Gospel Story Finder

It was another dreary, lifeless, and boring day. For the last little while, everything had been the same, and though I tried to be happy, I was growing bored and restless. It was the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic and my country was in lockdown, so we were all encouraged to stay home until further notice.
Every day when I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw an emptiness there. It could have been because I couldn’t see my friends or because I wasn’t able to work or support my family at the time. I had just graduated from college and wanted to become a teacher, but I needed to pass an examination that had been postponed because of the pandemic.
I felt unhappy, like something was missing in my heart, but I couldn’t completely figure out what it was or even how I could find it.
One night, my cousin was browsing through a book. It was dark blue and entitled “Ang Aklat ni Mormon.” She had recently gone with her friend to something called “family home evening” and had been talking to missionaries on the phone a few nights a week ever since. On this particular night, she was talking on the phone while skimming the book when suddenly she asked me if I could help her answer a question from one of the missionaries.
“Seriously?” I thought. “You’re the one being asked, so why do I have to help?”
But I gave in and asked her what the question was. And she said, “Ano daw layunin mo sa buhay?” (“What do you think is your purpose in life?”)
My heart started beating so fast when I heard the question.
“This is it! This is what I’ve been looking for. This is what’s been missing in my heart,” I thought.
I stared at my cousin, smiling, and borrowed the phone to answer the missionary’s question. I told him that I believed that the purpose of life is to be happy, to enjoy life, and to serve others and be kind to them. And he agreed!
He and his companion also asked if they could teach my cousin and me more about the gospel, and we said yes. My family was taught by missionaries when I was young. My mother is a member but had been less active for most of my life, but after the conversation on the phone, I wanted to learn more.
Every time the missionaries shared something about the gospel, I felt joy in my heart, particularly in learning about the plan of salvation and the promises of Heavenly Father and the Savior. Eventually we went to church, and the members welcomed us with their warm hearts and helping hands.
I could feel in my heart that I was taking the right path. And after a few months, I was baptized by a close friend who had helped me move forward in the gospel.
Making a lot of changes in my life after joining the Church was hard. And my life is far from being easy or happy all the time. But as I have had new opportunities to serve and deepen my testimony, I have come to know with certainty that everlasting joy is indeed found in this gospel.
I feel joy in my heart whenever I read the scriptures, hear divine inspiration from our prophets and apostles, and witness the testimonies of the members around me. I’ve found my answer to the question those missionaries asked over the phone: the purpose of life is to be a better person for God, for myself, and for my family, all while striving to return to Him. And this knowledge has brought me the exact happiness I’ve been looking for. Continuing to serve people and take my family to church is now my top priority, because I want them to experience true joy.
President Russell M. Nelson taught, “When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation … and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives.”1
I too testify that true happiness can be found only in following Jesus Christ. Every opportunity I have had in the gospel of Jesus Christ has filled my soul with joy, especially as I have allowed these experiences to help me grow closer to Him.
Before the COVID-19 pandemic, I had been happy with my life. But the true joy the gospel brings is different from happiness. Even in the pandemic, the gospel brings me peace and shows me the purpose of life, which helps me keep moving forward with faith and hope.
I finally found my missing piece. I needed the joy that following Jesus Christ brings to my heart and my life, as we all do.

Amy and Becca lay wide awake in their beds. Amy counted stars out the window as they appeared one by one in the sky.
Becca sat up. “Amy,” she said, “I can’t sleep.”
“I know,” Amy said. “Me neither.”
“We forgot to say family prayer again tonight,” Becca whispered.
“I know,” Amy said. “Mommy forgot to tell us to brush our teeth too. I guess taking care of baby Eric makes Mommy forget things.”
“Yeah,” Becca agreed. “And Daddy is out of town, so he can’t remind us.”
“I have an idea,” Amy said. “Let’s look out for things that Mommy might forget.”
“OK,” Becca said. “Let’s call ourselves the Lookout Girls.”
“That’s a great name,” Amy said. “The Lookout Girls will start tomorrow!”
The next day the girls woke up early.
Amy jumped out of bed. “Don’t forget we need to make our beds before breakfast,” she said.
“OK,” Becca said.
The girls finished just in time to hear Mommy calling them to breakfast.
“Don’t forget, Becca. We need to wash our hands before we eat,” Amy said.
Amy and Becca washed up and started down the hallway. Amy noticed Becca’s skates on the floor.
“Don’t forget to pick up your skates before someone trips on them,” Amy reminded.
Becca picked up her skates and marched back to her room. “Amy sure is being bossy,” she mumbled.
After breakfast, Amy said, “Don’t forget to take your dishes to the sink, Becca.”
“OK,” Becca said, frowning.
“What’s the matter?” Amy asked. “I’m just trying to help you remember.”
“I know,” Becca said. “But you won’t let me remember anything!”
“I know you remember things,” Amy said. “I just think of them first. But don’t worry. You’ll get a turn.”
When it was time to go to the store, Amy and Becca climbed into the car and buckled their seat belts. Mommy buckled Eric into his car seat.
“Don’t forget to buckle your seat belt, Mommy,” Amy said.
Becca stared out the window.
When Mommy pulled into a parking spot, Amy jumped out of the car and started walking toward the store.
Becca called out, “Wait, Amy. Don’t forget to hold my hand and watch for cars.”
“Oops, I forgot,” Amy said, taking her sister’s hand. “Thanks, Becca. I’m glad you remembered.”
At bedtime, Becca said, “Don’t forget, Mommy. We need to say our family prayer.”
“And we need to brush our teeth,” Amy said.
“You girls haven’t let me forget a thing today,” Mommy said. “You sure have been helpful.”
The girls smiled at each other. “We did a good job,” Becca whispered.
“Yeah,” Amy said, putting her arm around her younger sister. “The Lookout Girls are a good team!”

