Gospel Story Finder

My little brother, David, is a real scaredy-cat. Mom said he was named after the David in the Bible. She told us that that David was brave and had a lot of faith in God. But I can’t imagine my brother slaying a giant warrior like Goliath.
Every Tuesday when we walk to Sister Johnson’s house for piano lessons, David insists that we go all the way around the block to avoid a big, barking dog, even though she is behind a strong fence. He’s such a chicken sometimes.
Maybe Mom and Dad thought that being named after the Bible’s David would help their son become a great hero. Maybe they were right. My brother sure isn’t brave near barking dogs or giant Goliaths, but one day I learned that he is a different kind of brave. …
All the kids in our neighborhood went sledding during Christmas vacation. The school had the greatest sledding hill around, and zillions of kids were there that day. It had snowed the night before, so the hill was perfect for trying out our new sleds.
We trudged up the hill, and I was the first one to jump on my sled and slide down. I found a great path that had a bump halfway down the hill and sent you flying through the air. What a ride! Everyone else followed me on that path—everyone else, that is, except David. He went over to the kiddie hill, where all the moms and dads were clapping and saying “Wheeee!” every time a little one slid to the bottom.
Some of our friends laughed at David and called him “chicken” and “baby.” But mostly they left him alone because they were used to him being afraid. I felt kind of bad for David, but he didn’t seem to care what other kids were saying about him.
Sledding was great fun, but after a couple of hours, we were cold and hungry. One of our friends suggested that we go into the drug store to look around and warm up. So we went inside and checked out the comic books and clearance toys. After five or ten minutes, we decided to head home. That’s when something really horrible happened.
On the way out of the store, someone—I think it was the new boy—dared everyone to take a candy bar from a big bin near the door. I couldn’t believe what was happening! Before I knew it, the other kids were stuffing candy bars into their hats or pockets.
I just froze. I didn’t want to steal anything. Then someone said I was scared, “just like your baby brother.” Fortunately David saved me before I had to decide whether to grab a candy bar or not.
“He’s not scared,” David blurted out. “He’s just smarter and cooler than you are. He turned and locked his arm through mine and said, “Let’s go.”
My heart was still pounding hard as David and I walked home. We didn’t say much to each other, and I thought a lot about what had just happened back at the store.
I think that what David did that day took a lot of courage and faith. It was just like in the Bible story when David slew Goliath because it was the right thing to do. I was pretty proud of my brother for choosing to do the right thing. And I’m especially glad he helped me do the same.
I don’t think of David as a scaredy-cat anymore. In fact, he’s pretty brave. I told him so, too.

I’ve been a member of the Church now for 17 months, and it’s really changed my life. Years ago, not long after the Church video “Families Are Forever” was brought out, two men came to our home and showed it to us on the back of our kitchen door. I was about eight years old and lived at Ingleton. My parents told these men not to come back. Nine years later I joined the Church, a month later my sister Dawn joined, and in August 1988 my father and step-mum joined. It wasn’t until I was working with the missionaries that I realized those two men were Latter-day Saint missionaries.
I just want to say to the missionaries, baptizing isn’t always the important thing, but planting that very first seed is. Who knows, the ones that reject today may accept tomorrow.
Jill ChappellLancaster, Preston, England

