Gospel Story Finder

I live in Vanuatu, a group of islands in the South Pacific Ocean. I was so excited to turn eight so that I could be baptized and confirmed.
But I was worried about getting baptized in the ocean in front of my house because the waves can get pretty big there. Those waves are fun to play in, but I wasn’t sure about being baptized in them. My mom and I went in the ocean by our house to see what it would be like, and I knew it would be OK.
We chose the day when I was to be baptized, and I was so excited. But then a cyclone came close to our island. We had to call the branch president and cancel my baptism.
Even though there was a little flooding from the cyclone, we were able to go to church that Sunday. The branch president announced that I would be baptized on Saturday.
On Saturday morning, the waves were really big, so I was kind of scared. We had a meeting at my house, and then we all walked down to the beach. I had asked my cousin Josh to baptize me.
Josh lifted me over the waves as we walked in, but as I was getting baptized, the waves were calm. I think that while Josh said the baptism prayer, Jesus calmed the water for me.
As we walked out of the ocean, the waters got rough again, but I didn’t mind because I was already soaked completely. I’m so glad that I turned eight and that I could follow Jesus’s example by being baptized. I know that Heavenly Father hears my prayers.

At Brigham Young University many years ago, there was a great athletic coach named Eugene L. Roberts. He grew up in Provo and, as a youth, sort of drifted aimlessly with the wrong kind of friends. And then something remarkable happened. I am going to read to you from his own words. He wrote:
Several years ago when Provo City was scarred with the unsightly saloon and other questionable forms of amusement, I was standing one evening upon the street waiting for my gang to show up when I noticed that [the Provo] tabernacle was lighted up and that a large crowd of people were traveling in [that] direction. I had nothing to do so I drifted over [there] and drifted in. I thought I might find some of my gang, or at least some of the girls that I was interested in. Upon entering, I ran across three or four of [my] fellows and we placed ourselves under the gallery where there was a crowd of young ladies, who seemed to promise [some] entertainment.

We were not interested in what came from the pulpit. We knew that the people on [the] rostrum were all old fogies. They didn’t know anything about life and they certainly couldn’t tell us anything, for we knew it all. So we settled down to have a good time. Right in the midst of our disturbance there thundered from [the] pulpit the following [statement]:

“You can’t tell the character of an individual by the way he does his daily work. Watch him when his work is over. See where he goes. Note the companions he seeks, and the things he does when he may do as he pleases. Then you can tell his true character.”

I looked up towards the rostrum because I was struck with this powerful statement. I saw up there a little dark-haired, fierce-eyed, fighting man whom I knew and feared; but didn’t have any particular love for. . . .

. . . He went on to make a comparison. He said:

“Let us take the eagle, for example. This bird works as hard and as efficiently as any other animal in doing its daily work. It provides for itself and its young by the sweat of its brow, so to speak; but when its daily work is over and the eagle has time of its own to do just as it pleases, note how it spends its recreational moments. It flies to the highest realms of heaven, spreads its wings, and bathes in the upper air, for it loves the pure, clean atmosphere, and the lofty heights.

“On the other hand, let us consider the hog. This animal grunts and grubs and provides for its young just as well as the eagle; but, when its working hours are over and it has [some] recreational moments, observe where it goes and what it does. The hog will seek out the muddiest hole in the pasture and will roll and soak itself in filth, for this is the thing it loves. People are either hogs or eagles in their leisure time.”

Now . . . when I heard this short speech, I was dumbfounded. I turned toward my companions abashed for I was ashamed to be caught listening. What was my surprise to find everyone of the gang with his attention fixed upon the speaker. . . .

We went out of the tabernacle that night rather quiet and we separated from each other unusually early. I thought of that speech all the way home. I classified myself immediately as of the hog family. I have thought of that speech for years. That night there was implanted in me the faint beginnings of an ambition to lift myself out of the hog group and to rise to that of the eagle. . . .

