to the hospital and was admitted due to a mild heart attack brought on by exhaustion.
Once my friend Debbie was released from the hospital, her husband and children sought out the Alzheimer’s Association. The local chapter provided support to the family. Debbie found the assistance she needed and realized the importance and power of allowing others to assist in caring for her mother.

As the sun rose the following morning, so did Bien’s hopes. Rescue workers pried him from the rubble and carried him to safety. His relieved family was notified. Bien was rushed to a hospital. Doctors immediately amputated his right arm. “I woke up, looked at my right side and cried out, ‘What’s happening here?’ I thought I was dreaming.” Shock turned to sorrow. “I felt so lonely because I might not be able to do what I used to do.”
After three bedridden months, Bien went home. Nearly all of his 50 classmates had perished. It seemed the same thing happened to Bien’s will to live. How could he, a right-handed person, manage with just his left hand?
While tutoring his nephews one day, Bien felt prompted to practice writing the alphabet. At first it was pure frustration. “My mind knew the shapes, but my hand had difficulty following.” However, practice makes perfect; less than a year after that fateful day, Bien was not only writing with ease but also back to his oil-painting hobby. And he resumed college.

As a young married couple, my wife and I felt that trust and direction as we pled for the life of our firstborn, who lay in a coma with serious head injuries following an automobile-bicycle accident. Physicians later shook their heads when that young boy indeed recovered after having been diagnosed as having fatal injuries. We knew we had witnessed a miracle. You can imagine the joy that Sister Hansen and I felt earlier this year when I was able to ordain that boy—now a man—as a bishop.

One of these members was Raj Kumar, who found the Church when he attended a performance of the BYU Young Ambassadors in 1982. When we met him, he had recently returned from his mission to Fresno, California, USA. He still wore his missionary name tag and continued to teach anyone in Delhi who would listen. Raj was one of approximately 600 members in India at the time, but to me he seemed like a lone Latter-day Saint in a sea of hundreds of millions of people.

In 1986, I met Raj Kumar after his mission. Still wearing his missionary name tag, he shared the gospel with anyone who would listen.

I was inspired by Raj Kumar’s example as I chose to serve a mission. Raj also blazed a trail of faith for some of the first native Indian missionaries to serve in the country. Suvarna Katuka and his fellow missionaries had received some missionary training in Chennai. Their mission president, stationed in Singapore, assigned Raj to give them additional training in Delhi.

Suvarna Katuka remembers how their missionary work changed because of Raj Kumar’s example and training. They were able to replace feelings of fear with greater faith and courage. Suvarna explained, “That’s when I think my real conversion started. I felt the Holy Ghost, and that is when I decided to help build the kingdom here in India.”3

A few years ago my wife Ligia asked us if would please, please clean up the kitchen while she was at Relief Society. We readily agreed and away she went content that she would come home to a spotless kitchen; dishes washed, counter cleaned, floor swept and if she was lucky maybe even mopped. As I prepared the dishwater my daughter yells out that a particular movie had just came on. We had both read the book and had a high interest in this movie. We hit upon a plan: since mom would be gone at least two hours we would wash the dishes during the long commercial breaks. In two hours we would have the kitchen finished, the movie watched and a happy mommy.

For whatever the reasons, that now escape me, something went wrong. We were only half way through the dishes when we saw the headlights coming on to the driveway Liz and I looked at each other like the proverbial "deer in the headlights." I think she said something like "we're toast." We made a mad dash to finish up the dishes and were fully engaged when she walked in. We were full of feeble excuses but they could not wash away the look of disappointment on her face. We still had not finished the dishes at 10:00pm that night. In one of my brighter and more insightful moments I said, "You're not upset about a few dirty dishes are you?" And with tender eyes she said, "It is not about the dishes."

Once, when my parents were out front working in the garden, Michael and Abbie picked some cattails outside. Cattails are plants with long stems and a hot dog–looking “flower” on top. When you blow on a cattail, the hot dog part turns into white fluff, and it gets everywhere. So guess what Michael and Abbie decided to do? They waved the cattails all around the living room and covered all the furniture with fuzz.
When I saw what they’d done, I was horrified. I went outside right away to tell Mom and Dad about the mess, hoping I wouldn’t get in trouble for it. But they just made Michael and Abbie help clean it up. They didn’t even really get punished.

