Gospel Story Finder

When you look at Jason Nicholl’s medical history, it’s no wonder he eventually wants to become a doctor. He’s certainly visited enough of them in his life. Even less surprising is the fact Jason worked as an emergency medical technician before leaving to serve a full-time mission in the Nevada Las Vegas Mission. After being helped for all these years, he figures he needs to start giving back and helping others.
“I’ve always been a klutz. On every Scout campout, I’d do something to hurt myself,” says Jason. Let’s see, there was the time he sliced off the top of his finger while closing a pocketknife. There was the speed-cutting contest where he was chopping with an ax that hit a knot in the log, flew up, and embedded itself in his ankle.
He’d like to remember the time he was night skiing when one of his skis came off, hit him in the face, broke his nose and knocked him out. He spent four days in the hospital, but he’s still a little foggy about that episode.
Besides his nose, Jason has broken two of his ribs, his arm, his hand, and his foot. To this day he can’t tell you how many fingers he’s broken. “Countless,” he says. But as the youngest emergency medical technician for an ambulance company in Salt Lake City, Jason began working toward the goal he’s had since he was six years old. “One day when I was six, I was sitting in front of the TV watching this health channel where they were showing some surgical procedure. It fascinated me,” Jason recalls. “That’s when I decided I wanted to be a doctor.”
Jason knows he has a lot of schooling ahead of him once he returns from his mission. However, he’s already learned much about the body because of the training he has received as an EMT. Many EMTs use their training as stepping-stones to jobs in law enforcement or related medical careers.
In fact, when Jason returns from his mission, he hopes to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a paramedic. While EMTs are trained in basic life support, paramedics know advanced life support techniques and are able to perform emergency procedures EMTs can’t. Jason sees this as the next logical step toward his ultimate career goal.
He knows that after spending two years as a missionary, it will take some time to get his skills back when he returns. But it’s a tradeoff he’s willing to make. “I believe in the gospel and I believe in the work,” Jason says.
Besides, when he gets back he’ll have the rest of his life ahead of him.

The unique qualities possessed by these men and women whom I have mentioned can be of invaluable assistance to us as we face the problems and the trials which lie ahead. May I illustrate by mentioning the experience of the Pollard family of Oakland, California.

A few years ago, as Elder Taavili Joseph Samuel Pollard was traveling to the mission office on the last day of his mission in Zimbabwe, the mission car he was driving somehow spun out of control and hit a tree. A passerby was able to rescue Elder Pollard’s companion, but Elder Pollard, who was unconscious, was trapped in the car, which burst into flames. Elder Pollard perished. His mother had passed away eight years earlier; hence, his father was rearing the family alone. A brother was serving in the West Indies Mission.

When the news of Elder Pollard’s death reached his father, this humble man—who had already lost his wife—called the son serving in the West Indies to let him know of his brother’s death. Over that long-distance telephone line, Brother Pollard and his son, no doubt grief stricken and heartsick, sang together “I Am a Child of God.” Before concluding the call, the father offered a prayer to Heavenly Father, thanking Him for His blessings and seeking His divine comfort.

Brother Pollard later commented that he knew his family would be all right, for they have strong testimonies of the gospel and of the plan of salvation.

Paul ran down the school steps and got into Mom’s car.
“How was school?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Paul exclaimed. “We have a new girl in our class named Cristina. She is from another country, and she is just learning to speak English.”
“I hope you will help her feel welcome,” Mom said.
“I’d like to, but how can I do that if she can’t understand me?” Paul asked.
“That’s easy,” Mom said. “Just smile.”
“Smile? What do you mean?”
“A smile can mean hello, how are you, or have a nice day. It is an international sign,” Mom said.
“I never thought of it that way before,” Paul said.
A few days later, Paul was excited to tell Mom about his day.
“Mom, remember when you told me that if I couldn’t talk to Cristina, I should just smile?” Paul asked. “Well, it worked!”
“That’s great!” Mom said. “What happened?”
“During recess I noticed that Cristina was standing by herself. She had a jump rope in her hand, but she wasn’t jumping. I wanted to be nice, but I didn’t know what to say. Then I remembered what you said and I smiled at her. She smiled back. Then she started jumping rope, and for the rest of recess she looked happy.”
“That’s wonderful!” Mom said. “I’m proud of you for being nice to Cristina.”
About a month later, Paul went to a school party at the roller-skating rink. As he skated around, he noticed that Cristina was standing alone at the side of the rink. Then there was an announcement over the loudspeaker: “Find a buddy to skate with for the next song.”
Paul skated over to Cristina. She looked surprised. He gave her a big smile and motioned for her to join him. Just like that day on the playground, she smiled brightly. As they skated with their classmates, Paul realized Mom was right. A smile means friendship in any language.