Marcus and Sara threw open the door to their apartment building.
“Beat you up the stairs!” Marcus yelled to his friend as he started running up the first flight. Sara bounded right behind him, laughing and running as fast as she could.
As they reached the third floor, old Mr. Sharp stuck out his bald head and shouted at them—as usual. “I’ve told you kids a hundred times to quiet down. The whole building shakes when you two get home from school! Now, learn how to walk!”
Marcus heard the door slam hard as he reached his own apartment door on the fourth floor. Sara was still right behind him. “That old grump,” she complained as they entered the apartment, “I bet he never was a little kid.”
“Mom! Mom! I’m home!” shouted Marcus.
“I’m in here, Marcus,” came Mom’s muffled voice from his bedroom. “In your closet. I’ve been trying to clean out this disaster area,” she explained when they reached the room. “It looks like a trash heap. You’ll have to quit just throwing things in here.”
The closet was one of Marcus’s favorite places because it was one of the newer parts of the old building.
“Sorry, Mom,” said Marcus. “Let me finish cleaning it,” he offered halfheartedly.
Mom crawled out of the closet, and he took her place amid the jumble.
“You have only an hour or so before dinner,” Mom said as she left the room, “so you’ll have to hurry.”
“Sorry, Sara. I guess I won’t be able to play today,” Marcus apologized.
“Oh, that’s OK. We have one of those big closets, too, but ours is in the living room. It hides a radiator, just like yours does. My sister and I throw all our junk in it, and our mom gets sore too.”
Marcus was puzzled. “You have an old radiator too?”
“Yes. Every apartment in the building has one someplace. When they remodeled and put in electric heat, they didn’t bother pulling out the old radiators. They just built these closets around them. Well, see you later.”
Marcus turned to the task before him. He really didn’t mind all that much, because it was like being alone in another world. He began stacking his books in one corner. On the very top of the pile, he noticed a book about codes that he had used for a school project. He opened it up and saw one of his favorites—the International Morse Code. A click followed by a short space is the signal for a dot. A click followed by a long space is the signal for a dash. A series of dots and dashes are translated into letters, words, and numbers. It had taken a lot of practice, but Marcus had gotten pretty good at understanding the code.
Picking up a spoon, Marcus started banging around to practice. He hit the pipe that came out of the side of the radiator and ran down through the floor. It made a lovely clanking sound that echoed through the pipe. Perfect, Marcus thought. He started practicing: A, B, C, D. It took him a while, as he was a bit rusty at it, but he was soon able to tap out the letters of the alphabet and numbers one through nine and zero.
Suddenly Marcus heard someone else’s tapping coming through the pipe. What could it be? he wondered. He listened again, grabbed a crayon off the floor, and began to write as the message came very slowly: “H E L L O.” He couldn’t believe it. “Who could it be?” he murmured.
It came again: “H E L L O.”
Marcus still couldn’t believe it. He tapped back a very slow “H E L L O.”
“Time for dinner, Marcus,” Mom called, so Marcus tapped out a quick “B Y E.”
The next day he could hardly wait to get home from school. He ran upstairs, automatically hollered hello to Mr. Sharp, and heard the old gentleman’s door slam just as he reached his own front door. He ran straight to his closet, picked up his spoon, and started tapping out the message he had worked on at school:
“A R E Y O U T H E R E?” He tapped the message several times. And then an answer came: “Y E S.” Marcus next tapped: “ W H O A R E Y O U?”
The answer came slowly: “A F R I E N D.”
Every day Marcus planned a message to send to his new friend. Sometimes his mom helped, and sometimes Sara had a good suggestion. He learned that his Morse-code friend’s favorite color was blue, that his favorite sport was baseball, that his friend liked cats, and that his favorite food was spaghetti. Marcus also learned that his friend didn’t like to watch much television but preferred to listen to his record player and radio.
One Friday afternoon Marcus and Sara were late getting home from school. Running pell-mell up the stairs, they hoped that Marcus’s Morse-code friend would be sending a message. As they ran into his room, they could already hear tapping sounds coming from the pipes. Marcus was pleased, and he quickly picked up a pencil to record the message. It was a strange message, just three letters repeated over and over: “S O S. S O S. S O S. ”
“That’s a distress signal,” Sara told him. “Your friend must be in trouble!”
Marcus yelled, “Mom, come quick! It’s my friend. He needs help!”
Mom came running into the room, and Marcus showed the message to his mother.
Calmly she said, “Marcus, signal your friend. Ask him where he is.”
Marcus tapped: “W H E R E?” The answer came back slowly: “3 3. 3 3.”
“Thirty-three—what does he mean, Mom?”
Suddenly they all realized what it meant: apartment 33!
They ran down the stairs to Mr. Sharp’s apartment. Finding the door unlocked, they all pushed inside. There was Mr. Sharp, lying on the floor and still feebly tapping out his message with his cane on the radiator pipe.
It was a long time before Marcus and Sara saw Mr. Sharp again. After he went away in the ambulance, things just weren’t the same. Even Sara said that she missed him. Then one day Mr. Sharp’s son called to say that Mr. Sharp was home from the hospital and wanted to see Marcus. Mom explained that Mr. Sharp had had a stroke. He could still think, but he could not yet talk.
Marcus went downstairs and knocked on the door of apartment 33. After a moment a friendly man opened the door. “You must be Marcus,” he said, shaking the boy’s hand. “I’m Michael, Mr. Sharp’s son.”
“Oh, hi,” said Marcus. “Where’s Mr. Sharp? He’ll be OK, won’t he?”
“Marcus, my dad is very, very sick. He can’t do a lot of the things that he used to do, so I’m going to live here with him for a while. But he’s been looking forward to seeing you. Come on, let’s go to his bedroom and see him.”
Marcus walked over to Mr. Sharp’s bed and squeezed his friend’s hand. Mr. Sharp smiled back. Picking up a spoon from his lunch tray, he tapped a message on his water glass:
— •••• •— —• —•— •••“__ __ __ __ __ __••—• •—• •• • —• —•• __ __ __ __ __ __.”
(Can you decipher the message?)
A •—
J •— — —
S •••
2 ••— — —
B —•••
K •—•
T —
3 •••— —
C —•—•
L •—••
U ••—
4 •••• —
D —••
M — —
V •••—
5 •••••
E •
N —•
W •— —
6 —••••
F ••—•
O — — —
X —••—
7 — —•••
G — —•
P •— —•
Y —•— —
8 — — —••
H ••••
Q — —•—
Z — —••
9 — — — —•
I ••
R •—•
1 •— — — —
0 — — — — —
Answer:

When I read the May 2011 issue of the New Era, I came across the “Questions & Answers” article on dating before the age of 16. I was shocked, because I had recently had a boyfriend, even though I am not yet 16. When I read through the answers given, I felt the Spirit with me. I realized that by ending the relationship I was keeping the standards. I’m so glad the New Era was there for me.
Felisha L., Vermont, USA

Later, Christopher’s Primary teacher, Sister Woolett, gave a lesson about the Holy Ghost. She told about when the still, small voice warned her to check on her sleeping baby. When she did, everything seemed all right.

But as she turned to leave, the voice again told her to check on her little boy. This time she went over to the crib and looked closely at him. There, next to him, was a large, jagged piece of glass. A framed picture that had been hanging above the crib had fallen. Most of the glass and the frame were behind the crib, but the large, jagged piece had fallen next to her sleeping son.
Sister Woolett also related an incident from the lesson manual about one of the prophets being warned of danger by the still, small voice.
Why can everyone hear the still, small voice but me? Christopher wondered again. He knew that after his baptism almost two years ago, he was given the gift of the Holy Ghost when he was confirmed. So why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me?
“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Michelle started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher stared sadly at the floor.
“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.
A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Michelle quit chattering.
“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as they turned into the driveway.
Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”
Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.
“Listen,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”
Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get in trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”
Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person to ever live on the earth is Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”
“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.
“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember the good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”
“It was?”
“Or how about the time we were reading the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was talking about in the parable of the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”
“I never thought about it that way before!” Christopher was starting to feel a lot better.
“And,” Mom said, “remember when you got lost last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling helping you know what to do was the Holy Ghost.”
Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him—even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I had forgotten it. Then I said a silent prayer, and suddenly I could remember my talk. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!” The warm feeling in Christopher’s heart helped him know it was true.

