Gospel Story Finder

The next day was Mother’s Day. Chad wanted to give something special to his mommy. He was only five years old and didn’t have any money to buy a present.
Yellow-faced pansies bloomed along a sidewalk in Mrs. Dewey’s yard next door. Chad had watched Mrs. Dewey plant them. Her husband had died last year, and she lived alone. Sometimes Chad’s parents invited her to Sunday dinner.
Chad asked Mommy if he could go outside and play on the swing set. The pansies seemed to smile at him. He picked a handful and carried them inside.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy!” He held out the flowers to her. It didn’t feel as good as he thought it would.
A smile settled on her lips. “Chad, they’re beautiful! Thank you.” The smile faded. “Where did you get such beautiful pansies?”
He shuffled from one foot to the other. “Outside.”
“Where outside?”
“Mrs. Dewey’s yard,” he said reluctantly.
“How do you think Mrs. Dewey is going to feel when she finds that some of her flowers are missing?” Mommy asked softly.
Chad remembered how Mrs. Dewey had knelt on the ground, patting the dark dirt around the flowers. She had worked a long time planting them. “She might be sad.”
Mommy put the flowers on the table. “What do you think you should do?”
He chewed on his lip. “Maybe I could put them back.”
Mommy sat at the table and patted the chair beside her. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”
Chad didn’t think so, either. “I guess I should tell her what I did.” He looked at the flowers. They lay limply on the table, their cheerful faces already drooping.
He trudged over to Mrs. Dewey’s house and knocked at the door. “I picked your flowers for my mommy for Mother’s Day. I’m sorry.” He got out the words in a single breath.
Mrs. Dewey smiled. “Thank you, Chad, for bringing the flowers back and telling me the truth.”
“I’ll help you stick them in the ground again,” he offered.
“After flowers are picked, they can’t be replanted,” she said gently.
“That’s what Mommy said.” He brightened. “Maybe I could help you plant some new flowers.”
Mrs. Dewey’s smile bloomed like one of the pansies. “I’d like that.”
That afternoon, Mommy and Chad bought new flowers to plant in Mrs. Dewey’s yard.
“I’ll do chores to pay you back for the flowers,” Chad said. He thought for a moment. “I could do more chores for a Mother’s Day present.”
Mommy hugged him. “That’s the best present you could give me.”

We are grateful for the beautiful publication the Liahona, which we eagerly receive each month and make the most of as a family. In the July 2006 issue, for example, we enjoyed great articles that helped us prepare our son for baptism and confirmation. The high-quality photography catches the attention of our little girl, who does not yet know how to read but can understand visual messages. On a Sunday afternoon we played “Sunday Box: Pencil Spin” and had a very good time. Family bonds were strengthened.Cazorla family, Spain

An event some years ago changed my attitude toward modesty. As I got ready to go to a Mutual activity, I put on some short shorts; it never occurred to me that they were inappropriate. The activities planned for that Tuesday included having the missionaries give us some practical advice about missionary work. One of the last empty seats was next to me. For a brief moment the elders began to argue, as discreetly as they could, over who had to sit next to me. Though they never said so specifically, I understood they were uneasy because of the way I was dressed.
At that moment, notwithstanding my embarrassment, I began to understand what it meant to be modest. I realized that I was making virtuous young men feel uncomfortable—and that I could also be making unvirtuous men feel too comfortable. I began to better understand what type of person I wanted to be with and, more important, what type of person I wanted to be. From that moment on, I was not only prepared for the changes I was about to make, but I looked forward to making them.
Chelsea Anderson, Ohio, USA