In another ward, the Relief Society sisters organized to help an ill woman while her husband was out of the home. She was a native of Thailand whose English language skills were limited. She had a disease that attacked every organ of her body. The sisters learned to operate the respirator. They bathed her, combed her hair, brushed her teeth, cleaned her house, and prepared meals as well. I heard this woman cry words of gratitude for the love and patience of those who served her.

Christopher found his job using another technique he learned in the workshops at the fair. He applied for a job, but at the time there were no openings. When he followed up a few days later he said, “I know that it costs you something to train new employees. I will volunteer to come in and learn whatever you would like me to learn on my own time and then if you think I can do the job to your satisfaction I will be trained and ready to go to work when you have an opening.” This initiative impressed his employer enough that he interviewed him and hired him on the spot. Although the restaurant is open on Sunday, Christopher’s employer respects his beliefs and has not required that he come in and work on that day.

Our apartment building was a great place to live. It overlooked the playground, my best friends lived next door, and there were always fun things to do.
But one thing wasn’t so great—Mrs. McDuffie.
“Stop running up the stairs,” she’d shout. “You’re making my pictures rattle!”
“Use quieter voices,” she’d say. “Don’t you know my walls are thin?”
“Yes, Mrs. McDuffie. Sorry, Mrs. McDuffie,” we’d always say.
There was only one word to describe Mrs. McDuffie. G-R-U-M-P. That’s right—grump.
“Why is Mrs. McDuffie so grumpy?” I asked my mom.
“Sometimes people don’t feel well. Sometimes they feel sad and alone.”
“Sometimes they’re just grumpy,” I said.
“Yes,” Mom said. “Sometimes people are just grumpy, but a little bit of kindness can go a long way.”
Mrs. McDuffie continued to scold us daily. One day we were extra loud in the stairwell.
“HELLO!” Tommy shouted. “Hello, hello, ello, lo …” Tommy pretended he was on a mountain testing an echo.
“Shh!” I said. “Mrs. McDuffie will get mad if we’re too loud.”
“Maybe she’s not home,” Macy said. “I’m going to knock on her door and run!” She did, but nobody answered.
“Maybe she’s sleeping,” Tommy said.
“Maybe she went to visit someone,” Macy said.
Soon Macy and Tommy had to go home. I walked down the hall only to find Mrs. McDuffie just leaving my apartment!
“Hello, Lori,” she said. She flashed a crinkled smile as she brushed past.
She smiled at me! That had to be a “you’re in trouble, kid” kind of smile. Mrs. McDuffie never smiled, and she was talking to my mom. What did she say?
I walked into the kitchen. “Mom?”
“We need to talk,” she said. “Could you go down and visit with Mrs. McDuffie for a while? Her husband was very sick for a long time, and he recently died.”
Mrs. McDuffie had a husband? I didn’t even know.
I quietly walked down the stairs and knocked on her door. When she answered the door, Mrs. McDuffie had tears in her eyes.
“My mom told me about your husband. I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.
As I went inside, for the first time I saw the crooked pictures on the wall that rattled as people went up and down the stairs.
“I’ve been too hard on you kids,” she said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been feeling very well with my husband so sick. Thank you for coming.”
We sat on her floral couch, and Mrs. McDuffie told me stories about when she was young. She not only smiled; she laughed. I laughed too.
Mom was right: a little bit of kindness did go a long way. Mrs. McDuffie smiled more after that. Although we tried to be quiet, sometimes we got too loud. That’s when Mrs. McDuffie opened the door and shared a knock-knock joke or a plate of cookies.
There is only one word to describe Mrs. McDuffie. F-R-I-E-N-D. That’s right—friend.