Mister Biggins had to tie the yellow balloon around his wrist. It was the only yellow one in his whole bunch of balloons. There were red balloons and blue balloons and pink and green and white balloons, all bobbing and bumping together over his head. But the yellow balloon bucked like a bronco. It pulled straight up, harder than all the others, hunting the sky.
Mister Biggins was selling balloons. Other people were flying kites—a box kite, a dragon kite, and one like a bat. The wind was glad to have them all to play with. The wind was laughing, and Billy could hear him. “He’s whuffling,” Billy said. “May I fly a kite, Mommy?”
“When you’re older, Billy.”
“Older? I’ll be older tomorrow.”
“But not old enough,” said Mommy. “See how fast the big boys run to get their kites up? You’ll have to have longer legs like theirs to fly a kite.”
“When I’m in kindergarten?” asked Billy.
“Well, we’ll see.”
The March wind whuffled around a rock. Billy stretched out his arms. He ran and ran. “Maybe the wind will fly me,” he called to his mother. “What fun it would be!”
The wind flew kites and leaves and papers. But it didn’t fly Billy. It only whuffled.
“Mommy! Why won’t the wind fly me? It flies clouds and they’re bigger than I am.”
“The clouds are bigger, all right, but they’re lighter than air.”
“The papers aren’t.”
“The papers are flat and light enough to sail on the wind.”
Billy ran again. The box kite was flying. It wasn’t flat or lighter than air. A jet plane drew a streak like a chalk mark as it flew across the sky. Even the sun—round and yellow—seemed to be flying.
Only Billy wasn’t flying. He was jumping and jumping, but he wasn’t flying. Billy saw Mister Biggins with all the balloons jostling together over his head.
“Mommy, may I have a balloon?”
“All right, Billy. Which one?”
“A flying balloon. Mister balloon man, do you have a flying balloon?”
“I certainly do. And a nuisance it is! It’s that yellow one in the middle. But keep a tight hold on it. It wants to fly.”
“So do I! I want to fly!”
Billy danced excitedly while Mister Biggins untied the yellow balloon from his wrist. He was glad to be rid of the restless balloon. “Hold it tight or it’ll get away. They put too much helium in it,” Mister Biggins explained.
Billy held the yellow balloon’s string with both hands and felt it tugging and tugging. He jumped a little to see if the yellow balloon would fly him, but Billy was too heavy for the yellow balloon. He bounced back down the path to the park, jumping like a kangaroo with the yellow balloon. But being a kangaroo wasn’t flying.
The dragon kite dipped over his head. The March wind whuffled. Little clouds scooted in front of the sun. The sun was as yellow as the yellow balloon.
“It’s a flying balloon. Fly away, balloon!” And Billy let go of the string.
“You lost it,” said Mommy.
“It’s flying away! It’s Billy Balloon, and it’s flying away!”
The balloon went up and up, above the dragon kite, over the box kite, higher and higher to where the clouds scooted.
“See Mommy! See! It’s Billy Balloon. It’s chasing the clouds. Billy Balloon! Billy Balloon!”