There was implanted that same evening also the faint beginnings of an ambition to help fill up the mud holes in the social pasture so that those people with hog tendencies would find it difficult to wallow in recreational filth. And as a result of constant thinking about that speech I have been stirred to devote my whole life and my profession towards developing wholesome recreational activities for the young people, so that it would be natural and easy for them to indulge in the eagle type of leisure.

The man who made that speech which has affected my life more than any other one speech I ever heard was President George H. Brimhall. God bless him.1

That is the end of his story. George Brimhall was the president of BYU a hundred years ago. He was the president who helped it transition from BYU Academy to become a university. He was the President Worthen of that time. And he was revered and admired for his ability to move people—the way he moved Eugene. He may have never realized that his talk in the Provo Tabernacle that day touched somebody like Eugene, but it completely changed Eugene’s life, and Eugene became a respected teacher and a coach at BYU.

In the Old Testament, a prophet of God asked that same question of a woman whose name we are not told. As the prophet Elisha went about fulfilling his prophetic duties, he often passed through a town called Shunem. Whenever Elisha passed by, this woman constrained him to stop and eat bread. After one of Elisha’s visits, the woman turned to her husband and said:
I perceive that this is an holy man of God, which ­passeth by us continually.
Let us make a little chamber, I pray thee, on the wall; and let us set for him there a bed, and a table, and a stool, and a candlestick: and it shall be, when he cometh to us, that he shall turn in thither.2
Now, just as this woman had envisioned, the next time Elisha came, he stayed in the room. The account reads: “And it fell on a day, that he came thither, and he turned into the chamber, and lay there.”3
The scriptures do not tell us how the woman felt as the prophet went into the little room that she had prepared just for him. But the scriptures do tell us how Elisha felt. He asked his servant to give the woman a message directly from him. It was, in effect, “What can I do for you?” Or, to be scripturally precise, “Thou hast been careful for us with all this care; what is to be done for thee?”4
Then the servant offered two options for the woman to consider: “Wouldest thou be spoken for to the king, or to the captain of the host?”5 Certainly these suggestions were within the rights of the prophet to make. He had already been of great help to both the king in Israel and the king in Judah. He had helped them obtain victory in war. Certainly the king and the captain would help Elisha in any way they could. So this woman could probably have negotiated anything she desired in response to the question “What is to be done for thee?”
This is the foundation for our question this morning: What would each of you ask for? How would you answer the prophet today?
I personally love the response she gave. She answered, “I dwell among mine own people.”6 Or, as I interpret it, “I have everything I need; I am at home with family.” Or perhaps, “We have plenty and to spare.”
Does her answer surprise you? It did me. Whatever her motivation, her answer caused me to think about what my response would be. Do I know enough about God’s plan? Am I secure enough in what God has given me and in my discipleship to His Son that I could say to the prophet, “I have everything I need”?
How about you? Do you have everything you need?

Some here may be wondering, “Are these all the gifts I need to return to Heavenly Father? In these spiritually perilous times, don’t we face some challenges that are unique to us—challenges that require something more?”
The answer is yes. Which is why you need to hear the rest of the Shunammite woman’s story—the part that is critically important for you and me as Saints living in the latter days.
After the Shunammite woman gave her answer, she went away. But the prophet Elisha could not rest. He still wanted to know what more he could do for her. In response, his servant pointed out that she had no child and that her husband was old. So Elisha called for the woman to come back. Elisha then promised her a son, which she later delivered, just as the prophet had said. And I love how he said the promise to her:
About this season, according to the time of life, thou shalt embrace a son. . . .
And the woman conceived, and bare a son at that season that Elisha had said unto her, according to the time of life.21
But that is not the end of the story. After several years this son would die and then be brought back to life by the prophet Elisha, miraculously giving this woman’s son to her twice.22
But even that is not the end of the story. After several more years, Elisha told this woman to flee into a different land because of a famine that was going to last seven years. She took her husband and son and fled, returning only after the famine had ended.23
The prophet of the Lord knew what the Shunammite woman needed—needs she probably believed could not be addressed and future needs she couldn’t possibly anticipate. But because she answered the call of a prophet and believed in his promises, her needs were met.