I’d like to see Geri again. I need to apologize.
Geri was one of the LDS students I used to hang around with at lunch time when I was a senior in high school. She and several of her friends would sit on the lawn behind the administration building where my buddies and I would often join them for some friendly banter.
Geri was almost always there, but it was almost as if she weren’t. She was so painfully shy, that even with conversation bouncing all around her, she wouldn’t join in. I never knew why, but Geri lived with her grandmother. There probably wasn’t much money to go around in her home because she didn’t have many clothes. Although what she wore was clean and neat, it was not the style of the day.
My personality was much the opposite of Geri’s. I was the group clown—seeking to milk laughter from every situation while masking my teenage insecurities in humor.
One day I noticed that Geri was wearing a rather heavy dose of perfume.
“Nice perfume, Geri,” I commented.
She smiled, clearly pleased at the compliment.
“Did you bathe in it?” I asked.
The moment those words left my lips, I wanted them back. I wanted that embarrassed, betrayed expression on Geri’s face to disappear. I longed to see the smile again. But the damage caused by that thoughtless comment was not so easily erased.
“Do you think it’s too strong?” she asked.
I mumbled and shrugged.
“Is it too strong?” she pressed.
“A little,” I conceded.
Geri looked away, and the incident was history. But the consequences of that event haunt me still. I was poorer that day because of my actions, and an innocent human being was hurt.
Life, for the most part, is made up of little things. Small acts of kindness or selfishness determine the depth of our commitment to the Savior and the quality of our lives. Some seemingly small acts can cause us considerable regret for a long time.
I have often wished during the years since that incident that I could find Geri and apologize for my thoughtlessness. I hope I would find that the years have been rich and full for her. I hope the light of the gospel has brightened her life and eased her burdens.

Nicole Davie and Luwana Qummou of Brisbane, Australia, built a bridge together. It wasn’t a massive stone-and-steel structure like the one that arches over the bay behind them as they stroll the waterfront of Brisbane’s business district; Nicole and Luwana built a bridge of trust and love.
While they were teenagers, Nicole met Luwana at Sunnybank High School. They became good friends and have known each other for five years, including the past two years as university students.
“If the full-time missionaries had come to my door, I’m not sure if I would have listened to them,” Luwana says. “But Nicole was my friend. We had lots of fun at school, and I vaguely remember her talking about the Church. It took years before I felt comfortable asking about her religion.”
That finally happened late in 1993. “The first time we had a spiritual talk, she just wanted to learn more,” Nicole says. “She had a lot of questions and was troubled by some things she’d heard from others. I said a prayer for her that night, and I think the Holy Ghost went to work on her.”
“The next day, as we talked again, everything I’d been upset about didn’t seem to matter anymore,” Luwana says. “I felt the Holy Spirit strongly. I felt calm and happy. I knew I needed to study the Church, so I took the missionary discussions and started reading the Book of Mormon. The feelings got stronger and stronger.”
Friendship became a bridge of trust between Nicole and Luwana, and helped Luwana build a bridge of faith linking her to her Heavenly Father. With that kind of path to understanding, it wasn’t long before Luwana was baptized and became an enthusiastic member of the Church.
Now, as Luwana looks out over the waterfront in Brisbane, she knows she is building more bridges—bridges to eternity. Soon she will be married to a returned missionary in the Sydney Temple, and she thanks Nicole for the knowledge that made that possible.
“We’re best friends,” Luwana says. “To know that she wanted to see me marry a worthy man in the temple, that she wanted me to have that happiness, that’s really wonderful.”

Prior to his mission young Ezra fell in love with a vivacious young coed. He first noticed her when he and a cousin were standing on a street curb in Logan, Utah, and an attractive woman drove by in a Ford convertible. A few minutes later she drove by a second time. “Who is that?” Ezra asked. “Flora Amussen,” his cousin replied.

Though Ezra was a homespun farm boy from Whitney, Idaho, who had rarely been off the farm, he asked Flora for a date. She accepted. Wearing his blue serge suit, shiny from much wear, he pulled up in front of her large, three-story home, took a deep breath, and wondered what he’d gotten himself into, calling on the most popular—and apparently one of the wealthiest—young women on campus.

Many of his friends were amazed that Flora even gave him the time of day. She was very popular at Utah State Agricultural College (now Utah State University) and involved in everything from tennis to drama. But once they became acquainted, their courtship proceeded smoothly, and it wasn’t long before Ezra felt he’d found the woman for him. Marriage, however, wouldn’t come immediately. First there was a mission for “Elder” Ezra Taft Benson to serve in Great Britain, and before he knew it he was saying good-bye to Flora at the train station and heading for Europe.