In 2017, after returning from my mission, I embarked on an academic journey fueled by faith and determination. I enrolled in a computer school, dedicating a year to acquiring valuable skills. My resolve grew stronger, leading me to take the university entrance exam. To my delight, I was successfully admitted that same year.
Amidst my academic pursuits, I learned about the Benson Agricultural and Food Scholarship. Despite applying twice, I faced disappointment as there were insufficient funds. However, my fortune changed when I met Karen Melby Teerlink, the missionary couple dedicated to welfare. With their support, I was finally awarded the scholarship.
Since receiving the Benson scholarship, my life has transformed remarkably. At Stella Maris Polytechnic University, I consistently achieved honor roll status, a testament to the comprehensive support provided by the scholarship, covering all fees, including books and other expenses.
The scholarship alleviated my financial struggles, allowing me to focus on my studies. This opportunity enabled me to serve as a student leader, a favorite among students, and a trusted communicator within the administration. I had the privilege to conduct surveys for the Center for Agricultural Research Institute (CARI) on integrated rice and fish farming, and for World Fish under CARI, as well as a survey for Solidaridad on cocoa seeding and plantain suckers. These experiences were invaluable and only possible because of the scholarship.
Today, I am proud to be the first in my family to earn a BS degree. This milestone sets a precedent for my siblings, encouraging them to pursue higher education. Inspired by the scholarship’s impact, I initiated an animal husbandry project, starting with pig raising and planning to expand to other animals like goats and cattle. My vision includes establishing an agribusiness that encompasses the entire value chain process, benefiting end consumers.
Currently, I am pursuing agribusiness studies at BYU-Idaho, an opportunity made possible by the scholarship and the support of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I am immensely grateful for these blessings and the positive changes in my life. The scholarship has not only advanced my education but also instilled a deep sense of responsibility to give back to society with the knowledge and skills I have gained.
My journey is a testament to the power of faith, perseverance, and the profound impact of the Benson Scholarship. I am committed to making a difference in my community and beyond, forever indebted to those who have supported me along the way.

A good man had been given the assignment in his ward of arranging the Boy Scout banquet. He had worked hard, made his choices, and carried them through. The tables were set, the food was in the pot, and the hour was drawing nigh.
His wife came over early to check things out. Everything seemed in order, but it looked mighty colorless to her trained eye. She turned to him and said, “Okay, Honey, but what are you going to use for the centerpieces?”
Surprised, he looked at the stark setting and considered the matter gravely for a moment. Then, in the full agency of his manhood, he replied, “Butter—squares of butter!”
Now that is what you might call freedom of choice—agency. And that’s what we’re going to talk about for a few minutes, agency and accountability. I must add that should we happen to choose butter for the centerpiece, we can’t expect compliments on the decor. We have our free agency, but we also have to accept the consequences of our choices. It isn’t so serious in centerpieces, but in matters of life, and of life after death, it is critical.