I would like to share a personal experience of the Lord's grace. Please note that I am not the hero in the story; every good thing that came to pass was a gift of the Savior.

After teaching here for two years, I received a distinct prompting-a personal commandment-to get a Ph.D. in Statistics. My wife encouraged me to obey, and the university granted a temporary leave of absence. About two years after the prompting, I began a Ph.D. program in Statistics at Purdue University.

It was terrifying to be in graduate school on a strict timeline. The burden was overwhelming. I could recite the famous words of Nephi, "that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them."[21] I knew this was true for other people, but I did not liken it unto myself.[22] President Henry B. Eyring taught, "Faith is not simply to know God could do something. Faith is to know He will."[23] I realized I needed more faith.

Recognizing that my fear was not from God, I sought His help in prayer. In this process, strength was granted. My faith grew, leading to a deepened realization that the Lord knew all things. He already possessed all the statistical, research and writing skills I needed to develop. He knew the questions and answers for exams yet to be written. He knew every detail of my future research. All things are before him continually.[24] It was my responsibility and privilege to learn that our Savior is a personal teacher and tutor, who ministers one by one.[25] After much prayer and fasting that first semester, I received the calm assurance that the Lord would help me complete the degree in the allotted time. Doubt was completely replaced by faith.[26] The program was still difficult, but I approached it with peace and confidence.

We cherished the Sabbath day and enjoyed serving in our callings. Great care was required to balance family, church, and school responsibilities. After giving my best in earnest study and prayer, the Holy Ghost inspired solutions to homework and exam problems.[27] A suitable research topic eventually became apparent.

The process was still difficult, but I knew it would all work out-I just did not know how. The burden was not removed, but it was made light.[28] Our family memorized and recited a scripture that brought us comfort: "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths."[29]

The Savior, by His grace, magnified our offering. The assurance previously seen only with an eye of faith[30] yielded evidence as I completed the degree in the time allowed.[31]

President Ch’oi next suggested that we put an article about my search in one of the Seoul newspapers. He told me that, since the Korean War, many people trying to find lost family members had used the newspapers. We met with a reporter, who wrote a brief description of my sister and me and our history as far as we knew it. On 2 June 1984, the article appeared in the paper. We immediately received many telephone calls from people who thought we might be part of their family.
One telephone call was unusual. I couldn’t understand all the man said, but with my companion’s help, I learned that his name was Ko In Soo. He was calling from Shillim, a small village outside Weonju. He told of a set of twin girls his family had given up for adoption in the late 1950s. I doubted that my sister and I were the twins. Although our baby pictures were similar, my sister’s and my birthdates were different.
But Ko In Soo invited us to meet him. He asked us, if it were possible, to first meet with his son Ko Hun Kyu, who lived in Seoul. Ko Hun Kyu and his mother were the two who had given the twin girls to the orphanage. So we called him and arranged for a meeting.
What if the man’s story was true? Ko Hun Kyu would then be one of my relatives! I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see him yet. When I met Mr. Ko and his wife, he stared at me and said that I looked exactly like his aunt. With tears in his eyes, he began his story. He expressed deep regret for having given the twins up for adoption. I was skeptical and wanted to see proof—pictures and records. And what about our different birthdates?
Mr. Ko invited us to his home to show me the family photo album. Unfortunately, he did not have any pictures of the woman he called my mother. I was still doubtful, so we called the family in Shillim and made plans to visit them.
Shillim is a small village—so small it doesn’t even have a bus stop. But the bus driver made a special stop for us. The air was clean, fresh, and warm as we walked on a dirt path with rice fields on both sides. Ko Hun Kyu led the way. We came to the village—a small store and a group of houses. We crossed a street and saw an old man waiting at a gate for us. He was short and browned by the Korean sun.
He seemed excited, and he kept staring at me. His home was made of weathered wood, clay, and paper. We walked to the house, took off our shoes, and stepped up to the wood porch and into the room. On one side were all the family’s belongings piled against the wall—a few boxes, a folding table, some cushions, and some clothes.
The whole family gathered around me. They stared at me and talked about my eyes and facial shape being exactly the same as the person they thought was my mother. They were convinced that I was one of the twin girls they had given up.
When I asked to see their records, they brought out their dust-covered photograph albums. They turned to one picture in particular. An elderly couple were on one side of the yellowed family portrait. Their daughter—the woman they called my mother—was in the middle, and their son—Ko In Soo—and his wife were on the other side. Ko Hun Kyu was in the front row with some other children. I saw no resemblance between me and the person they claimed was my mother, although I saw a resemblance between me and the elderly couple. Was this woman really my mother? She was tiny and frail and looked much younger than her twenty-six years.
Ko In Soo told us the rest of the story. His sister, Ko In Soon, had married Kim Chin Ku, who was from another village. The couple had moved to Ch’ungpoong, where some time later she had given birth to a son. A year after the son’s birth, she had given birth to twin girls, but she died shortly afterwards. When Ko In Soo had heard of his sister’s death, he had gone to Ch’ungpoong and had brought the three children to Shillim. With several children of his own and without the means to support them all, he had decided to place the twins in an orphanage. The administrators there had recorded different birthdates for the twins because they felt that twins would have little chance of being adopted together.
In the meantime, Kim Chin Ku, my father, had married again. He had come to get the children, only to learn that the twins had been adopted. He had brought his son back with him to Ch’ungpoong. Mr. Ko told me that he had heard that the Kim family was still living there, though the father was very sick.
When he finished the story, I asked Mr. Ko if they had any other family records. Ko In Soo went to the drawers on one side of the room and pulled out a rice paper book, yellowed with age. I opened the book to see Chinese and Korean characters recording the family genealogy. What a beautiful, priceless treasure! I left Shillim feeling that I had found what I came for.