How could a young man from Chatsworth, South Africa, support himself and create a future with only fourteen rand in his pocket? That was the dilemma facing Mervyn Pillay when he returned home a number of years ago after serving a mission in Johannesburg.
“When I came home . . . I said to myself, ‘How am I going to make it with R14?’ . . . but I talked to myself and said, ‘The Lord will bless you as you do what He wants you do.’”1
Soon after this, Mervyn bought one bottle of nail polish with his very limited cash. He went to the market and sold it for a profit. That was the beginning of a business, and soon he was selling more and more nail polish—in the market and door-to-door. Being self-reliant, he had gained some knowledge in repair work, so as he walked door-to-door, he also asked if homeowners had appliances in need of repair and found additional work—and income—that way.
At one home, Mervyn met a man who turned out to be the maker of the brand of nail polish he was selling. When he learned that Mervyn was a savvy salesman who could also make repairs for him, he invited him in and saying, “You can repair my stove.” Then he asked, “And could you also sell this nail polish for me?”
Having learned how to work hard as a missionary, Mervyn energetically applied himself to his new job and, over time, sold about three million bottles of nail polish.
“I bought my home and I started . . . an electrical business and . . . a cosmetics business, and the business has boomed.”2
Many years later Mervyn still runs both businesses and says, “I just know that if I pay my tithes, then Heavenly Father is going to bless me.”
The self-made businessman Mervyn Pillay has gone on to indeed bless the lives of many others, including his family, his employees, and those he has served as a branch president and bishop.

Jared walked home from church in the hot sunshine with Mom and Dad. He thought about his Primary lesson. Since he couldn’t hear very well, Jared had to pay close attention to the pictures his teacher showed and the words she wrote on the board.
That day they had learned that Jesus asked the disciples to be missionaries. Jared wondered what he could do to share the gospel, like Jesus asked. He knew he couldn’t serve a mission yet. Then he had a great idea. Maybe he could start saving money for it!
When he got home, Jared ran right past Umber, his pet goat, and into the house. He got a big plastic jar and carefully cut a hole in the top. He wrote “Mission Fund” on the side. Then he went to his room and got his money from under his bed. One by one he dropped in each coin. But all his coins barely covered the bottom of the jar. How could he earn more money?
Jared thought and thought. He looked out the window at the bright sun. It was so hot in the Philippines. Jared and his friends ate coconut ice candy almost every afternoon after school. “That’s it!” he thought. Maybe he could make ice candy and sell it to other people who wanted to cool down.
Jared ran to find Mom. “Can you show me how to make ice candy?” Jared signed. They used sign language, a language where you talk with your hands. Mom smiled and nodded.
The next day, Jared and Mom walked to the big outdoor market and bought all the supplies. When they got home, Jared took out a big bowl and mixed coconut milk, condensed milk, vanilla, and shredded coconut. Mom and Jared used a funnel to pour the mix into small bags. They put all the bags in the freezer. “Great job!” Mom signed.
The ice candy took a long time to freeze. But the next day after school, it was finally ready! Jared climbed on a chair and got the white cooler off the top of the fridge. He put some towels in the bottom of the cooler and layered the ice candy on top. He couldn’t wait to sell it.
Jared ran outside into the dusty street. His friends were playing with homemade kites and throwing their flip-flops at a tin can to knock it over.
At the side of the road, he set up a table with a big sign that said, “Ice Candy, 5 pesos.” His friend Jhonell ran over and pointed at the cooler. He gave Jared a five-peso coin, and Jared gave him some ice candy. They high-fived.
Soon more of Jared’s friends came to buy ice candy too. A few hours later when Mom called Jared for dinner, there were only a few ice candies left.
Jared picked up the almost-empty cooler and the coins. In one of his pockets, he put some of the coins for his tithing. He put the rest of the coins into his other pocket. He couldn’t wait to see his mission-fund bank fill up.
At home he dropped his mission-fund coins onto the pile at the bottom of the jar. There was still so much more space! But Jared felt warm inside as he thought about serving a mission someday. He decided that he would sell ice candy every day until his jar was full. It felt so good to earn money so he could be a missionary as Jesus asked him to do.