When I was young, my family moved from Hungary to Germany. I was excited to move there, but it turned out to be the hardest nine years of my life.
I struggled to learn German, and I have always been pretty sensitive, both of which made me a target for bullying. My self-worth really plummeted. Over time I felt like I was unloved and had little hope for the future. I wondered if the world would be better off without me and sometimes even had thoughts of suicide.
But somehow, through all the suffering, I knew I was given my life for a reason, even if I didn’t fully understand why. I knew I could find the Savior’s light even in the darkest times (see Ether 12:4). When the world seemed to be turning against me, I knew where to find Him and what He could do for me if I sought Him through the scriptures, prayer, and doing my best to be His disciple. It truly was living His gospel that gave me any sort of peace and helped me keep going during this terrible time.
Eventually, my family and I moved back to Hungary. I had graduated high school, and although my bullying days were over, I was still lacking self-esteem. The repercussions from being treated so poorly really affected me, and sometimes I still doubted my self-worth.
And as a young adult, I really wanted to be confident in making big life decisions and deciding what I wanted to accomplish in life.
While I was struggling with this, I felt prompted to attend a conference for young single adults in eastern Europe. I needed some spiritual direction in my life to help me deepen my self-worth and prayed to find answers there.
One night at the conference, goosebumps erupted on my arms when the fireside speaker began to talk about how he was bullied as a child. He spoke about how he had once felt worthless and invisible. I immediately started to cry.
He described just what I had experienced.
The speaker continued and shared the truth he had held on to during his challenges—a truth I had lost sight of:
“I am a child of God.”
When the fireside was over, I still had tears streaming down my face. The speaker noticed and came to put his arm around me. He told me that he usually doesn’t come in person to speak at firesides but felt prompted that there was one person who needed to hear his message directly.
I was that person.
This experience showed me how fully aware Heavenly Father is of His children and that He knows exactly how to reach us so we can feel even just a glimmer of His perfect parental love. He knew I needed to hear this speaker’s message and had directed me to be in the right place at the right time.
I have known the phrase, “I am a child of God” my entire life, but the truth of it only fully resonated with my soul right then. I truly realized what it means to be a child of a perfect God who loves us so much that He was willing to sacrifice His own Son so we can live again and be redeemed from our sins. Who loves me so much that while He can’t always protect me from pain, He is with me through it and can help me rise above it, grow from it, and return to Him.
He loves me now, and He loved me infinitely during my years of bullying when I felt that no one else did. I know now that it was because I knew this truth deep down that I chose to keep going.
President Russell M. Nelson recently taught of the power of knowing our divine identity. He said: “My dear friends, you are literally spirit children of God. … But is that eternal truth imprinted upon your heart? …
“Make no mistake about it: Your potential is divine. With your diligent seeking, God will give you glimpses of who you may become.”1
Now when I find myself questioning my worth, I always remind myself of the fact that I’m a child of God and that my life is a gift from Him.
Remember that you are a child of God. And never forget the sustaining, life-changing, and extraordinary spiritual power that comes from embracing that truth.

She had just finished caring for her precious flowers one morning in ’59 when she received a phone call telling of an accident at her husband’s work. Two weeks later, father and son lay side by side for what she believed would be forever.

It had been hard after that accident that took her husband, but with help from the older children who were married and gone, she had managed to keep the house and property from becoming real estate owned by the Peoples City Bank.

This past summer our deacons quorum brought two members into full quorum activity and introduced three nonmembers to the Church. The quorum took a 270-mile bike trip from Kirtland to Dayton, following the path of the Zion’s Camp expedition. The deacons and advisers, the bishop, and many of the parents drove to Kirtland on a Saturday. They attended Church and visited Church historical sites the next day. That evening they had a fireside. Monday they started out on their bikes. It took a week for them to pedal to Dayton. They camped overnight at campgrounds, bicycled in the rain, and contended with traffic. One of the best parts of the trip was that one of the boys who was handicapped pedaled right along with the rest of the group.