Another “father” who was placed in my life was a member of my stake presidency. President Merrill was always at our stake dances, Young Women camps, and youth conferences.
As I was preparing to leave for college, President Merrill felt I needed some fatherly advice before heading into the world. His voice was gentle and soothing. I could feel his concern. I knew he loved me. He told me he would go as far as the Salt Lake Temple to attend my wedding.
A few years later, I called my father to announce my engagement. He was cold and indifferent. Nothing had changed. I tried not to cry. I turned to my Heavenly Father in prayer, and the Spirit reminded me of President Merrill’s promise. I wondered if he would remember what he had told me several years before. Did he really mean it? I picked up the phone and dialed his number. President Merrill answered. I stumbled through telling him of my engagement and asked if he remembered his promise to me. “What temple are you getting married in?” he asked.
“The Salt Lake Temple,” I answered.
“Then I will be there,” he said. He drove 13 hours in the snow to be there for me. When I walked into the sealing room with my future husband, he was the first person I saw. He was my father that day!

I’m from Nigeria, an English-speaking country, so when I was called to serve in the Benin Cotonou Mission and realized I would be speaking French, I became nervous. How was I going to teach the gospel? As I expected, I struggled to learn French while in the missionary training center in Ghana. Many times I felt almost hopeless.
Then, in my first area, I was asked to bear my testimony to the branch in French! Everyone sat in silence as I slowly walked to the pulpit. I reached into my pocket for the short testimony I had written down. But I could not find it! Fear gripped me instantly!
When I looked out at the beautiful faces before me, my eyes filled with tears. I had so much I wanted to share, but I didn’t know how to say it. I said the only thing I could in French: “I know that God lives.”
I sat back down and during the rest of the meeting, I prayed in my heart. I told Heavenly Father that I really wanted to speak French, and that if He would help me, I would serve Him with all my heart.
Three months later a new missionary couple from the United States visited the branch. They were also asked to bear their testimonies. The sister walked to the pulpit, said a few words in French, and then stopped. Tears fell down her face. The chapel was silent. I walked up to her and asked if I could interpret for her.
“Oh, that would be wonderful, Elder,” she said. I felt the Spirit as she spoke English, and I interpreted her testimony, word for word, in French.
After the meeting the branch president’s wife said to me, “I remember how long it took you to say, ‘I know that God lives’ when you first arrived. Yes, God really lives and He has touched your tongue.”
I know that God understands every language and every problem we face. He is there to help us if we put our trust in Him, and He blesses our efforts when we try. Because He answered my prayer, I have been able to teach the gospel in French and my life has been blessed.