As you know, the Brethren used to announce in general conference the names of those who had been called on missions. Not only was this the way friends and neighbors learned of the call, more often than not it was the way the missionary learned of it as well. One such prospect was Eli H. Pierce. A railroad man by trade, he had not been very faithful in Church meetings—“even had my inclinations led in that direction, which I frankly confess they did not,” he admitted. His mind had been given totally to what he demurely calls “temporalities.” He said he had never read more than a few pages of scripture in his life and that he had spoken to only one public gathering (an effort which he says was no credit to himself or those who heard him). He used the vernacular of the railroad and the barroom with a finesse born of long practice. He bought cigars wholesale—a thousand at a time—and he regularly lost his paycheck playing pool. Then this classic understatement: “Nature never endowed me with a superabundance of religious sentiment; my spirituality was not high and probably even a little below average.”

Well, the Lord knew what Eli Pierce was, and he knew something else. He knew what I’m pleading for today. He knew what Eli Pierce could become. When the call came that October 5 in 1875, Eli wasn’t even in the Tabernacle. He was out working on one of the railroad lines. A fellow employee, once recovered from the shock of it all, ran out to telegraph the startling news. Brother Pierce writes, “At the very moment this intelligence was being flashed over the wires, I was sitting lazily thrown back in an office rocking chair, my feet on the desk, reading a novel and simultaneously sucking on an old Dutch pipe just to vary the monotony of cigar smoking.” (For my friends in the English Department I would just hasten to add that the novel reading was probably a more serious transgression than the pipe smoking.)

He goes on. “As soon as I had been informed of what had taken place, I threw the novel in the waste basket, the pipe in a corner [and have never touched either to this hour]. I sent in my resignation . . . to take effect at once, in order that I might have time for study and preparation. I then started into town to buy [scripture].”

Then these stirring words:
Remarkable as it may seem, and has since appeared to me, a thought of disregarding the call, or of refusing to comply with the requirement, never once entered my mind. The only question I asked—and I asked it a thousand times—was: “How can I accomplish this mission? How can I, who am so shamefully ignorant and untaught in doctrine, do honor to God and justice to the souls of men, and merit the trust reposed in me by the Priesthood?”

With such genuine humility fostering resolution rather than defeating it, Eli Pierce fulfilled a remarkable mission. His journal could appropriately close on a completely renovated life with this one line: “Throughout our entire mission we were greatly blessed.”

When I was young I was overly dependent on my older sister. For example, I was a fussy eater, and when we went to visit our grandparents I was constantly faced with being offered food I didn’t like. To minimize my embarrassment, when the plate was passed to me, I would turn to my sister and ask, “Collene, do I like this?”
If it was familiar and she knew I didn’t like it, she would say, “No, he doesn’t like that.”
I could then say to Grandma, “She’s right. I don’t like it.”
If it was something we hadn’t eaten before, she would say, “Just a minute,” and taste it, and then tell me if I liked it or not. If she said I didn’t like it, no amount of coaxing could get me to eat it.
I know it is past time for me to rely on my own taste buds and stop denying myself healthy food just because my sister told me I didn’t like it.