Latter-day Saint pioneer Mary Ann Angell Young was a living testament that faith in God and his gospel is reason enough to endure hardship with dignity, patience, and unwavering hope. So deep was her devotion to the gospel and so steady was her trust in the Lord that no extremity of persecution, toil, illness, or separation from loved ones in life or in death disturbed her faith.
Born in Seneca, Ontario County, New York, in 1803, Mary Ann was reared by God-fearing parents. After the family moved to Providence, Rhode Island, Mary Ann joined the Free Will Baptist Church and developed a keen interest in the Bible.
“Her study of the scriptures, especially the prophecies, so engrossed her mind, that she confidently looked for their fulfillment, in consequence of which she resolved never to marry until she should ‘meet a man of God.’”1 That blessing came years later, shortly after her conversion to the restored gospel.
Mary Ann learned of the Book of Mormon when Elder Thomas B. Marsh preached of the Restoration in Providence in 1830. From him she requested a copy of the sacred book, which she prayerfully read and believed. “She testified many times that the Spirit bore witness to her when she took the Book of Mormon in her hands, of the truth of its origin, so strongly that she could never afterwards doubt it,” wrote her biographer, Emmeline B. Wells.2
Two years later Mary Ann journeyed to New York to investigate the new religion firsthand. Her parents, who were visiting friends near Palmyra, had not told her enough about the new faith in their letters to satisfy her. So she joined her parents, and together they heard and embraced the restored gospel and were baptized by Elder John P. Greene, Brigham Young’s brother-in-law.
Because her parents were not ready to gather with the Saints in Ohio in 1833, Mary Ann struck out for Kirtland alone. There, at the age of 30, she met her long-awaited “man of God.” Hearing Brigham Young preach, she “instinctively felt drawn towards him, and … admired him so much, that when … he asked her to be his wife she unhesitatingly consented, feeling confident he was her true mate.”3
After a brief courtship, they were married on 18 February 1834, two years after Brigham’s first wife, Miriam Works, died, leaving Brigham with two young daughters. Brigham wrote in his diary that Mary Ann “took charge of my children, kept my house, and labored faithfully for the interest of my family and the kingdom.”4
Although the newlyweds were not strangers to hardship, they soon experienced even more perilous times. Mary Ann scarcely had time to organize her home before Brigham left to follow the Prophet on the march of Zion’s Camp and before mob troubles escalated in Ohio and Missouri.
In December 1837 Joseph Smith cut off from the Church approximately 40 dissenters in a “high and mighty pruning.”5 This action brought persecution, hatred, and threats of bodily harm and death to Brigham, who had vigorously testified against the malcontents and defended the Prophet. His life in peril, Brigham fled Kirtland on 22 December. Shortly thereafter, Joseph and other faithful members left Kirtland as well.
During that winter, Mary Ann and her five children had to fend for themselves while apostates terrorized them, ransacking their home in the pretended belief that Brigham was hiding there. The tormentors “used ‘threats and vile language’ that undid [Mary Ann’s] emotions until her health became frail. This was, she later told her biographer, ‘undoubtedly the severest trial of my life.’”6
In February 1838, Mary Ann, now suffering from tuberculosis, gathered her children and what few possessions the mob had not taken and undertook the long, difficult journey from Kirtland, Ohio, to Richmond, Missouri, to rejoin her husband. “He was so … shocked at the change in her appearance that his first exclamation was, ‘You look as if you were almost in your grave.’”7
Brigham could now devote himself to nursing Mary Ann to good health. The Lord also knew of her desperate need for relief and care. On 17 April 1838, Joseph Smith received a revelation temporarily relieving Brigham from his heavy Church responsibilities, thus allowing him to care primarily for his family and ailing wife.8
That salutary respite was short-lived. Tensions and hostilities between the Saints and Missourians increased until, in October 1838, Church members were again expelled from their homes. Then, in February 1839, the Young family and more than 800 other Saints were forced to leave the state; they braved the winter cold to seek refuge in Illinois. Since their wagons and animals had been confiscated, most of the destitute Saints walked.
During this difficult exodus, Brigham Young would push ahead with his family, find lodging for them, and then return to escort the weaker and orphaned Saints onward. Mary Ann and the children lived in 11 different quarters during the three-month ordeal.
Ten days after Mary Ann gave birth to Emma Alice in Montrose, Iowa Territory, on 4 September 1839, duty again called her husband away—on a mission to England. Brigham was so ill that he could not walk without help; his whole family languished with sickness as well.
At their sad parting, Mary Ann said to Elder Young, “Go and fill your mission, and the Lord will bless you, and I will do the best I can for myself and the children.”9 She trusted in God and rejoiced that she had the strength to see her husband off on his journey.
Between Nauvoo and Montrose, the Mississippi River is 1.6 kilometers wide. Necessity often required Mary Ann to make the dangerous river crossing in a skiff to obtain food. One day in late November 1839, Mary Ann was suffering from malaria, and her hungry children were crying for food.
Mary Ann tossed a tattered blanket into the boat and wrapped another around herself and the infant Emma Alice. A winter storm had come up, and a stiff north westerly wind swept across the river. Wearing a thin cotton dress and shawl, Mary Ann rowed into wind-whipped waves that soaked her and her baby.
Finally Mary Ann reached Nauvoo and visited a friend, who fed her. “Sister Young came into my house … with her baby Alice in her arms, almost fainting with cold and hunger, and dripping wet,” this sister recorded. “I tried to persuade her to stay, but she refused, saying, ‘the children at home are hungry, too.’ I shall never forget how she looked, shivering with cold and thinly clad. … She came back [from the tithing office] with a few potatoes and a little flour, for which she seemed very grateful, and … weak as she was from ague and fever, wended her way to the river bank” to row home again.10
After his return from England, Brigham became ill with what is thought to have been scarlet fever. It was winter, and the family was living in a log cabin that had a blanket for a door.
“When the fever left me on the 18th day,” Brigham wrote, “I was … so near gone that I could not close my eyes, … and my breath stopped. … [Mary Ann] threw some cold water in my face; that having no effect, she dashed a handful of strong camphor into my face and eyes, which I did not feel in the least. … She then held my nostrils … , and placing her mouth directly over mine, blew into my lungs until she filled them with air. This set my lungs in motion, and I again began to breathe.”11 That inspired treatment, now a common resuscitative technique, was not known or practiced until the 20th century.
Brigham later built his family a new home in Nauvoo, and a degree of peace and prosperity surrounded the growing city. However, before long, opposition mounted against the Saints until once again they were forced from their homes in midwinter.
On the trail west, Mary Ann put her healing talent to frequent use. She nursed Thomas L. Kane to health, after which he decided to devote himself to helping the Saints and other oppressed people. She also helped restore Eliza R. Snow’s health.
In Winter Quarters, Nebraska, “Sister Young performed a noble mission; there was sickness in almost every log cabin in the settlement, and provisions were scarce and comforts there were none. … Inquiring into their needs and bestowing medicine and attention wherever she could, [Mary Ann] was an angel of mercy in very deed.”12
Mary Ann did not leave for the Great Salt Lake Valley with her husband in the spring of 1847. Instead, she stayed behind, caring for the children and others.
Three weeks after arriving in the Salt Lake Valley, President Young returned for his family. Together they reached their new home in Utah on 20 September 1848.
Considering the privations and trials of the past, the family lived in relative peace and prosperity for many years. Yet Mary Ann’s prosperity did not alter “her demeanor towards her … neighbors. The poor were her especial care and none were turned [away] empty.”13
Mary Ann bore six children and cared for two adopted daughters as well; her son Brigham Young Jr. became an Apostle.
Mary Ann survived her husband by five years. Two years before her death on 27 June 1882, continual physical ailments caused her great suffering, as did later “severe pain which she bore with great patience and the most perfect resignation to the will of her heavenly Father.”14
Despite the tribulation in her life, Mary Ann demonstrated an unshakable reliance on the Lord. “Ever cheerful and buoyant,”15 she passed through a host of hardships with extraordinary steadiness and acceptance, “always [looking] upward from whence help would come.”16
The primary bulwark of her fortitude was her testimony. She often testified that she knew Joseph Smith was a prophet of God and that Brigham Young was his rightful successor. In her lifetime, she had seen the fulfillment of prophecies uttered by these leaders. “I know it for myself,” she said, “and I bear this testimony to all the world, that this is the everlasting Gospel, revealed by the power of God’s inspiration and the visitation of angels in the dispensations of the fulness of times.”17