You could start back in your room today. Is there an unfinished paper somewhere in the stacks? (I assume there are stacks there; I think I know your room.) Perhaps it is typed and apparently ready to turn in. Why bother more with it? I learned why during a religion class I taught once at Ricks College. I was teaching from section 25 of the Doctrine and Covenants. In that section Emma Smith is told that she should give her time to “writing and to learning much” (verse 8). About three rows back sat a blonde girl whose brow wrinkled as I urged the class to be diligent in developing writing skills. She raised her hand and said, “That doesn’t seem reasonable to me. All I’ll ever write are letters to my children.” That brought laughter all around the class. I felt chagrined to have applied that scripture to her. Just looking at her I could imagine a full quiver of children around her, and I could even see the letters she’d write in purple ink, with handwriting slanting backwards; neat, round loops; and circles for the tops of the i’s. Maybe writing powerfully wouldn’t matter to her.

Then a young man stood up, near the back. He’d said little during the term; I’m not sure he’d ever spoken before. He was older than the other students, and he was shy. He asked if he could speak. He told in a quiet voice of having been a soldier in Vietnam. One day, in what he thought would be a lull, he had left his rifle and walked across his fortified compound to mail call. Just as he got a letter in his hand, he heard a bugle blowing and shouts and mortar and rifle fire coming ahead of the swarming enemy. He fought his way back to his rifle, using his hands as weapons. With the men who survived, he drove the enemy out. The wounded were evacuated. Then he sat down among the living, and some of the dead, and he opened his letter. It was from his mother. She wrote that she’d had a spiritual experience that assured her that he would live to come home if he were righteous. In my class, the boy said quietly, “That letter was scripture to me. I kept it.” And he sat down.

You may have a child someday, perhaps a son. Can you see his face? Can you see him somewhere, sometime, in mortal danger? Can you feel the fear in his heart? Does it touch you? Would you like to give freely? What sacrifice will it take to write the letter your heart will want to send? You won’t do it in the hour before the postman comes. Nor will it be possible in a day or even in a week. It may take years. Start the practice this afternoon. Go back to your room and write and read and rewrite that paper again and again. It won’t seem like sacrifice if you picture that boy, feel his heart, and think of the letters he’ll need someday.

Jax was super nervous about performing his talent, Irish dancing, at the FSY variety show. “I was really, really terrified. Like I’m-in-a-pit-of-snakes terrified,” he says. “I said a little prayer before I got up there. I was still terrified, but then the music came on. I pretended no one was there. And I just started dancing.”

Jax hopped and moved his legs in traditional Irish fashion. But seeing Jax’s cheery face, most people probably wouldn’t guess that it was quite the journey to get there.

“In 2020 I was really stressed and even suicidal,” Jax says. “I was in a mental health hospital for a month. I found out I had pediatric brain inflammation and learned I was autistic. It was really, really hard.”

Once Jax had received some treatment for his mental health, his mom encouraged him to find a physical outlet to help manage his stress. He decided to seek personal revelation about what he could do.

“I prayed about it and asked for help,” he says. “And I remembered that my aunt was teaching Irish dance. So I started the class right before our big Christmas show. I had to learn like five dances in two weeks, so that was fun,” Jax jokes. Soon, Irish dance became a huge blessing in his life. “It really helped with my stress levels and dark feelings,” he says.

At FSY, Jax’s company asked him if he had a talent he could share in the variety show. So he danced on the sidewalk for them. When they told him he should perform, Jax’s first thought was, “Oh, no.” But he decided to share his talent even though he was afraid.

Now that Jax has seen videos of himself performing at FSY, he can’t help but laugh. “I had a completely straight face for the first part,” he says. “But then people started cheering, and I started smiling.”