When Karl woke up, he jumped right out of bed. Usually he liked to stay curled up in the covers until his mother called him for breakfast, but today was special: today he started school. Karl could hardly wait to learn to read and write. And his friend Joey would be starting school too.
Karl put on a clean shirt and trousers and slicked his hair with water from the well. Then he took the milk pail his mother had packed his lunch in. He walked carefully along the dirt road so he wouldn’t scuff his shoes. When he reached the one-room wooden schoolhouse, he slid into a seat beside Joey.
The schoolmaster was a stern-looking man with bushy eyebrows. He called the classes up one by one to recite their lessons. Karl studied his primer so he wouldn’t make any mistakes. Soon he could read, “B-a, ba, b-e, be, b-i, bi, b-o, bo, b-u, bu.”
At lunchtime he and Joey ate beside the brook that ran by the schoolhouse and played with the other boys until the schoolmaster rang the bell to call them inside. When all the boys and girls were seated, the schoolmaster called out two names: “Karl Rytting and Joseph Hoagland, please come forward.”
Karl felt his insides churn. He hadn’t had time to study his afternoon lessons. What if he made a mistake? But when he and Joey reached the front of the room, the schoolmaster asked only one question. “I have been told that you boys are Mormons,” he said. “Is that true?”
Karl’s mouth was dry and his knees shook, but he looked right at the schoolmaster and said, “Yes, it is true.” Joey did the same.
“Then you must go home. We do not allow Mormons in our school.”
Karl fought back the tears as he picked up his coat and milk pail. As he and Joey walked back along the dusty road, he began to cry.
Soon Joey turned into the path that led toward his house, and Karl continued on toward his. When he walked in the door, his mother asked, “Karl, what’s wrong? Why are you home from school so soon? Are you sick?”
“No, Mother,” Karl answered. “The schoolmaster said Joey and I can’t go to school because we are Mormons.” He felt his tears welling up again.
“Oh, Karl, I am so sorry,” his mother said as she held him close. “We knew when we were baptized that some people would not understand. But the true gospel of Jesus Christ is worth anything we have to give up.”
“I know,” Karl said, crying into his mother’s skirt.
Then a voice came from the corner of the room. It was Grandfather Jansson, who had first brought the missionaries to their home two years ago. “You can still learn to read if you want to,” he said.
“How can I learn to read if I can’t go to school?” Karl asked.
Grandfather Jansson smiled. “I will teach you,” he said. “We will read the Bible together. Would you like that?”
“Yes, very much.”
Grandfather opened the Bible and beckoned for Karl to stand by his chair. His finger pointed at the words as he said them: “In the beginning was the Word” (John 1:1).
“In the beginning was the Word,” Karl repeated, looking at the letters. It was a good beginning, after all.

Sarah said that her Church background has helped her grow in many ways. “When I was little, I was bashful and afraid to do anything. But as I grew up, I was given speaking assignments and committee responsibilities, and it forced me to learn to be more outgoing. Now I’ve got a little more pluck. I’m not afraid to speak in public.” Saturday morning before meeting the rest of the group at the temple, she had given a speech to the entire student body of her high school.

Our son Chris taught us this lesson very well. He came home from his mission from Poland in 2006, thinking he wanted to be a psychologist. He began studying Psychology at BYU but as he did so he realized he really didn't want to be a psychologist, but he was interested in the behavior of people. Why they do the things they do. He then looked towards a business where this was the study. He began to focus on market research and became interested in why people buy what they buy and make consumer choices the way they do. He ended up graduating in Psychology and business. It was not where his education started, but he was moving forward. He was out of the roundabout and moving forward with faith.

Unfortunately, when he graduated two years ago, the job market was not open, especially in market research. The economy was not in good condition. No one was hiring. Chris could have sat at home, stuck in the roundabout, watching TV or playing video games feeling sorry for himself, because the economy was bad; but instead, he moved forward with faith. He found a company that did market research and made an appointment to meet with the owner. He told the owner that he was interested in the company and wondered if he could just come and work as an intern for free. The owner thought free was good so within a few days Chris was working at the company where he wanted to work, but was doing it for free. Chris figured he could either sit at home and learn nothing or at least work in the job he hoped for some day and see how it all works. Within a few weeks, the owner called him in and told him that they really liked his work ethic and asked if he would like to be hired. Chris got the job at the company where he had hoped to work all along. He is now working in a field and in a job that he loves. He moved forward with faith, no fear, and as he acted, the Lord blessed him. He got out of the roundabout and moved forward with faith.