It was cool inside the Western Presbyterian Church of Palmyra on Sunday, that twenty-first day of September, 1823. Fall had just come blowing in, laying the smoke flat on the chimney tops, but there was no fireplace inside the frame meetinghouse on Church Street. It was not considered necessary to provide comforts in a house of worship.
Joseph and Don Carlos, who were not Presbyterians, had accompanied their mother, Hyrum, Sophronia, and Samuel to meeting. The other members of the family attended the newly built Methodist church in the eastern part of Palmyra. As Joseph passed the Reverend Daniel C. Hopkins on the way out, he smiled and was about to comment on the sermon when the minister abruptly turned away. Joseph and his family had almost grown used to being treated with a shrug and turn of the head, so they quietly walked on through the doorway. On several occasions, men of high standing in the most popular churches of the day had instigated bitter persecution against Joseph and his family. Joseph thought often of the intense bitterness that would cause someone to try to kill him in the dooryard of his home.
He had struggled to sort out an answer. Discussing his concern one evening with his mother, he asked, “Why should professors of religion excite people against me? I went to God in prayer to ask which church I should join. God the Father and Jesus answered my questions in person.”
“The Lord told you not to join any of the churches,” his mother answered. “He even went so far as to say that some of their doctrines were wrong. In the minds of the ministers, that would seem to challenge their position, their authority as leaders of the churches.”
“But the words are the Lord’s, not mine!”
“I know, Joseph. They’re trying to discredit your vision, to smother with ridicule and abuse that which they find themselves unable to silence with argument.”
Joseph recalled his mother’s words as he walked down the meetinghouse steps that morning. A red-headed boy with a splash of freckles taunted in a whisper that was meant to be heard, “Had any visions lately?”
When Joseph turned and caught his eye, the boy snickered and ran down Church Street.
Suddenly chilled, Lucy hugged a shawl to her shoulders as a husky, weather-beaten farmer called out, “Well, I do believe that’s young Joe Smith coming out of our meetinghouse!”
The men began joking about visions, taunting Joseph to argue with them. But he walked on in silence, his mouth tightened around a reply that he would not utter. No use starting a war of words, especially when he wasn’t right sure of the answers.
Lucy’s heart cried out to her son, Joseph, Joseph, don’t let them hurt you. Alvin, noticing his mother’s anguished expression, took her arm and said comfortingly, “Remember that Father has often said that Joseph has a lot of courage for a stripling. He can take it on the chin. If he had a mind to, he could wrestle the two of them to the ground with one arm tied behind his back.”
Lucy knew it was true. She also knew it took strength and courage to bear the humiliation in silence.
But six-year-old Don Carlos was flushed with anger. He backed away from the men, fretting like a cornered owl. Then suddenly he stopped for a moment, his face curiously without expression. When he caught up with Joseph again, he was smiling broadly. In guarded tones he confessed, “There’s one good thing about having four front teeth missing at once. You can stick out your tongue with your mouth closed.”
Joseph chuckled all the way to the wagon. “I’ll never tell,” he promised.
After picking up the rest of the family at the Methodist Church, the Smiths headed their horse down Canandaigua Road toward home. Joseph watched the dirt spill from the back of the wagon wheels in gritty whispers. If only the haunting questions would leave his thoughts as easily. But they kept rolling around in his head. And the constant creak of the wheels echoed the swallowed cry in his throat—Why haven’t I heard? Why haven’t I heard? Why haven’t I heard from the Lord?
Since his vision, Joseph had worked with his father on the farm as usual, waiting for further instructions from the Lord. But three years had passed and there had been no word. Strange, he thought; or is there a reason? It troubled him to think there might be something he should be doing—or not doing.
If, however, the heavens seemed closed to Joseph, the world about him was opening up. During those years Joseph watched the village of Palmyra grow from about seven hundred settlers to almost one thousand. He helped his father and Alvin build a lean-to on the back of their log house. It served as a sleeping room and somewhat relieved their crowded condition. Not long after it was completed a baby sister was born, the last of ten surviving children. So, under the direction of Alvin, who was by then a very able carpenter, a much larger frame house was begun nearby.
In 1822 the Erie Canal that had been started five years before reached Palmyra. The waterway was nearly parallel to Mud Creek and Main Street, and all three ran through the entire length of the village that extended for about a mile.
Whenever he could, Don Carlos accompanied Joseph on his weekly trips into Palmyra. “Let’s go see the big ditch,” Don Carlos would plead, almost before the wagon wheels began to roll. Then his six-year-old eyes would fill with such anticipation and hope that Joseph somehow always managed it.
One day as the two of them leaned on the fence, watching the long, shallow boats move along the canal, they sensed that this was indeed one of the great wonders of their age. “Just think, Don Carlos, when all the sections of the canal are finished it’ll stretch from the Hudson River to Lake Erie, over three hundred and sixty miles,” Joseph said.
Don Carlos didn’t much care about all that. He just wanted to walk beside a team of mules and pet them as they pulled the boat through the water. He didn’t like the way the mule driver rode on his horse behind them, cutting them with his long whip and scowling and cursing.
“Palmyra will soon be one of the most important canal towns in western New York,” Joseph explained to his younger brother.
But Don Carlos was still thinking about mules. “Some day I’ll have my own mule team. I’ll ride a horse behind them and crack my whip in the air and they’ll pull the boat up and down the big ditch. And I’ll see Buffalo and Syracuse and even the Atlantic Ocean.”
Joseph smiled. Don Carlos had his future all planned out.
“I wonder what I’ll be doing?” Joseph mused aloud. “Three years ago when I talked with the Lord, He seemed to have something in mind for me. I wonder why I haven’t heard what it is.”
Don Carlos looked up at his seventeen-year-old brother and shrugged. “Maybe the Lord’s forgotten,” he said.
Joseph had to laugh at that, but his heart yearned for answers.