In an effort to light their part of the world, members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Dhaka, Bangladesh visited and delivered donations to six organizations that serve the needy in that country.
Members gathered at the church at 10 a.m. on 8 December 2018 to organize into groups and plan their service, then left to make visits throughout the afternoon, with some traveling two hours away.
All told over 2,000 items were donated to orphans, elderly people, and others in need.
According to Kris Johnson, the purpose of the activity was to perform Christlike service to the community, and to strengthen the love of Christ in Church members.

I remember vividly an experience I had near the end of my mission: A small eight-year-old boy and his mother taught me the importance of paying tithing.
At that time I was working in the mission home with the president of the Mexico and Central America Mission. He called my companion and me into his office one day and told us that he was sending us to Oaxaca. He handed us a list of the names of all the people who had joined the Church during the brief time missionaries had served there; they had been withdrawn some months previously. Our assignment was to look up everyone on the list, see how they were getting along, and, if possible, arrange for a sacrament meeting so that the members could meet together and partake of the sacrament. Then we were to bring back a report.
We made the overnight trip on the little narrow railway, arriving very early the next morning. As soon as we got off the train, we began tracking down addresses.
The first place we went to was a street lined with long adobe walls with doorways in them. When we found the address we were looking for and walked through the doorway, we found a whole group of homes inside. Tucked back in one corner was the home of the woman we were seeking. She lived there with her eight-year-old son and infant daughter.
As she came out of her small house, she recognized us by the way we were dressed, and rushed to give us a warm Mexican greeting. Then, without saying another word, she turned around and went back into her home.
Moments later she returned, carrying a small clay jar. She reached into the jar and pulled out some pesos and centavos (Mexican money). She told us that her family had saved ten percent of what they had earned. Most of that tithing had come from her son, who worked at the plaza in the center of the city, shining shoes. When he returned each day, he immediately put his tithing into the little jar so that the money could be turned in to the missionaries whenever they returned.
I can remember my feelings as that woman handed me the money. She was standing there in threadbare clothes and no shoes, and her children were in the same circumstances. I knew that there were things she would have loved to buy her children. I knew that there were many things that they desperately needed money for.
At first I wanted to give the money back to her and to encourage her to spend it where it was most needed. But then I realized that that was not my right. She and her son had saved that money carefully, knowing that it belonged to the Lord and wanting Him to have it. I realized, too, that they would be blessed for it.
I learned a great lesson that day about the importance of paying tithing and the blessings it can bring. I also learned a lesson about faith. That little boy and his mother had not known if missionaries would ever return to their home, but they were committed to the gospel principles, and they had faith that, if they were obedient, the Lord would bless them.