My father served as a bishop of the El Sereno Ward when the Church was just getting started in the Los Angeles, California, area. The ward members still talk about his kindness to them and to their families. One Sunday Dad was not at priesthood meeting. Everyone wondered what had happened to him. Later they discovered that one of the priests was having trouble getting up on time to go to the meeting. So in kindness he held the quorum meeting in the priest’s bedroom.

My father was called on a mission and left mother at home with seven young children, and the eighth was born four months after he arrived in the field. There came into our home a spirit of missionary work that never left it, for which I am deeply grateful.

I remember so well, after the chores were done, sitting around the kitchen table as mother read letters from father. It seemed as though it was halfway around the world as she mentioned the towns where he was laboring; but it was only Cedar Rapids, Iowa; Chicago and Springfield, Illinois; and other towns in the great Midwest.

Two of my sisters, widows—one the mother of ten, and the other the mother of eight—after sending their children on missions, talked to their bishops about going on missions themselves.
I well remember the day they called me on the telephone and said, “Guess what? We’ve received our missionary calls.”
I said, “What missionary calls?”
They replied, “Don’t you know?”
I said, “No, I hadn’t heard.”
They responded, “Yes, we’re both going to your old field of labor in England.”
The mission president assigned them to work as companions—twenty months without a transfer. I think that is some kind of a record.

My father’s family later grew to eleven children. All eleven of us have now had the joy of filling missions. The last one recently returned from filling a mission with her husband in San Diego.
To you young men and some of you older brethren, I again emphasize: you are needed in the Lord’s service—missionary service—today.

During a sacrament meeting in Piura, Peru, in 1972, a speaker who was discussing the importance of family history work kept looking at me. At the end of his talk, he surprised me when he announced, “I know that Brother Rosillo is going to do this work.”
I had been a member of the Church for less than a year, but I set a goal to get started on my family history—not because of what he said but because I felt a desire to do so. I obtained a four-generation pedigree chart and started by interviewing my parents and relatives to find out what they knew. Each time I worked on my family history, I prayed and asked the Lord for help.
To find the death dates of my maternal great-grandparents, I traveled to the town of Zorritos, in northern Peru, where they had been buried. The cemetery was on the outskirts of town, and most of the dead had been laid to rest in vaulted compartments.
I entered the cemetery and started looking, but I didn’t find anything. I then decided to go to town to ask a cousin if she was sure that our great-grandparents had been buried there. When she said yes, I told her, “Then I’m not leaving until I have those dates.”
I returned to the cemetery and began a methodical search, walking down every vault aisle and reading every inscription. I still couldn’t find their vaults, so I knelt and asked the Lord to help me. Then I searched again—but with the same results. I was tired, it was getting late, and I needed to leave so I could do other research I had planned.
“Well, I did my part,” I thought to myself. I would have to leave without accomplishing my goal.
Ready to leave, I turned toward the front gate. But just as I took my first step, I felt two hands take hold of my head from behind and turn it toward a certain spot. My eyes rested on a small, dirty headstone that was level with the ground. I looked behind me to see who had grabbed my head, but no one was there.
I walked to the headstone, lay on the ground, and cleaned off the inscription. With great gratitude, I read the information I was looking for: Isidro Garcia Rosillo, died August 1, 1934. Francisca Espinoza Berrú, died January 31, 1954.
My ancestors’ long wait to receive their saving ordinances ended in 1980. That was when my wife and I went to the São Paulo Brazil Temple to receive our endowments. At the temple I was sealed to my wife and baptized for my deceased loved ones.
As I entered the baptismal font, I remembered the small headstone at the cemetery. I went down into the calm waters knowing the Lord had guided my steps as I searched for my ancestors.