Let us go back to the year 1805, on the 23rd day of December, in the town of Sharon, Vermont. Will you accompany me as we look back on those dramatic events taking place on that day? As Joseph Smith Sr. and his wife, Lucy Mack, proudly looked down upon the little baby who had come into their home, I’m certain they were pleased and most grateful. A choice spirit had come to dwell in its earthly tabernacle.
Some have asked, “Did he have an unusual childhood or boyhood?” “Was the Prophet Joseph different from me or my brothers?” I think we could gain insight into the childhood of the Prophet by reading the words of his mother. She said, “I am aware that some of my readers will be disappointed, for … it is thought by some that I shall be likely to tell many very remarkable incidents which attended his childhood; but, as nothing occurred during his early life except those trivial circumstances which are common to that state of human existence, I pass them in silence.”1 This is all we have from the boy’s mother concerning his early childhood activities.
During his early youth, however, ill health and ill fortune seemed to pursue the family. When young Joseph was seven years old, he and his brothers and sisters were stricken with typhus fever. The others recovered readily, but Joseph was left with a painful sore on his leg. The doctors, doing the best they could under the conditions of the time, treated him—and yet the sore persisted. Finally the doctors were afraid they were going to have to amputate his leg.
Thankfully, however, one day the doctors came unexpectedly to the home and told the family they were going to try a new operation to remove a piece of the bone, hoping this would permit the sore to heal. They had brought with them some cord and planned to tie Joseph to the bed because they had no anesthetic, nothing to dull the pain, when they cut into his leg to remove the piece of bone.
Young Joseph, however, responded, “I will not be bound, for I can bear the operation much better if I have my liberty.”
The doctors then said, “Will you take some wine? … You must take something, or you can never endure the severe operation.”
Again the boy prophet said, “No, … but I will tell you what I will do—I will have my father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms, and then I will do whatever is necessary in order to have the bone taken out.”
So Joseph Smith Sr. held the boy in his arms, and the doctors opened the leg and removed the diseased piece of bone. Although he was lame for some time afterward, Joseph was healed.2 At seven years of age, the Prophet Joseph Smith taught us courage—by example.
When Joseph was in his 11th year, his family, which now consisted of 11 souls, left Vermont and moved to Palmyra, New York. Four years later they moved to Manchester, located in the same county. It was here that Joseph described the great religious revival that seemed everywhere present and of prime concern to every heart.
These are his words: “So great were the confusion and strife among the different denominations, that it was impossible for a person young as I was, and so unacquainted with men and things, to come to any certain conclusion who was right and who was wrong. …
“While I was laboring under the extreme difficulties caused by the contests of these parties of religionists, I was one day reading the Epistle of James, first chapter and fifth verse, which reads: If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him” (JS—H 1:8, 11).
The Prophet said that after reading this verse he knew for a certainty he must either put the Lord to the test and ask Him or perhaps choose to remain in darkness forever. He declared that as he retired to the grove to pray, this was the first time he had attempted to pray vocally to his Heavenly Father. But he had read the scripture, he had understood the scripture, he had trusted in God his Eternal Father; and now he knelt and prayed, knowing that God would give him the enlightenment which he so earnestly sought. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught us the principle of faith—by example.
Can you imagine the ridicule, the scorn, the mocking that all of his young friends, his older friends, and his foes alike must have heaped upon him as he mentioned that he had seen a vision?
I suppose it became almost unbearable for the boy, and yet he was honest with himself, for these are his words: “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” (JS—H 1:25).
The Prophet Joseph Smith taught honesty—by example.
The Prophet Joseph was truly blessed with the ability to inspire faith. One bright morning Joseph walked up to John E. Page and said, “Brother John, the Lord is calling you on a mission to Canada.”
John E. Page was rather astonished and said, “Why, Brother Joseph, I can’t go on a mission to Canada. I don’t even have a coat to wear.”
The Prophet Joseph took his own coat from his back, handed it to John Page, and said, “Here, John, wear this, and the Lord will bless you.” Brother Page took the coat, went to Canada, and in two years walked 5,000 miles and baptized 600 souls, because he trusted in the words of a prophet of God.3
The Prophet Joseph believed in missionary work. While he and Sidney Rigdon were proselyting at Perrysburg, New York, October 12, 1833, having been long absent from their families and feeling concerned for them, they received the following revelation:
“Verily, thus saith the Lord unto you, my friends Sidney and Joseph, your families are well; they are in mine hands, and I will do with them as seemeth me good; for in me there is all power. …
“Therefore, verily I say unto you, lift up your voices unto this people” (D&C 100:1, 5).
Joseph and Sidney continued their missionary labors.
Joseph Smith not only inspired men to volunteer for missions, but he also taught the importance of missionary work—by example.
I think one of the sweetest lessons taught by the Prophet, and yet one of the saddest, occurred close to the time of his death. He was required to leave his plan and vision of the Rocky Mountains and give himself up to face a court of supposed justice.
These are his words: “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter; but I am calm as a summer’s morning; I have a conscience void of offense towards God, and towards all men” (D&C 135:4). That statement of the Prophet teaches us obedience to law and the importance of having a clear conscience toward God and toward our fellowmen. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught these principles—by example.
There was to be one great final lesson before his mortal life ended. He was incarcerated in Carthage Jail with his brother Hyrum, with John Taylor, and with Willard Richards. The angry mob stormed the jail; they came up the stairway, blasphemous in their cursing, heavily armed, and began to fire at will. Hyrum was hit and died. John Taylor took several balls of fire within his bosom. The Prophet Joseph, with his pistol in hand, was attempting to defend his life and that of his brethren, and yet he could tell from the pounding on the door that this mob would storm that door and would kill John Taylor and Willard Richards in an attempt to kill him.
And so his last great act here upon the earth was to leave the door and lead Willard Richards to safety, throw the gun on the floor, and go to the window, that they might see him, that the attention of this ruthless mob might be focused upon him rather than the others. Joseph Smith gave his life. Willard Richards was spared, and John Taylor recovered from his wounds. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). The Prophet Joseph Smith taught us love—by example.
I pray we may learn from his example, that we might incorporate into our lives the great principles he so beautifully taught.