Two-and-a-half years later when he returned, Ezra was delighted and a little relieved to find Flora still available. Their dating resumed, and it wasn’t long before he felt ready to settle down on his Idaho farm with Flora as his wife and begin to rear a family.

Flora seems to have liked the attention of this handsome young farm boy and had entertained thoughts of marriage herself. At 23, she was certainly of marriageable age. But something held her back. For some reason she felt the timing wasn’t quite right for their marriage. She saw in Ezra Benson more than a hard-working farm boy who would make a fine husband and father; she had the impression that Ezra had potential that might not surface if he returned to the farm immediately.

Flora didn’t discuss her feelings with Ezra, but “prayed and fasted for the Lord to help me know how I could help him be of greatest service to his fellowmen. It came to me that if the bishop thought I was worthy, [he would] call me on a mission. The Church came first with Ezra, so I knew he wouldn’t say anything against it.”

Without telling her beau about her plan, Flora talked with her bishop. And before Ezra had a chance to formally propose, she made her own announcement: she was going to Hawaii, where she’d been called to serve a mission. Ezra was shocked. Another separation from Flora? It seemed too much to ask of him. “I was ready to settle down on the farm,” he recalled. “And I didn’t have too much briefing as to why she was leaving. It was really tough. She was the light of my life.”

Flora knew she was taking a calculated risk. Though convinced her boyfriend needed to finish his education and that both of them would profit by maturing spiritually before tying themselves down, she also recognized the possibility he might not wait two years. Nevertheless, she felt she needed to serve this mission.

On August 26, 1924, Flora and Ezra boarded the westbound train in Salt Lake City, and he rode with her as far as Tooele, where he said good-bye. It tore at him for her to leave, but he knew, somehow, that things would work out. Later he wrote in his journal, “We were both happy because we felt the future held much for us and that this separation would be made up to us later. It is difficult, though, to see one’s hopes shattered. But though we sometimes had a cry about it, we received assurance from Him who told us it would all be for the best.”

Things did work out. When Flora returned from Hawaii, Ezra lost no time in proposing, and on September 10, 1926, they were married in the Salt Lake Temple.

It was through experiences such as these that the young Ezra Taft Benson gained confidence in the Lord, and confidence in what happened when he tried to do what was right—even when it wasn’t easy.

While I was serving as a bishop many years ago, my counselors and I decided that we would visit all of the members’ homes once a year. During one such visit we walked along an abandoned railroad track that was lined on both sides with small cardboard-box homes no larger than six feet by six feet (about 2 m by 2 m). This small space served as a family’s living room, dining room, bedroom, and kitchen.
The adults living in that area have set ways and established routines. Men are mostly unemployed or underemployed. They spend much of their time gathered together around makeshift tables smoking and sharing bottles of beer. The women also gather, focusing their conversations on the most controversial news of the day, sprinkled with backbiting and gossiping. Gambling is also a favorite pastime for the young and old.
What disturbed me most was that the people seemed content to live out their entire lives in that manner. I later concluded that perhaps for most of them, hopelessness allowed them to believe they were consigned to this fate. It was indeed a heart-wrenching sight.
Later I learned that my counselor, who was an engineer, used to live in that area. I never would have guessed it because his family was much different from the families I saw there. All his siblings were educated and raising good families.
My counselor’s father was a simple man. After I met him, questions came to me. How had he elevated himself? How did he pull his family out of those conditions? What made him catch a vision of what could be? Where did he find hope when everything about him seemed hopeless?
Many years later, in the Manila Philippines Temple, I attended a gathering of all the mission presidents and their wives then serving in the Philippines. A wonderful surprise greeted me as I entered one of the rooms in the temple. Standing before me was the father of my counselor—that quiet, unassuming man—dressed in white.
At that moment there opened before my eyes two scenes. The first scene was of a man drinking beer with his buddies and wasting away his life. The second scene showed the same man dressed in white and officiating in the ordinances of the holy temple. The stark contrast of that second glorious scene will forever remain in my heart and mind.
What allowed this good brother to elevate himself and his family? The answer is found in the power of the word of God.