For youth who are struggling, Jax gives this advice: “It’s better to talk about it with someone than hide it like I did. The Lord knows who you are, and He’ll be there for you. The Lord wants to help you.”

Overall, Jax feels that learning Irish dance has been a blessing from Heavenly Father.

When President Spencer W. Kimball underwent surgery years ago, he was wheeled from the operating room to the intensive care room. The attendant who pushed the gurney which carried him stumbled and let out an oath using the name of the Lord. President Kimball, who was barely conscious, said weakly, “Please! Please! That is my Lord whose names you revile.”

There was a deathly silence; then the young man whispered with a subdued voice, “I am sorry.” (See The Teachings of Spencer W. Kimball, ed. Edward L. Kimball [1982], 198.)

My mother still speaks fondly of “the wonderful time” she and my father had on their senior mission at the Church’s Deseret Ranches in central Florida, USA—a mission that almost didn’t happen.
After decades of working as an engineer for several companies, Dad finally started his own construction business. Things went well until his financial officer embezzled the company into bankruptcy. With the loss of their business, my parents also lost the comfortable retirement they had anticipated.
I thought a mission was out of the question for them until the day they excitedly phoned to say they had been called to serve. Soon, they found themselves on the Church’s sprawling 300,000-acre (121,405 ha) ranch in Deer Park, Florida.
The ranch is primarily a cow-calf operation, but it also dedicates hundreds of acres to citrus production and other products and projects. My parents and six other senior couples spent most of their time cleaning, repairing, and maintaining dozens of homes for cowboys, ranch workers, and their families. They also served in the Orlando Florida Temple and in their ward in nearby Deer Park. As soon as they arrived, they went to work.
While Jerry Morris cleans a refrigerator (above), Ivan Morris (below, left) and Albert Liston replace a window.
Photographs courtesy of the author
“Little did we know about the needs for upkeep and all that is required to maintain the housing units here,” my father wrote to us. He said they worked Monday through Wednesday and served in the temple on Thursdays.
“Then, Friday, back to work, which includes all phases of housing work and cleanup: door, window, carpet, and wall repair; pulling nails, spackling, priming, and painting. Two other elders do the plumbing and electrical. The list goes on and on.”
My mother and the other sisters cleaned the homes—“from floor to ceiling.” My mother also painted. The sisters took a break on Tuesdays to do family history work at the Cocoa Florida Family History Center.
“I just can’t believe all of this is happening for Grandpa and me,” my mother wrote. “We really feel that this is where we are supposed to be, doing more and more each day. We really are blessed. Having all of you saying prayers for us is making our time here very special.”
My parents served while they were in their 70s. I wondered if they were working too hard, but they seemed to thrive despite the workload.
“We miss not seeing you, but what a blessing it is being here,” my mother said. “Grandpa and I love what we are doing here helping in the Lord’s work. Our testimonies are growing each day.”
During their 18-month mission, my parents missed their family, especially the grandchildren. But they loved serving alongside other senior couples and the members of their Florida ward.
“The other sweet senior missionaries are great,” my mother wrote. “Dad and I feel at home with all of them. Some have health problems and family problems. We all help each other in many ways.”
My parents loved their ward callings, and they felt right at home in their ward.
“The members here in the Ellsworth Ward are as close as any family could be. They take care of each other,” my mother told us. “They are such special Saints. They show their love to us missionaries every day. It’s nice being a small part of their life.”
My parents’ temple service on Thursdays was another highlight of each week.
“While we are there, the cares of the world are locked outside,” my father wrote. “It is a real joy to be serving in the Lord’s house.”
Photograph of Orlando Florida Temple by David Bowen Newton
As outdoor enthusiasts, my parents felt blessed to serve in an area teeming with wildlife and picturesque landscapes.
“Our mission is full of great surprises. What a wonderland,” my father wrote. “We see lots of animals. Deer abound. We can look out our dining room window and see sandhill cranes. We have even seen a few alligators. In summation, this is a very beautiful place.”
“Our mission is full of great surprises,” my father wrote.
Photograph courtesy of the author
In one letter, my mother wrote, “Dad and I watched a cattle roundup a few weeks ago. What a sight!” In another, she said: “The sunsets are spectacular. If I could paint one, I would. The sky is so high here, and the stars are so bright that it seems you could almost touch them. But we don’t like being on these roads after dark. You don’t know what kinds of critters are going to jump out!”
In my mother’s words, their mission was “a humbling and faith-growing time.” Like missionaries everywhere, they found joy and spiritual growth as they lost themselves in service. They shared those blessings in counsel to their grandchildren.
“Grandma and I feel that service to others and living a gospel-based life is so important,” my father wrote. “So, set your personal goals higher than what is standard for average society.” In another letter, he said, “Stay close to the Lord. Don’t let the world get to you.”
My mother added, “Be happy, full of love and service always.”
As their mission came to a close, my mother wrote: “It’s going to be hard to leave. Many blessings have come our way. We have made good friends. But we are so excited to be home and see you all again.”
My parents had been home more than 10 years before I learned how much they had sacrificed in order to serve. But, after much discussion and many prayers, they mustered their faith and accepted a call. They never regretted it, and they often reflected on how their mission blessed them during and after their service.
“This mission has been so much more than we could have hoped for,” my mother wrote toward the end of their mission. “We have never felt so close to the Lord as we have here. He is helping us in everything we are doing. We are at our best here and loving it all.”