I love that the new Children and Youth program lets me set goals for myself and work on them with my family. One of my goals is to put on a scripture play every Sunday with my younger brother Sam.
One time we chose Daniel in the lions’ den. It was fun planning it. But then our little brother Michael, who is four, said, “Can I do the play with you?”
At first we said no.
But Michael started to cry.
So I said, “Sam! Come to the basement.”
Sam and I went down to the basement. Sam said, “Michael can’t be in the play. He can’t memorize his lines!”
But I had an idea. I said, “Let him join the play. Listen, he could be a lion! You can’t have Daniel and the lions’ den without a lion. Let’s go get him!”
On Sunday, the day of the show, we took our spots and started the show. We did a very good job. Michael did great roaring.
I know the Spirit was with me when I said Michael could be in the play. This experience taught me that if someone seems sad or lonely, we should include them. I hope you try the new Children and Youth program. I know it will help you be more like Jesus too!

“What?” I said incredulously. “I’m doing what? Dad, how could you?”
My dad just shook his head and waved me off, “Well, I thought you’d like to go on a rafting trip. You weren’t here to say, so I said yes.”
I stomped off angrily. My dad had accepted an invitation from the bishop for me to go on a weeklong rafting trip down the Colorado River with a bunch of kids from church. I had just spent over two weeks waterskiing with some of my real friends. I never expected to come home to the news that I was leaving the very next day to go rafting with the “church people.”
We had gone to church when I was younger, and I was baptized when I was eight. But shortly after that we moved from our old neighborhood to a new development. We slipped into inactivity, and no one seemed to notice. Now I was 16 and thought I was happy with my life. Even though my parents still raised me with high moral expectations like other Mormon kids, I still avoided people from church.
The next morning my parents dropped me at the Scoutmaster’s house. I recognized a few of the faces. I had gone to church with some of these guys when I was a kid. Some of them even went to my school.
As we started the long drive to the starting point of the trip, I was nervous about how things would be with the other boys. But everyone was cool. No one treated me like the “less-active kid.” It didn’t take long to feel like I was just part of the group.
I ended up having a great time. I liked these people. I listened to these boys and their leaders pray, and I felt something. Another boy, Todd, and I had become good friends. One day as we were waiting for dinner, we went for a walk. We found a set of train tracks and started walking along them.
We were goofing off and tossing rocks around when Todd suddenly said, “You know, you should come to church.”
I picked up another rock. “Yeah, maybe.” He didn’t say anything else about church then, but I remembered his invitation.
The whole experience was so different from the two weeks I had spent waterskiing. The adults on the skiing trip were always drunk, swearing at each other, and saying inappropriate things. The adults on the rafting trip were respectful toward us and one another. I was impressed, and I respected them for it.
After I returned home, the next Sunday I got up and got dressed for church. I knew enough to know that I should wear my best. As I came downstairs my mom and sisters were doing the dishes. “Hey, Gary, where are you going?” Mom asked.
“Uh,” I paused. “Church.” My mother seemed surprised (as did my sisters), but she just nodded. I went to church and sat in the back. For several weeks I went by myself.
Then one Saturday night my sister Patti said that she would go to church with me. Even though we liked the kids at church, we realized that going to church wasn’t about fitting in or having friends—church was about how we felt when we were there.
One day Patti and I were getting ready for church when we heard a call from downstairs, “Patti! Gary! We’re going to be late.” I went jogging down the stairs and saw my parents dressed and standing by the door. Our family was beginning to change.
I believe my bishop was inspired to invite me on that trip, and I believe my father was inspired to accept for me. The scriptures say, “Now ye may suppose that this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).
One small invitation led a family back to church. I earned my Eagle Scout Award and went on a mission. Patti and I each got married in the temple to returned missionaries. We’re now raising our own families in the gospel.
If you invite a less-active person to an activity, it may or may not impact their lives. But if you don’t invite them, it definitely won’t.

But Father and Stepmother made it difficult for me to attend church.

One day after I came home from a Young Women activity, Father stomped into the den, swore at me, grabbed my scriptures, and tore them into pieces. Flakes of white paper floated and drifted in the air, gracefully and gently landing on the floor, where my teardrops also fell.

It was like a nightmare I could not wake up from.

When I turned 21, I expressed a strong desire to serve a full-time mission. Father responded by disowning me. On Chinese New Year’s Eve, when most people went home to be with their loved ones, I was expelled from home.

On June 4, 1994, I reported to the Taiwan Taichung Mission as a full-time missionary. I pinned a black name tag on my coat, just like the elders who had come to visit my family years before. I was humbled. I was honored. I was blessed.