Obviously, The Ranch isn’t your typical ranch. Sister Lou Cille Hamnett, who runs the place with her husband Von and her son Scott, tells about the dream she and her first husband, the late Neil Carlisle, shared when they purchased the property. Over the years, ward groups from the surrounding states clamored for the opportunity to have activities at the site.

“When you walk around here and the sandhill cranes are flying overhead and the Canadian geese are flying and the ducks are out there on the lake and it’s quiet, well, there’s no place like it,” Sister Hamnett said. “People are living such a rat race that they don’t stop to smell the roses, they don’t stop to feel, really, the reverence of the soil and the clean air. I think that’s what you get up here. There is a special spirit here.”

Because of that special spirit, even after Brother Carlisle passed away in 1985, Sister Hamnett wanted to keep The Ranch going. But she had her doubts about whether it could be maintained.

Then Bishop Blake Wride and the youth of the 19th Ward came to the rescue.

“They knew what a large responsibility the upkeep and improvement of The Ranch would be for me. So he got all of his kids together and suggested coming up for a service project. I thought, ‘Well, why not?’ But I thought I would probably be baby-sitting them. Instead, this group has just been marvelous. Neil always said that giving to others was the most important thing. I knew we were giving by having these church groups come up here, but now someone’s giving in return.”

After I joined the Church in Germany, I had cried a little for the glass of wine I would miss at parties and also for my dearly loved cup of coffee. But it really didn’t matter, I told myself, because I was not addicted. But four weeks after I banned alcohol and coffee from my life, I woke up with excruciating pains in my legs. I ignored them and went to work. But within two hours, my whole body ached and each movement hurt more and more. I was taken to the doctor. He gave me some pills, ordered 14 days of rest, and said with a laugh, “Drink a nice strong cup of coffee when you get home. That can’t hurt you.”
I suddenly realized that my pains were withdrawal symptoms. My body was reacting to the loss of caffeine. How easy it would have been to follow my doctor’s advice. How difficult it seemed in my weakened condition to listen to the Lord. Fortunately, the Lord strengthened me, and I did not give in to temptation. With His help, I overcame this condition—and continued to obey the Word of Wisdom.