In a worldwide leadership training meeting, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland told this story: “For many years, I have loved the story that President Packer has told about William E. Berrett’s boyhood Sunday School teacher. An elderly Danish brother was called to teach a class of rowdy boys. … He didn’t speak the language very well; he still had a heavy Danish brogue; he was much older, with big farm hands. Yet he was to teach these young, rambunctious 15-year-olds. For all intents and purposes, it would not have seemed like a very good match. But Brother Berrett used to say—and this is the part President Packer quotes—that this man somehow taught them; that across all those barriers, across all those limitations, this man reached into the hearts of those rowdy 15-year-old kids and changed their lives. And Brother Berrett’s testimony was ‘We could have warmed our hands by the fire of his faith.’”2

We learn of the dedication which was given to the seminary program in its very beginning by reading from a diary of John M. Whitaker, one of the early instructors of the seminary program. In April of 1915 he was employed as an instructor in the Granite Seminary with a salary of $1,500 per year. He found little to work with as he assumed his new position. His diary records:
“I had to start without the least scratch, or outline, and I thought out many approaches to the new problem before me. I had taught several years at the University of Deseret. But there I knew my course well, but to commence a course now, where here-to-fore the Bible alone had been the guide, and to meet the need of the hour when students of the age coming into high school and junior work, with strict outlines and supervision, with everything before them and now coming from the discipline of high school requirements, into religion class work where they could come if they desired or remain away, … but to take religion which was frowned down upon during the week days, only for Sundays, was a task too great to undertake alone. So I did as I have always done when presented with a task, went in humility and prayer to my Father in Heaven and in my simplicity told him my problem and asked for inspiration, guidance, wisdom and courage for the task before me. … I was unknown to most of the Faculty and students of the Granite High and so during the summer I thought out how best to make a beginning.”
He became enthusiastic about the beginning of the year in teaching at Granite High School and looked forward to registration day, on September 3, 1915. A crowd of students was on hand, and his journal entry describes the event: “Commenced a very important period of my life and one that will, I am sure affect the destiny of thousands of the youth of Zion, if the plans maturing in my mind blossom into fruition” (quoted in Lyman Clarence Pedersen Jr., “John Mills Whitaker: Diarist, Educator, Churchman” [master’s thesis, University of Utah, 1960], 167).
His diary records events step-by-step which led to the tremendous success he had in carrying forward this program over the years. Significant is the statement of the late S. Dilworth Young, one of the Seventy, who was one of Brother Whitaker’s earliest seminary students: “Had Elder A. Theodore Tuttle been clairvoyant, he would have seen in the year 1914 a fourteen-and-a-half-year-old stripling entering the first seminary instituted by the Church. Across the street from Granite High School a building had been constructed—one room in size—a teacher employed, and the school opened to students. I was that stripling. There died yesterday the third teacher of that particular seminary. The teacher was John M. Whitaker.
“I should like to make a short tribute to Brother Whitaker. He likely did not know the profound influence he had upon me as a boy, as I studied minutely under him and Guy C. Wilson before him, the detail of the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and the Doctrine and Covenants. I look back upon it now, realizing that there was where I got my first detailed knowledge of these standard works. Could I have enough influence I would see to it that every boy and every girl in the Church had a like experience under a man of faith” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1960, 80).