Don Dewey was a nonmember and one of Ken’s friends stationed aboard a sister minesweeper. He wanted to discover the loopholes in Church doctrine so he could point out to Ken the error of his decision to be baptized. So when the three men returned from sea, Don decided to join Willis and Ken at sacrament meeting in Charleston.

But Don never did find the loopholes. Instead, after months of intensive study, he also chose to become a member of the Church.

“I had the desire to one day become a missionary like them,” Bishop says. “Unfortunately, I was already too old to serve a full-time mission. So, I decided to use my gift as a communicator to spread the knowledge I acquired following my conversion.”
Bishop says he invited all his friends and acquaintances to meet with missionaries and come to church with him.
“Bishop is completely friendly and engaging,” Sister London Litchfield, former mission leader in the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission, shared. “He doesn’t see any boundaries between friendships, which I think is part of what makes him such a great missionary. Quite frankly, he is an inspiration to us.”
Bishop hasn’t kept count of how many friends and acquaintances he has introduced to the gospel. But several years ago, he set a goal: to help bring three people into the Church every year. And he has done just that—every year, without fail.
Last year, he helped teach five people in January alone, so he increased his yearly goal to 10. But it appears he could have aimed higher. By June, he had helped 13 people join the Church.
He has spoken to many of his family and friends about the gospel already, but Abidjan is a densely populated city, and his friendly, outgoing nature allows him to strike up a conversation with anyone and everyone: banana vendors, families walking along the streets, or other drivers stuck in traffic with him.
“I first build a friendship with people I meet in my neighborhood, then as our relationship grows, I introduce them to the gospel,” he explains.
“We often think that they’re very difficult conversations to have,” said Wade Litchfield, former president of the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission. “But they’re not at all scary to him. They’re natural to him.”
And Bishop’s advice to young missionaries or anyone for sharing the gospel? “Don’t be afraid. Show a good example. Be patient and let your love for God and your fellow men be above everything else.”
Bishop’s conversations about religion with friends and with strangers—the “friends he may someday meet”—stem from a place of caring. That genuine care for others is just part of his nature. And he may have perfected the most powerful, loving approach to missionary work in putting love, compassion, and a “mark of attention” above all else.

After I was called as the family history consultant for our branch in Ushuaia, Argentina, I came to feel a deep need to search for my ancestors. The task was difficult, and scarcely a day went by that I did not try a new strategy to discover who they were and where they had come from in Italy.
In 2006 I was called to oversee the family history center. I continued to feel frustrated, however, by my failure to find information about my family. My frustration grew after my husband’s search for his ancestors paid off. That year, Ruben identified the names of more than 5,000 of his ancestors who had lived in San Ginesio, Macerata, Italy.
One afternoon in the family history center as Ruben found ancestor after ancestor on microfilm, he joyfully and repeatedly cried out, “Another one!” Feeling discouraged, and with tears in my eyes, I expressed my sadness, adding that I didn’t know what to do to find my family members. Seeing my pain, he suggested that we pray. We did so, pleading for the Holy Ghost to enlighten us so that we could accelerate the work on behalf of my family.
During our prayer, Ruben suddenly remembered a certain website that featured Italian surnames. Immediately after our prayer, we checked it out. Within minutes we had found four people with my maiden name, Gos, in the telephone directory of the small Italian town of Iutizzo, in northern Italy.
Immediately I sent letters to each of them. One wrote back, saying that her husband had the same surname, but he didn’t belong to the family. However, she had known one of my grandfather’s deceased sisters, and she offered to put me in touch with another relative, still living.
A few months later, in December 2006, we received a long-distance telephone call.
“Is this Susana Gos?” a distant male voice asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“This is your cousin from Italy,” he said.
The caller, Giovanni Battista Tubaro, was the son of my grandfather’s sister Maria!
In March 2008, Giovanni and his wife, Miriam, came to visit us in Argentina. We introduced them to the gospel and family history work, and for several days we talked of those who had preceded us. Now each of their names going back to six generations had a face and a history.
Family history has allowed me to contribute to an important part of the Lord’s work. It has also brought me closer to my ancestors—children of our Heavenly Father whom I never would have known of had it not been for a prayer of faith in the family history center.

For some, there will come the temptation to dishonor a personal standard of honesty. In a business law class at the university I attended, I remember that one particular classmate never prepared for the class discussions. I thought to myself, “How is he going to pass the final examination?”
I discovered the answer when he came to the classroom for the final exam on a winter’s day wearing on his bare feet only a pair of sandals. I was surprised and watched him as the class began. All of our books had been placed upon the floor, as per the instruction. He slipped the sandals from his feet; and then, with toes that he had trained and had prepared with glycerin, he skillfully turned the pages of one of the books which he had placed on the floor, thereby viewing the answers to the examination questions.
He received one of the highest grades in that course on business law. But the day of reckoning came. Later, as he prepared to take his comprehensive exam, for the first time the dean of his particular discipline said, “This year I will depart from tradition and will conduct an oral, rather than a written, test.” Our favorite trained-toe expert found that he had his foot in his mouth on that occasion and failed the exam.