“You’re never going to finish that thing in time,” Mark said to his eleven-year-old sister, Annie, as he passed behind her chair. In his hands he gently held a honey-colored wooden box, smooth and gleaming in the spring sunlight.
Annie stared glumly at the tangled mint-green yarn in her lap. “You got help from Dad with yours,” Annie defended herself. “No one will help me with this hat.”
“That’s because none of us knows how to crochet,” said Bonnie, Annie’s 14-year-old sister. “The only one who could help you is Mom.”
Annie jumped up, grabbing the yarn in both hands. “Just you wait,” she yelled back as she raced up the stairs. “Mom’s going to love it!”
But Annie didn’t really believe it. Bonnie’s painting was propped up to dry against a wall in their bedroom. It was a watercolor of the park, all grass and trees and flowers and blue sky. Mother would love it! She would also love the old box that Mark had sanded and refinished. It would be perfect for her scarves. But this hat—if it was a hat—no one, not even Mom, could even pretend to love.
The stitches weren’t really stitches at all, just tight, stubborn knots. Annie had to find a way to fix it. After all, it had been her idea to make gifts to welcome Mom home from the hospital. And now it appeared as if even her 10-year-old brother could do better than she could.
She glanced at the clock and saw that it was already 4:30. Bonnie soon had to leave for ballet class, and Mark was knee-deep in homework. It was up to her to start dinner again if Dad was to have any time at the hospital with Mom. She had been there for two long weeks! Even the tangle of mistakes in Annie’s hands couldn’t make her feel sad when she remembered that Mom would be home tomorrow.
After the dinner dishes and her own homework were done, Annie got right back to work. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her long brown hair brushing her cheeks, when Dad softly knocked. “How’s it going, Annie?”
“Oh, Dad,” Annie admitted reluctantly, lifting her aching neck, “I just go around and around, and the stitches just get smaller and tighter.”
“How about giving it up for a while, honey,” said Dad gently. “We have a big day tomorrow. You look very tired.”
“I have to finish it before Mom comes home,” Annie said with determination, “even if it takes all night.”
“Annie, I want you in bed by 9:30 at the latest,” he said firmly. “Mom will understand, I promise.”
The next morning Annie watched from the door as Dad helped Mom walk up the brick path. She looked thin and white, and she leaned heavily on Dad’s arm. But she was smiling up at Dad and laughing as she always did.
In an instant Annie was in her mother’s arms.
“Gently now, Annie,” laughed Dad as Annie hugged Mom hard.
“It’s all right, John,” Mom said, holding Annie close. Soon Mark and Bonnie were there, too, and Mom was hugging them and saying how much she had missed them all.
“We have surprises for you,” Mark told her. “Come and see.”
Dad’s bouquet of pink carnations was next to the two wrapped gifts on the living room table.
“Now, what’s all this?” Mom asked, smiling as she sat on the sofa.
Mom really liked her presents. Annie felt awful that there was nothing there from her. How could she explain about the hat? She couldn’t. Edging out of the living room, she escaped into the kitchen and finished making the tuna salad for lunch, stubbornly blinking back her tears. She couldn’t let Mom see them. That would make things worse.
She was putting a pan of soup on the stove when she felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “Look at this nice lunch you’ve made, Annie,” Mom said quietly.
Annie turned to face her mother, and this time she couldn’t blink away the tears. “But I have no present for you, Mom,” she said. “I wanted it to be so perfect—a lacy crocheted hat to look pretty with your hair—but …”
“Shhh,” whispered Mom, putting her arms around Annie. “Don’t you think Dad’s told me about all that you’ve done here while I was in the hospital? With Bonnie’s ballet recital coming up and Mark so far behind in his schoolwork, you have had to do more than your share of the work. Dad doesn’t know what he would have done without you.”
“But Mark and Bonnie made such nice things for you, and mine turned out just horrible.”
“Do you want to know what I think? I think you gave me the most perfect gift you could have given.”
“You do?”
“You gave of yourself for two whole weeks without any thought of a reward, and I bet that after lunch and a nap for me, we can figure out that hat and finish it together in no time.”

I was so excited! I had turned 12 about two weeks ago and had received my first temple recommend on Sunday. My dad was going to take me to the Spokane Washington Temple for the first time as a birthday present.
On the day of our trip, I was ready to go an hour early! I was just so eager to go! We finally got into the car and listened to hymns on the trip there, which really brought in the Spirit that day.
My mom had prepared some family names for me and my dad to take to the temple. While I was entering the font I had expected this huge spiritual experience, but that didn’t happen. What did happen was that I was baptized for one of my deceased relatives, and I felt a still, small voice whisper to me, “You are doing the right thing.”
On the way home I really thought about what had happened at the temple. I realized I didn’t need the huge spiritual experience I had been expecting. I was so glad I had the Holy Ghost with me that day so that I could hear the still, small voice.
I’m so thankful for the temple and all of its blessings! The temple has brought me and my family great blessings, happiness, and experiences with the still, small voice.

I was a new member of the Church, a new wife, and now a new mother. It was fast Sunday, and our tiny daughter was about to receive a name and a blessing. I had never seen a baby blessing before because we lived in a ward with few young families. I didn’t know what to expect. Yet I felt by the Spirit that this was something very special and significant.
My husband, joined by other reverent priesthood holders, carefully cradled our precious little daughter. The sweetness of the Spirit filled me with joy. Tears ran down my cheeks, and myriad impressions flooded my mind. I knew I was only beginning to glimpse the depth and breadth of Heavenly Father’s magnificent gift of love to us—the priesthood.
Shortly after my baptism, my husband and I were married. His parents were members of the Church and his home was centered in the gospel, but I knew his testimony was not well rooted. I was not worried, though. My young faith brimmed with optimism. I would simply love him and be patient and prayerful.
During the months I carried our firstborn, I felt as mothers do—so close to my little one, so full of the wonder at this new life within me. When our daughter was born, my bond with her had become a cord of love, strong and sweet.
But I was concerned for my husband. He hadn’t had the blessing of this intense closeness to our daughter that I had enjoyed. Of course he loved her, but I wondered and worried about whether a strong bond would develop between him and her. I worried as I spent time nursing her, bathing her, and holding her, while most of my husband’s time was occupied with working to support our family.
Now, a few weeks after her birth, there we were in our chapel. A miracle was unfolding before my eyes and in my heart. My tentative husband humbly smiled at his brethren in the circle, his eyes full of light and a glint of tears. In return, love and support flowed from those brethren to him as they placed hands on shoulders and helped cradle our baby, forming a little circle bathed in pure and sacred love. As my husband began the blessing, I heard trembling in his voice, and I knew that he was feeling the Lord’s power and the honor of holding His priesthood.
I felt a great love welling up in him for our little girl, and I knew he had tried hard to prepare himself to give her the blessing Heavenly Father intended for her. My joy was full as I realized that he now felt tightly bonded to our daughter. It was a bond that was never to weaken.