Vanessa—Bless these walls, so firm, and stout. Keeping want and trouble out. That’s what my Great Grandmother Gillman would pray for as a young mother living in the Midwest. They were right in the middle of “tornado alley” and she was absolutely terrified of any storm that would blow through. To the point where she would gather her girls under her bed and hide and cry. It’s probably no surprise that my grandmother, her daughter, grew up to be afraid of storms too. But when she had children of her own, she didn’t want to burden her kids with that same fear, and so as storms came in, she would bravely take her kids to the window to ooh and awe at the wonder of nature and sometimes even run outside with them to play in the rain. I’m so grateful for her wisdom and courage because as a result my mother grew up loving thunderstorms and so did I. I’m especially grateful for the lesson learned, that our outlook and actions can completely change how we experience storms in our lives.

Lori Ransom, a 16-year-old Idaho girl, recently won first place nationally in the American Legion Auxiliary Americanism contest.
Lori’s essay placed first in the senior division in Pocatello, went on to win in the state, and was then entered in the national competition. She was flown to Seattle, Washington, on August 22, 1976, to attend the Legion’s national convention where she read her essay to 2,000 women representing every state. Her essay was geared to the question “Is Americanism in danger of extinction? How may I preserve my heritage?”
Winning essay contests is not a new experience for Lori. She was first in the local Americanism contest in both the fifth and seventh grades. Lori has also won two state awards in French competition.
Lori is secretary of her Laurel class, organist for the junior Primary, and is a third-year seminary student. She does a lot of artwork for her ward and for Highland High School (Pocatello, Idaho).

I study each issue of the New Era, mark it up, and categorize each article under one or more of the 69 gospel subjects that I have in what I call my “Church Binder.” I have been LDS nearly all my life, but I never understood the concept of the still small voice—what it sounds like or feels like—until I read Elder McConkie’s article “Agency or Inspiration?” in the January issue. I have tried his ideas and have found that they work. I am now able to hear and feel the still small voice of the Holy Ghost. Thank you very much for printing the article.

A true story from the USA.
Kimber pointed to the cups on the counter. She stomped, groaned, and pointed again.
Mom turned around. “Do you need something?”
Kimber pointed to the cups again. Making a fist with her pinky finger out, she made a curved line by her mouth, the sign for juice in American Sign Language.
“Oh. You’d like juice,” Mom said.
Kimber nodded, waiting while Mom poured her a cup.
Kimber’s speech delay made it hard for her to speak out loud. She didn’t like the way her voice sounded when she made mistakes. It hurt her ears! When other people corrected her, it hurt her feelings. She used sign language with Mom at home, but things were getting harder at school and at church because most people didn’t know sign language.
She saw a speech therapist every few days to help her practice talking. But it was still hard. She felt so frustrated.
A few days later in Primary, Kimber sat and listened to the lesson. They were learning about prayer. “You can talk to Heavenly Father about anything,” Sister Dees said. “He will always answer.”
Kimber liked to think that Heavenly Father answered prayers. But how was she supposed to talk to Him? It was hard to use that many words.
At family scripture time that night, Kimber and her little brothers listened while Mom and Dad took turns reading. Kimber liked to listen to Dad’s soft voice while Mom pointed to the words on the page so Kimber could follow along.
“Call upon his holy name, that he would have mercy upon you,” Dad read. “Yea, cry unto him for mercy; for he is mighty to save.”
“Cry unto him?” her brother Hunter asked. “What does that mean?”
“It means to pray,” said Dad. “If you were in trouble, you would cry out for help. Asking in prayer is crying to Heavenly Father for help.”
Kimber nodded. She often felt like she needed help. But how could she cry to Heavenly Father without talking out loud?
“These next verses are all about prayer,” Mom said. “We can pray about anything—our family, our food, and anything we might need.” Then she kept reading. “‘When you do not cry unto the Lord, let your hearts be full, drawn out in prayer unto him continually.’”
Mom paused and looked at Kimber. “That means if you pray in your heart and mind, Heavenly Father hears you.”
Kimber felt a hopeful, happy feeling. Maybe Heavenly Father really could hear her prayers, even if she didn’t use words out loud. She could pray in her heart.
That night, Kimber knelt by her bed with Mom for bedtime prayers. Usually Mom said the prayer while Kimber listened. But this time, Kimber wanted to try praying in her heart.
My turn, she signed, pointing to herself and folding her arms. She closed her eyes and thought about all the things she wanted Heavenly Father to know. In her mind, she told Him what she was grateful for. She told Him how hard it was to talk. And she asked for His help.
Soon she felt a feeling of peace from her head to her toes.
When she was done, Kimber opened her eyes.
Mom gave her a hug. “Good praying, Kimber.”
Kimber smiled. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her. And she knew the peaceful feeling in her heart was His answer.