Courage is one of Joseph Smith’s special qualities. Without it, he would have shrunk from carrying out his remarkable role. At about age seven, he had a gravely infected leg. Amputation seemed inevitable. He refused alcoholic anesthetics when his leg bones were surgically and painfully treated in a new technique. By the way, that thoughtful little boy asked his mother to leave the room so she wouldn’t have to witness his suffering.
For Joseph’s ailment, the best medical help available in America was surprisingly just a few miles away: Dr. Nathan Smith, founder of Dartmouth’s medical school and the experienced pioneer of this advanced technique (see Le Roy S. Wirthlin, “Joseph Smith’s Boyhood Operation: An 1813 Surgical Success,” Brigham Young University Studies, spring 1981, pp. 131–54; see also “Joseph Smith’s Surgeon,” Ensign, Mar. 1978, pp. 59–60). He led the team who saved Joseph’s leg, including for the grueling march of Zion’s Camp.

I’m not sure why I strayed from the Church. Maybe it was because I grew up in the turbulent ’60s and took up the social causes of the day. Perhaps it was because I distanced myself from my extended family. Whatever the reason, I stopped going to church, and for many years I was less active.
I was attending a university in Idaho when a young Native American woman came to me and said, “I know you’re a member of my church. Do you want to go to church with me?”
I was shocked, to say the least. I wasn’t living the type of life Latter-day Saints are supposed to live. How did she know I was a member?
“Sure,” I replied. So Rosemary and I went to sacrament meeting together, and from there our friendship grew.
Just before summer break, Rosemary invited me to spend the summer with her family in Alaska. With no firm plans for the summer and wanting some adventure, I agreed.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when our airplane touched down on an emerald green island with peaks shrouded in fog. We were greeted by Rosemary’s three brothers in an old pickup truck. As we rumbled into town on the island’s only paved road, I suddenly realized I was in a special place.
I learned many things that summer. I learned how to slime fish at the salmon cannery. I learned to respect the ancient Native American customs and culture. I learned to love the sea as I explored the rugged, rocky, solitary beaches.
But most of all my heart began to be softened toward the Church as I was accepted by strangers who didn’t care what I looked like on the outside but cared deeply about who I was on the inside.
The branch on the island met at a deserted World War II Coast Guard base. As a handful of Native American Saints gathered on a Sunday morning, I was amazed to realize that the Church here was the same as the one I had known as a child. A feeling of comfort came to me, and I realized that even here, so far from home, I could worship as I had once been taught. I learned that no matter where one goes in the world the gospel is always the same and the Church is for everyone, regardless of culture or background.
I was forever altered by my stay on the island. When it was time to go back to school, I understood I had been given new insight into the meaning of life. My heart had been touched, and although I didn’t realize it at the time, I was beginning my long journey back to activity.
Over the years, Rosemary and I eventually lost contact. But in quiet times my mind still wanders back to that magical summer when a dear friend and a small group of Saints on a starkly beautiful island helped reawaken in me a remembrance of my gospel roots.