Elizabeth loved going to Primary every week. She loved singing Church songs and feeling the peaceful spirit there. She loved all her friends in Primary. But then her Primary class changed.
A new boy named Joseph moved in, and he seemed different from the other kids. His clothes were rumpled and dirty, and he didn’t seem to know when to talk and when to be quiet. He never raised his hand.
When Elizabeth talked to her mom about the new boy, her mom said that Joseph came from a “hard situation.” Elizabeth wasn’t really sure what that meant, but she noticed that Joseph’s family didn’t come to church with him.
A few weeks after Joseph started coming to Primary, the trouble started.
“Everyone sit down so we can begin class,” Sister Johnson said. All the kids started to take their seats, but when Joseph sat down, everyone moved away from him.
From then on, if Joseph sat on one side of the room, everyone hurried and moved to other side. It was like a game of musical chairs, where everyone tried to move as far away from Joseph as possible. Elizabeth had been taught to be kind, but even she began to play the musical chairs game. Sister Johnson told everyone to stay in their seats, but it was obvious—no one wanted to sit by Joseph.
Then one week at church, Joseph wasn’t there. Then another week, and another week passed, and Joseph still didn’t come.
Elizabeth wondered about Joseph and why he wasn’t coming to church anymore. She thought that maybe it was because of his “hard situation.” Or maybe he had moved away. But she just couldn’t get rid of an icky feeling that she had done something wrong. The more she thought, the more Elizabeth realized that their musical chairs game had been mean and wrong and that maybe it was the reason Joseph stopped coming to church.
One night after family prayer, Elizabeth gave her mom a hug and started to cry.
“Mom, I think I did something wrong. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”
Elizabeth told her mom about how no one in her Primary class wanted to sit next to Joseph. She told her how they had all laughed and tried to get the farthest seat away from him and how she felt bad for being mean to him. Elizabeth and her mom talked about repentance and what she could do to feel better and make things right.
Mom said, “Joseph is a child of God. It doesn’t matter if he looks and acts different; Heavenly Father loves him. We should always treat others like they are valuable, because they truly are.”
Elizabeth promised herself that she would never treat anyone like that again. Even if it meant being less popular, she would treat everyone like a child of God.
One Sunday, Joseph finally returned to Primary. When the other kids started to giggle and race to find a seat away from Joseph, Elizabeth chose the seat right next to him.
“Hey, Joseph! What’s up?” she asked with a warm smile.
Go to “Family Night Fun” for an activity to go with this story.
For Elizabeth, the musical chairs game was over. Joseph would always have someone to sit by now.

There are others, too, who are thinking more now about the things that really matter. “My wife had gone through I don’t know how many houses and helped clean up,” explained Brother Roy Vanlandingham. “And after she looked at all that broken fine china and cut glass, we realized what Christ meant when he said not to store up your treasures on earth. No matter what you’ve got, it can be taken away from you in less than 32 seconds. Your family is the only thing that matters. During the aftershocks, we sat in the middle of the street and watched our house rock three feet in each direction. But once I had found out my family was all right the panic was over.”

Elyssa also loves her tata (grandpa). When Elyssa was a baby, Tata would play the guitar for her. Later they sang together. Tata was with her a lot because he developed a serious disease and couldn’t go to work. Each day, he picked her up after school and took her to eat at a place of her choice. When Pixie was missing one stormy night, Tata comforted Elyssa, prayed with her, and kept searching until her beloved pet was found safe several days later.

Todd had a hard time sitting still during sacrament meeting. He swung his feet. He wiggled in his seat.
Todd liked to sit on Daddy’s lap at church. But Daddy was out of town today. “Todd,” Mommy whispered. “It’s time to be reverent during the sacrament.” She gave him a copy of the Friend.
Todd looked at the pictures. But soon he got tired of being still. He held his baby sister, Sarah’s, hand. She wrapped her tiny fingers around his. Todd smiled.
Soon the bread tray was passed to him. Todd was hungry. He used both hands to grab lots of bread. Mommy frowned. She said, “Next time, just take one.”
After the meeting, Mommy smiled at Todd. “Thank you for helping Sarah while Daddy is away.”
Todd liked helping Mommy at church. He thought about all the bread he took.
“I’m sorry I took a lot of bread. Why do we only get one piece?” he asked.
Mommy hugged Todd. “We don’t take the bread because we are hungry. We take the bread to remember Jesus. And we take just one piece so that everyone can have a piece to remember Jesus.”
Todd tried extra hard to be reverent during church the next week. He took just one piece of bread. He was happy he could remember Jesus. He wanted to help others remember Jesus too.

Most of her neighbors belong to other churches, but that doesn’t stop Julianne from being their friend. She does all she can to make certain that she doesn’t have conflicts with her neighbors, like some of the early Saints did. One of her best friends is a sixty-year-old widow named Mrs. Troyer. Julianne loves to work in the garden or go for walks with her. They’ve been great friends for two or three years. “We talk about all kinds of stuff on our walks. She’s one of the nicest people I know,” said Julianne.