Illustrated by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
Wilford Woodruff traveled across the United States several times as a leader in the Church. One time he stayed overnight in Indiana on his way to meet with the Saints in Boston, Massachusetts.
Wilford: I think we should sleep here tonight. I know of some brethren who will let us stay with them.
Wilford, his wife, and one of their children decided to sleep in the carriage.
Wife: It looks like all of the other children are settled down in the house for the night. Good night, Wilford.
Wilford: Good night.
Not long after getting in bed, Wilford heard a voice tell him to move his carriage.
Wilford: I have to move the carriage.
Wife: What for?
Wilford: I do not know. But I do recognize the voice of the Spirit, and it’s telling me to move.
Wilford moved the carriage forward. About 30 minutes later a sudden whirlwind blew a nearby oak tree over. The huge tree was snapped into pieces and crushed two fences.
When the Woodruffs’ hosts and children came out to look at the damage, they noticed that the tree had landed right where Wilford’s carriage was parked before he moved it.
In the morning the Woodruffs were able to safely continue their journey, and they went on their way rejoicing.
Wilford: By obeying the revelation of the Spirit of God to me, I saved my life as well as the lives of my wife and child.

There comes a time in all of our lives when we question the existence of our testimony. For me it came when I discovered that though within my mind I knew the Church to be true, within my heart there had been no such witness, or so I supposed.

I wanted my own special witness. I prayed and fasted, fasted and prayed. Finally one day, as I sat in sacrament meeting, my heart began to tremble and my eyes began to water. This is something that often happens to me in testimony and sacrament meetings. I realized then that this was my witness that the gospel is true. I knew that I had always known the Church to be true.

Do not be ashamed to admit you do not know the Church is true. We all must be converted to the gospel spiritually, no matter how many generations our families have been in the Church.
Tony S. RollsWestmead, Australia

Jacy stared at the night-light. It was too bright. She couldn’t sleep. She pulled her blanket over her eyes. Now it was too dark! She couldn’t sleep.
Jacy grabbed her teddy bear. It had a little bell inside that made noise. Jacy shook the bear. Ting, ting, ting went the bell. That didn’t help her sleep either.
She was so bored! There was no one to talk to! And it was too quiet and too dark.
Jacy started to cry. She would never fall asleep!
Just then her door opened softly.
“Jacy?”
It was Daddy! He came and sat by her on the bed. “What’s the matter?” Daddy asked.
“It’s too quiet! I can’t sleep. My brain just keeps thinking of things!” Jacy wiped the tears off her cheeks.
Daddy rubbed her back. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I sing my favorite song. And then I count my blessings.”
Daddy started singing. He sang, “Count your blessings, name them one by one. Count your blessings, see what God hath done.”
Jacy hummed along. She liked this song too.
“What are some of your blessings?” Daddy asked.
“Um, my teddy bear,” said Jacy. She waved the bear to make the bell jingle.
“That’s a good blessing,” said Daddy. “What else?”
“Daddy!” said Jacy. “Daddy is a blessing.”
That made Daddy smile.
“And Mommy,” said Jacy. “And baby Darel. He’s kind of a blessing.”
Daddy laughed. “How about your warm bed and your night-light?”
Jacy nodded. She was starting to feel sleepy.
Daddy pulled the blanket up to Jacy’s chin. “You are a blessing too, Jacy. I love you.” He gave her a kiss and closed the door behind him.
Jacy hummed the song again. “Count your blessings, count your blessings …”
And soon she was fast asleep.