Winter had set in, and mounds of snow covered the hills and rounded the shapes of the trees. It was the kind of weather one would expect two days before Christmas in Sharon, Vermont.
About midnight the few farmhouses scattered among the hills were dark—except for the Smith’s where a lamp was still burning.
Even though it was Christmastime, a light that late at night was unusual. But something wonderful had happened on that twenty-third of December, 1805. A baby had been born.
The next day, a neighbor came to visit the Smiths. Alvin and Hyrum, the oldest of the children, saw him coming. They ran to meet him, shouting the news as they went, “We have a new baby!”
“It’s a boy! A boy!”
As they plowed through the snowdrifts surrounding the small frame home, they all had to laugh. Little sister Sophronia was watching from the window with her nose flattened against the glass. Father Smith opened the door to let them in and took the neighbor to see the baby, who was sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms. “Well, what do you know,” he exclaimed, removing his hat, “a baby boy!”
“Yes,” Lucy said. “He’ll be named for his father. We’re going to call him Joseph.”
There weren’t any telephones, just neighbor folk to pass the word along. So when he left, the neighbor must have carried the news to the men and boys clustered around the stove at the village store. “Another boy for the Smiths,” he announced. “They can always use another hand on the farm,” a hand-warmer declared.
However, when Lucy stroked the soft baby hair, she imagined him not as a farmhand but as a leader and a mighty man. Then she smiled at her dreams. He looked like every other baby born to farm folk in the backwoods of Vermont. There was no reason to think he would be known outside the neighborhood.
Even in her wildest dreams Lucy could not have guessed that this small, new Joseph would run into hatred and yet would inspire such admiration that millions would follow him. And it would be said of him, “In all that he did he was manly and almost godlike.”
Yes, a baby had been born, and “the Lord had his eyes upon him.”
The baby grew and was strong and well. But when he was six, the Smith children became ill with typhus fever. Then a swelling in Joseph’s leg caused him so much pain that he could scarcely bear it. One day Joseph thought it was Dr. Stone, who was treating him, at the door until he heard Rebecca Perkins speak to his mother.
“I brought some honey bread, Lucy—new-baked.”
“Thank you, Rebecca.”
“It’ll help some, I reckon.”
Joseph knew it would help. His mother was bone tired from tending him and his brothers and sister, who slept only fitfully because of the fever. Sophronia was sick for ninety days, even came near dying.
“I understand young Joseph is still feeling poorly,” Joseph heard Mrs. Perkins say.
“Yes. He’s been real sick for some weeks. The typhus caused a fever sore in his shoulder. Dr. Stone lanced it, but the pain shot like lightning down his side and into his leg. He cut into it, clear to the bone, trying to relieve the infection. But it’s still so red and swollen.”
“We deemed it wise to call a council of surgeons to consult about the case,” Joseph heard his father explain. “We’re just waiting to hear.”
Waiting. So much waiting, Joseph thought. Everyone had done his best; he knew that. Even his big brother Hyrum had held Joseph’s leg, day and night, to help relieve the pain. But the pain persisted. Once Joseph cried out in desperation, “Oh, Father, how can I bear it?”
Now his father called to him, “The doctors are riding up, Joseph.”
Rebecca spoke a hasty wish-you-well as Lucy invited the doctors into a room apart. “Gentlemen, what can you do to save my boy’s leg?” she asked.
There was no answer for a moment, then one of the surgeons said as kindly as he could, “We can do nothing … his leg is incurable. Amputation is absolutely necessary in order to save his life.”
Lucy covered her mouth with her hands as if to silence the cry that rose in her throat. “No! Not little Joseph!” Then she found herself thinking back to the time when the doctor said Sophronia couldn’t live. How he even stopped coming, death was so close. They prayed for a miracle … and it happened, just like that. With her head in her hands, Joseph’s mother prayed again—for another miracle.
When she raised her head she said quietly, “Dr. Stone, can you not make another trial? You must not take off his leg until you try once more.”
After consultation the doctors decided to try to remove the infected bone. Lucy went for some clean homespun sheets to fold under the infected leg while the doctors told Joseph what they were going to do. And because there were no anesthetics to deaden pain, they called to his mother, “Bring some cords. We can tie him down to the bedstead. And bring a little brandy or wine; the pain will be almost unbearable.”
But Joseph protested. He didn’t want any liquor; neither would he be tied down.
“Mother, I want you to leave the room. Father can stand it, but you have carried me so much and watched over me so long that you are almost worn out.” Tears rimmed his eyes. “I’ll have Father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms. Then I’ll do what’s needed to have the bone taken out.”
One of the doctors objected. “The boy’s so young! He needs some kind of help to get through it!”
Joseph reached out for his father’s hand and pulled the big man down beside him on the bed. “The Lord will help me . … I’ll get through it.”
So the big, weathered farmer wrapped his arms around his little son and hugged him to his heart.
The operation began. It was long and excruciating with no medicine to deaden the pain, just his father to cling to. At one point Joseph’s mother heard his screams and came running back into the house.
“Oh, Mother, go back, go back. I don’t want you to come in. I’ll try to tough it out if you will go away,” he sobbed.
When the crude operation was over, Lucy stood hesitantly at the bedroom door, not daring to ask the question that trembled on her lips. Her husband, tenderly supporting his son’s shoulders, looked up and held out his other hand to her.
In a moment Lucy was across the room, that hand curving around her own as she knelt by young Joseph’s bed. How small and pale he looked. How still.
From the dark depths of his exhaustion, Joseph heard her coming, felt her touch—gentle but hesitant. He opened his eyes and his steady blue gaze swept the anxiety from his mother’s face.
Dr. Stone wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “It’s all right,” he said, nodding.
Young Joseph knew the Lord was with him. Their prayers had been answered. His leg would heal.
(To be continued.)