Like many people who pursue unusual careers, Shawn was concerned at one time with the question of whether or not his career would conflict with his feelings about the Church.
“After I had been in college three years, I wanted to rodeo for a while, and I was worried about the apparent contrast of ideals in my two worlds—the Church and the rodeo. I worried and prayed about it and spent time thinking it over. Then I realized the right answer for me was very simple. I knew the Church was true, and as long as I did the right thing and lived my religion, I couldn’t be doing wrong. I was then at peace with myself, and the Church has turned out to be one of my biggest assets on the rodeo circuit. I have been the subject of a lot of publicity because I am different. Writers casually mention that I am a Mormon cowboy and then go on to explain some of our beliefs. There are a lot of good Catholics and Methodists and other religions represented on the circuit, but their religions never seem to be mentioned.”

When my sister was married in the Salt Lake Temple, I went to see the movie Joseph Smith: The Prophet of the Restoration in the Joseph Smith Memorial Building nearby. I had seen this film before, but the Spirit had never come to me as strongly as it did then. It bore witness to me that Joseph Smith was called of God, that he translated the Book of Mormon by the power of God, and that through him Jesus Christ’s Church and the priesthood keys were restored to the earth. In that instant I knew without a doubt that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter?day Saints is the only true Church on this earth. Whenever I have had doubts of any kind, I remember this witness I have received, and I am strengthened so I can press forward and endure to the end.

Dad made each of us kids feel special. He would look after each of us and talk to us like an equal. He loved us unconditionally and would forgive easily if we said we were sorry. He did his best to make sure that each of us was happy, and he made it clear that he wanted the best for us. I loved him so much.
When I was in sixth grade my dad died in a car accident. My family and I were totally devastated. There was a big hole in our family. I was totally lost. Dad was the one I leaned on, the one I went to if I was having problems. I felt that he had no right to leave me. Instead of seeking help, I let the anger and hurt stay. I finally decided it was God’s fault. I stopped reading my scriptures and saying prayers. I only went to church because Mom wanted me to. I tried to stay far away from my Heavenly Father.
Then I had my first year of girls’ camp. Mom made me go, and I had fun. I liked meeting new friends, but I still didn’t really read my scriptures. On the last night we had a testimony meeting. I felt something I hadn’t in a long time—the Spirit. I admired the girls who got up and bore their testimonies, but I stayed seated because I thought I didn’t have one. All of a sudden I felt like I had to get up. It took a while, but I did get up. I opened my mouth wondering what to say, because I didn’t know that the Church was true or anything like that. So I started like the other girls did. I said I was glad for girls’ camp, which was true. Then I found myself saying that I knew Jesus died for me and that my Heavenly Father loved me and that the Church was true. And the most amazing thing was that I knew what I was saying was absolutely true.
I was filled with a remarkable peace that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Then I realized that all the things I loved about my dad were attributes of Christ and that my dad was trying to show me not just how much he loved me but how much Jesus and Heavenly Father loved me. I was so grateful for that. Because of this experience I can really say that this is the true Church, that I have a Heavenly Father who loves me more than I could ever imagine, and that Jesus loves me and died for me. I also know that I will see my dad again because of the Atonement and Resurrection.