We were lined up along the edge of the sidewalk next to the curb as straight as a flock of crows on a barbed wire fence.
We had been told by reliable sources that a more boisterous bunch had never graced the halls of our elementary school. Today, however, we were on our best behavior as a requirement for witnessing a great display of skill. Even the mayor was there wearing his dark suit and white shirt, his collar button straining to hold everything together. Somehow, Mayor Smith still looked like a mechanic even when he left his garage and shed his coveralls.
But our attention was not on the mayor. It was focused on our school principal, Mr. Redding, and the event that was about to take place. Mr. Redding was standing next to some of the teachers at the street corner, his right hand held aloft, firmly grasping a stopwatch which was held for all to see.
This was a great day! Not only were we released from our classroom prisons, but we were to witness the unparalleled skills of the volunteer fire department!
Already we could hear the siren wailing and bells clanging. We strained on tiptoe to be the first to see the fire truck coming. A cheer erupted from 100 boys and girls as the bright red truck came into sight.
It rounded the corner on squealing tires with dust flying and dogs barking. Three brightly clad firemen jumped from the moving truck and braced their feet against the ground, holding firmly to the long, limp canvas hose. The spool whirled as the hose unwound and the moving truck pulled over to stop near the closest fire hydrant.
I yelled “Hi” to Bill Jenkins, but he had no time to talk to kids. He was a member of the volunteers, drilled and trained to a fine edge of efficiency. There was an economy in every movement.
Precious seconds were ticking off the stopwatch, but already the hose was trained on the imaginary flames licking at the walls of our house of learning.
The hose was quickly coupled to the hydrant and the nozzle trained upon our hypothetical blaze. A volunteer ran to the hydrant with a special wrench to turn it on. A look of alarm came upon his face—the wrench didn’t fit.
There was a scurry of movement as each area of the truck was ransacked to find the crucial missing wrench. The search continued, and the watch kept ticking.
Buzzy Harris was getting nervous. He stood first on one foot and then another. The length of time a boy can stand in line on the edge of a sidewalk has some definite limitations. Buzzy bent over and picked up a small stick and with a practiced swing scribed a perfect circle in the soft dirt beside the walk. Into this circle he threw down his best cat’s-eye marble. It was an unspoken challenge for anyone willing to take him on in a game of “migs.” I was out of the running because Buzz had already taught me how to play. All of my hard-earned marbles were resting securely in his swollen marble bag.
Three boys soon joined him kneeling in the dirt, doing their best to win that cat’s-eye and teach Buzz a lesson he’d never forget. Walter was chasing Suzie Adams, trying to pull her hair. She was screaming at the top of her lungs but not really running as fast as she might.
Mr. Redding was becoming visibly agitated. He glanced at the stopwatch still held partially aloft in his tiring right arm. He lowered his arm to rewind the watch.
Meanwhile, our volunteer fire department was searching for the right wrench. A pickup truck had taken off in a wild dash, its tires throwing gravel. It was headed back toward the fire station on a search mission.
Walter had caught Suzie, but what do you do with a cornered wildcat? Three of Suzie’s girl friends had come to her rescue, and there was some question as to whether he would escape alive.
Buzzy was looking for more takers as he poked newly acquired marbles into his bag. Mr. Redding wound his stopwatch. Three boys had come to Walter’s rescue, but Suzie was now receiving reinforcements.
There was no longer a straight line. The crows had hopped off the fence.
I glanced at the schoolhouse and our hypothetical fire. I decided by now the fire would have consumed the bottom floor, engulfed the second floor, and spread to the principal’s office on the third.
Meanwhile, our volunteer fire department was still looking for the right wrench. The watch kept ticking.
No one really noticed when the pickup truck came screeching back on the scene. Mr. Redding and the other teachers were busy picking boys and girls off a “dog pile.” Walter and Suzie were on the bottom and getting squashed. Buzzy was being threatened by a larger opponent who said he was only playing “funs,” not “keeps,” and wanted his marbles back. Mayor Smith had quietly gone back to his garage.
Suddenly the long white hose that had lain limp and useless began to take on life. The swelling motion began moving along its length toward the nozzle. Our volunteer firemen were sitting in the shade of the tree with the nozzle lying inertly in their laps. Suddenly the hose came to life. Like an angry cobra, it raised itself poised to strike, lashing out in every direction. Our volunteers bravely tried to control the maverick stream, but it kept dodging from their grasp. Dirt and grass were being washed down to native gravel, and mud was flying everywhere.
Our firemen didn’t catch the runaway hose. It caught them. But they grabbed it and held on. It took three of them to control it, and, in the process, Mr. Redding was drenched along with the rest of the faculty. The few crows that were still on the fence were unceremoniously washed off. Eventually, the stream was pointed in the right direction toward the imagined embers that had once been our schoolhouse. Mr. Redding promptly said, “All right, that’s it! Let’s go back inside!” It was Johnny Trump who asked the obvious question, “How long did it take, Mr. Redding? How long did it take?” There was no response.
The question was now chorused by a multitude, “How long did it take, Mr. Redding?” With some difficulty, Mr. Redding extracted his run-down stopwatch from a wet pocket. With a sigh of resignation he said, “Twenty-nine minutes, fourteen and five-tenths seconds.”
I glanced over at our hypothetical fire. Our schoolhouse had just burned down.
Through the years I have observed again and again that bright uniforms and shiny engines are useless if we don’t have the right wrench. Success comes to those who plan ahead and pay attention to details. Since that day on the school ground I have never accepted a responsibility without asking myself, “Am I really prepared? Do I have the right wrench?”

During one of the most difficult times of my divorce, I was called to serve as an institute teacher. I wondered how I could effectively serve when I was facing such enormous challenges in my personal life. But as I prepared lessons, I was strengthened in my own difficulties and could empathize with my students’ difficulties. I came to know my young single adult institute students over those several years, and the testimonies they shared gave me courage as I tried to move the mountains in my life.5