We are fortunate to have received the gift of the Messiah in our lives, His example, courage, firmness, and perseverance transform us into the people we should become, however there are women who have found Jesus Christ in an extraordinary way and have felt His love and protection. One of these women is Ramona Rosario, who was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1981 in the municipality of Constanza, Dominican Republic, one of the most beautiful places in the Caribbean.
She tells us that when she was only eighteen years old, she lived through one of the most desperate times where she had a clear sense of the meaning of life. This experience would affirm her testimony of the Lord Jesus Christ and help her to listen with humility to the missionaries when they taught her some months later.
Because of a great drought, the Dominican Republic experienced very difficult times of water shortages, forcing a majority of the population to move to rivers and canals to obtain supplies of this precious liquid. Ramona Rosario was one of those people affected by the shortages.
She tells us that while walking on one of the many days that she was forced to carry cans and gallons on her shoulders on the banks of the Yaqué del Norte River, she had to be careful where she walked because they had extracted sand with heavy equipment creating holes that later disappeared in the murky waters of the river. This made it impossible to detect the dangerous holes that constantly threatened the needy people in the environment, both adults and children.
Even though she never thought she would be one of the victims of these fearsome holes, one Wednesday morning in November 1981, she fell into one of the holes that made whirlpool movements, and she could not get out. She began to feel a terror that threatened to rip out her life. She remembers that in that moment of agony, she prayed and cried out to the Lord Jesus Christ with all the energy she had left, asking him for an opportunity, and begging for His help while the water choked her more and more.
With the little strength she had left, she continued to strive against the muddy walls of the hole; her tears were mixed with the brown water until, in a last attempt, a friend who was desperately looking for her stood next to the hole. She was able to hold onto her friend’s foot, which made her friend slip and fall, causing her to shout for someone to come to help and pull her out of the hole “of the evil one,” as she described it.
It has been more than 30 years since this experience. Ramona expresses and testifies that the hand of the Lord preserved her life. Two of her children served missions in South America, baptizing dozens of people in Chile and Nicaragua who are members and leaders in the Church today. Truly when we cry out with all our hearts to the Lord, He answers our prayers.
Ramona expresses: “We do not have to wait for a desperate moment to pray to our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, but every occasion is an opportunity to pray to the Lord for strength and for gratitude for all the blessings we receive.”

When I was 10 or 11, I started learning how to play hymns on the piano. I enjoyed playing the piano, and I really wanted to learn to play the organ too. Playing the organ would be so much fun!
My mother, who teaches me, told me that I could start learning to play the organ when I learned to play 100 hymns on the piano. That seemed like a big task, but I was driven to succeed. At first, I learned a hymn once every few weeks, but eventually I got to the point where I would learn two each week. The number of hymns kept growing.
The summer that I learned my 100th hymn, my mother organized a small group of students and taught us all to play the organ. Learning the organ took a lot of practice.
At the end of the summer, the first counselor in the bishopric pulled me aside during a bishopric youth discussion. “Our ward needs a new organist,” he said. “The bishopric has discussed this, and we would like to call you as ward organist.” I felt the blood draining from my face, but I nodded.
My first time playing the organ during sacrament meeting was terrifying. I arrived early to play the prelude music. I played the opening hymn, which went rather well; there were only a few jarring notes. As I played, I had to be careful to watch the chorister, press the keys with my hands, and use my feet on the bass pedals. Between the opening hymn and the sacrament hymn, I was very nervous. But when I played the soft and sweet notes of “How Great the Wisdom and the Love” (Hymns, no. 195), I felt the Spirit fill me with joy and peace.

One day I decided to take my pocket Book of Mormon to preschool. I told my mom, “When we go places during the day, sometimes I start to forget about Jesus. I know I can remember Him better if I bring my scriptures.” During school, my teacher asked about my “little Bible.” I told her it was my Book of Mormon. I told her I brought it because my dad said we should always remember Jesus. My mom told me I was being a missionary and being like Jesus as I kept my scriptures close to me all day.

When he returned from Asia, he moved to southern California, where he began working and attending college. At a Church dance, he met Clara (Claire) May Jeffs. After dating for three years, they were married in the Salt Lake Temple on June 10, 1931. Howard decided to give up his band, for he felt that working as a professional musician would interfere with what was more important—his family and the Church.

I remember another occasion when I was in Australia on a mission. I went up to visit the Jenolan Caves—very wonderful, spectacular caves. And as we walked through them, the guide said, “If some of you will get out and stand on that rock over there and sing a song, it will demonstrate the capacity of this cave.”
Well, the Spirit said to me, “Go over there and sing ‘O, My Father.’ I hesitated, and the crowd walked on. I lost the opportunity. I never felt good about that. The only thing that ever made me feel the Lord had forgiven me was when I heard President McKay say, “I was inspired one time to do a certain thing when I was in the mission field, and I didn’t do it.” He said, “I have always been sorry since.” He said, “Never fail to respond to the whisperings of the Spirit. Live so you can receive it, and then have the courage to do as it instructs.”

Elder Taylor received a call to the Eastern States Mission. But during the summer before he was to leave, he and a brother had drunk some contaminated water while on a trip to southern Utah. As a result, Henry contracted typhoid fever and was not able to leave until later. He recalls that “when I first reached my mission, our room wasn’t well heated. We had our study class at 6:00 A.M., and I would don my bathrobe and sit there with my teeth chattering. I found that putting a hot toaster under my chair helped a little.”
At that time missionaries often traveled without purse or scrip. Elder Taylor said that during his mission “the Lord was good to us, and the people were kind and provided us with food and lodging. My mission experiences were humbling and inspirational.
“I salute you noble young people. You will be the leaders in your communities and the Church in the very near future. Live clean and useful lives. Happiness comes from keeping the Lord’s commandments. I leave my blessing with you, and pray that our Heavenly Father will guide, guard, and protect you.”