I stammered and stuttered during my growing-up years. In school, I would never be involved in anything that required more than a minimum of speaking. My parents sent me to speech teachers and therapists, but they couldn’t correct my problem. However, just before my father became ill, I received my patriarchal blessing. It said, in part, “Lloyd, you have problems. Know this—the Lord loves you and wants you to be happy. I bless you that you shall go out into the world and preach the gospel with force to a waiting world.” Because of this blessing, I accepted a call to the Southern States Mission.
The first month of my mission was terrible. I had never administered the sacrament or given a talk. My companion had me talk to one lady at her door, and I stuttered and stammered terribly. After a month of not making any improvement, I prayed, “Lord, now is the time. If I don’t have relief from this affliction, the mission president will send me home. Lord, it has to be now!”
Gradually I was able to speak more fluently. After six months I went back to some elderly sisters that we had taught, and I really gave them and some others what I thought was my best talk. Afterward, with tears in their eyes, some of them came up to me and said, “The Lord has really blessed you.” After that experience, I learned about the real power of prayer.

My parents met at a Church activity and shortly after decided to get married and sealed in the Bern Switzerland Temple. Waiting at the railway station, having spent the last of their little savings for the trip to the temple, they wondered how they would make ends meet but were confident that it would all work out. And it did!
They started to raise their family from a very humble single attic-room apartment in the heart of Amsterdam. After several years of washing their clothes by hand, they had finally saved up enough money to purchase a washing machine. Just before they would make the purchase, the bishop visited them, asking for a contribution to build the meetinghouse in Amsterdam. They decided to give all they had saved for the washing machine and continued to do the laundry by hand.

One Saturday evening in 2009, my missionary companion, Sister Alison Vevea, and I were sitting in a chapel watching the General Relief Society Meeting. I was thinking about Angela, a woman we were helping to prepare for baptism.
Two years earlier, Angela’s son had been killed. Angela was currently unemployed and, although excited to get baptized, often felt lonely and depressed. That evening before the broadcast, Sister Vevea and I had prayed for inspiration to know how to help Angela.
As President Henry B. Eyring spoke, I felt impressed to give something to Angela. But what? The Spirit then told me, “Angela needs flowers.” Almost immediately, President Eyring shared a story about a woman who was prompted to take tulips to a Relief Society sister.1 His story confirmed to me that Angela, for whatever reason, needed flowers.
After the broadcast had ended, I told my companion what the Spirit had whispered to me. Without hesitation, we drove to the nearest grocery store. While looking at the store’s meager flower selection, I picked up a bouquet of daisies.
“I don’t know,” Sister Vevea said. “What about the sunflowers?”
I pointed out their higher price, but my companion insisted. “I really feel that we should get the sunflowers,” she said.
Minutes later we were standing on Angela’s porch, sunflowers in hand. I don’t remember the greetings we exchanged when the door opened. I remember only Angela’s tears.
Angela explained that she refers to each of her children as her “little sunflowers.” Whenever she visits her son’s grave, she rests sunflowers by his headstone. The day before, however, she had gone empty-handed. Despite all her searching, she had not been able to find sunflowers anywhere. With our gift, she planned to return to the cemetery the next day to continue her tradition.
That evening the Spirit had worked through President Eyring, my companion, and me to deliver a message of love to Angela from her Heavenly Father. I am grateful for the whisperings of the Holy Spirit. They taught me early in my mission that God is aware of His children and that He is ever ready to help us accomplish His work.

One such Elder was James Leaing McMurrin, who arrived on UK shores in the spring of 1884 and was assigned to Glasgow. He was delighted by this, as Scotland was the home of his ancestors. He eagerly endeavoured to find them, but sadly had no success.
Six months into his mission he was reassigned to Ireland. On learning of this, his aunt gave him the address of one Hugh McMurrin, who lived in Ireland. The Elder determined to visit him if possible. However, the address was not within his assigned area.
Sometime later, he and his companion went out to visit a family of Church members but got lost. It was getting late, and upon enquiring at a house the direction to the town they were seeking, the occupants offered the elders a meal and a bed for the night. After learning Elder McMurrin’s name, the couple told him of a neighbour they had by the name of Hugh McMurrin.
Astonished, but delighted, Elder McMurrin visited him and found he was the Hugh McMurrin his aunt had told him about. He had moved from the address his aunt had given him. From this gentleman he received the addresses of other McMurrins, whom he visited and who gave him nearly one hundred and fifty names of his ancestors.