In 1960 I met a young man at a party who told me that Jesus Christ had visited the Americas after His Resurrection. I found the idea fascinating and wanted to know more, so I began searching in libraries and inquiring at the various religious denominations in my hometown of San Miguel, El Salvador.
I searched for almost three years but found nothing. When I mentioned to religious leaders that I had heard of Christ coming to the Americas, they told me I had been deceived. Because my search turned up no information, I eventually came to believe they were right.
One day, two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to my home and said they had an important message for my family. I immediately asked them, “Do you know if Jesus Christ came to the Americas?”
One of them said, “We bear witness of that.”
At that moment I felt a great excitement in my mind and heart and asked, “How do you know that?”
He took a book out of his bag and said, “We know Christ came here because of this book, the Book of Mormon.”
What the missionaries taught me during the first discussion troubled me, and I doubted the account of the Prophet Joseph’s vision of the Father and the Son.
However, the Book of Mormon intrigued me, and the missionaries kept teaching me. One afternoon they asked me, “Have you prayed to find out if what we are teaching you is true?”
I told them I had but had not obtained any answer.
“You must pray with real intent,” they said.
I had been reading the Book of Mormon for several nights. I had read about and believed in Christ’s appearance to the Nephites. But I still could not accept Joseph Smith’s vision. My internal struggle was terrible.
One night I knelt alone and opened my heart to God. I told Him I needed to know if He had really manifested Himself to Joseph Smith. If He had, I promised Him I would be baptized into the Church and serve Him all my life.
When I got up early the next morning, the answer came to me through the Holy Ghost. My mind cleared and my heart filled with peace. From that moment to this, I have had no doubts whatsoever that Joseph Smith truly was a prophet of God, that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ, and that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer. I know Christ came to the Americas after His Resurrection. My soul delights in this marvelous knowledge that was taught to me by the power of the Holy Ghost.

She was busy doing her wifely chores at the second floor of their modest home when she heard knocks at the door. Quickly she opened the window to see who was knocking. Quickly she closed. What she saw scared her. Two Americans! What do they want, she thought. “Ask what the Markanos want,” she told her 12-year-old daughter. She heard them ask for her husband. Her husband was at that time at the town public market tending their small grocery store—their only source of livelihood. When she heard the Americans leaving, she half-opened the window and watched them walk away.
Maura T. Miranda is a frail-looking housewife, 43 years old, and married to a loving husband, Cesar Miranda. They have three daughters. They live a stones-throw away from the meeting house of the Biñan Branch. If you visit the Miranda family, one object you will not fail to notice is an oxygen tank. This medical equipment has saved the life of Maura several times. She has been afflicted with asthma for eight years. She had always been in poor health. She tires very easily and when asthma make its insidious attack she would have difficulty in breathing. She would gasp for air. When this happens, her husband would dutifully place a breathing tube to her nose and open the oxygen tank for the much needed life-sustaining oxygen. It has become a most valuable medical aid to her. Often, the attack would last from 3 days to one week. When this happens, her husband is forced to close their little grocery store so he could attend to her and their children. This naturally means a sizeable loss in income for a growing family. On Sundays when she passes by the Branch meeting house she would observe with growing interest a group of happy people. They are friendly, she thought. They always shake hands with each other as if they had only met for the first time. Why do they call each other “brothers and sisters,” she wondered. And yes—they sing beautiful hymns. She was touched. She was moved. They are different, she said to herself. And deep within her heart, the desire to know was born.
One day, her 12-year-old daughter Sterling arrived home with an “American” following her. “I am Elder Urari,” he introduced himself. Pointing at the meeting house, he said, “I live there with my companion. We would like to visit your family tomorrow. Puede ba?” He smiled. Maura Miranda smiled too and answered yes.
The next day Elder Urari arrived with a companion who introduced himself as Elder Canlas. The elders explained the purpose of their visit. They talked about a prophet named Joseph Smith, about the golden plates, about the appearance of two heavenly beings to Joseph, about the falling away and the restoration of the true Church in these latter-days. Her family did not understand. That was the first time they heard those things. But their interest was aroused. Before they left, the Elders gave them a Book of Mormon with the request to “read it and pray about it.”
The Elders continued to teach them. The Miranda family continued to read and pray and listened. All their doubts disappeared. They knew in their hearts they have found that which they have been seeking for—the true Church. They decided to be baptized but then something unexpected came up. A few days before their scheduled baptism, Maura Miranda became ill with flu accompanied by attack of her old tormentor—Asthma. Because of her illness she does not use cold water in taking a bathe for the past eight years. But great was her faith and strong was her desire to be baptized. She prayed and left everything to the Lord. When Elder R. Jensen who took over from Elder Urari, was saying the baptismal prayers, Maura Miranda felt something. It was a warm feeling going all through her body. She knew the Lord answered her prayer. All would be well.
Maura Miranda and her family are now members of the Church. They were baptized February 12, 1977. They are happy. The once frail-looking and sickly housewife is now healthy and full of life. She presently serve as Visiting Teacher in the Relief Society of the Biñan Branch. Her husband serves as the Second Counselor in the Branch Presidency.
Today, if you visit the Miranda home, you will still see the oxygen tank in one corner. It is no longer in use. “Since I joined the Church my asthma never bothered me anymore,” she declared. “When I get sick I turn to my husband. He has the Priesthood. I get a blessing. That’s all I need. I no longer need an oxygen tank.”

I often think back to my time with President Kimball. He would invite me to his family camping trips, picnics, and Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Even then I knew that he truly was an Apostle and prophet of the Lord Jesus Christ.
I met President Kimball one last time while he was very ill. But he still smiled at me and hugged me. He was my first LDS contact, and I knew he would never let go of me.

I remember many times, it seemed like almost every week, that four little towheaded boys would stand with their faces against the windowpane or against the screen door and wave goodbye to their mother and dad as they would get in the car and go to the temple in Mesa.
We didn’t know much about the temple, and we didn’t know much about what went on in the temple, but we had been taught without any reservation that Mother and Dad loved us and that they would do anything for us. So, as we stood there and watched them go, we knew that something important must go on in that temple, to have these two people who loved us more than anything leave us as often as they did to go there. We gained an understanding in those tender years of the importance of the temple.