When members of the Loganholme Ward of the Beenleigh Stake were looking for a new way to love, share and invite, they took on a tech savvy project to help family history enthusiasts all over the world.
To get the ward members excited about the project, the Loganholme Ward leaders set a goal, to index 10,000 names from April to December 2022. Excitement spread like wildfire and by mid-August, the goal was reached and extended to 20,000.
This particular service project was chosen for a number of reasons, but mainly because it is accessible for a range of ages and skill levels. Early in in the challenge, the ward gathered and learned together how to access records and correctly assess and record the information. Due to the accessibility of this project and the training that was available, many individuals have joined the cause, from children, teens and adults.
According to one participant, “To see the range of ages come together in a common goal is an incredibly unifying experience.”
Through indexing, not only have people been able to link the generations of their family together, but they have also created a greater bond with their living family.
Every Thursday evening, ward members can gather at the chapel and work together, sharing knowledge and stories. Each participant can share their knowledge and wisdom with each other. Young children have been spotted helping older participants with technology as older participants share stories of days gone by and how the world has changed. Everyone can share their knowledge and ask questions if they need assistance, and the group celebrates individual successes together.
“Everyone involved has had such an amazing experience working on these records,” one observer said.
“Many are now finding the search for their ancestors addictive, spending their Sabbath researching for new clues and preparing family names for the temple.”
One of the local Church leaders commented, “What’s great about indexing is that anyone and everyone can participate regardless of your age or experience. Testimonies were strengthened, and an increased interest in temple and family history work was established.”

Now Paula had the skills and the knowledge to start helping others. She became a peer counselor at her school, helping her friends work through their problems. She helps others see the good in themselves and those around them.
“Looking for the good in others is the real basis of what I think Jesus meant when he taught about brotherly love,” says Paula.
Through peer counseling Paula found that drugs and alcohol are often at the root of people’s problems. Consequently, she immersed herself in her school’s Drug-Free Youth program. But she didn’t stop there. She found that awareness was only one part of the solution. She felt that removing people from dangerous situations could eliminate some of the most damaging problems. So she joined the Safe Ride program at her school. The organization gives rides home to teenagers who find themselves in compromising situations.
“We’re as close as the phone,” she says. “No one has to stay in situations involving dangerous activities, drugs, alcohol, or moral violations. We give them a way to escape.”

“I always take the Book of Mormon with me on business trips,” says Pedro, who presides over the Praia Second Branch. Both well educated, he and his wife work at a state-run food-supply and construction company. Once, while on a business trip to the northern island of Santo Antão, Pedro went two and a half hours out of his way to introduce the Book of Mormon to someone who had accidentally dialed the Semedos’ phone number a week earlier.

In a country where the vast majority of the population is under 25 years old, youth and young adults make up a large proportion of Church membership. Evening classes in seminary and institute in each of the major cities help build momentum for the gospel and entourage many youths to prepare for missions. Under the leadership of energetic teachers like Milena Sa Nogueira, more than 400 students have participated in the gospel-study programs since those programs began in January 1993.

“I used to teach my children the gospel,” says Milena, a widow and mother of five who was baptized in May 1992. “Now, my children teach me.” Milena has held family home evening every week since her baptism, and today she serves as District Young Women president in Praia. Early in 1995 she helped organize shipments of food and clothing when a volcano exploded on the island of Fogo and displaced more than 1,000 people.

Because marriage has never been a strong religious or social tradition in Cape Verde, many mothers and fathers who want to join the Church must first get married. For example, Claudimire and Margarida Cardosa, merchants at Praia’s open-air market, lived together for 26 years before their oldest of eight children, 19-year-old KaiuKa, joined the Church. Three other siblings accepted the gospel before Claudimire and Margarida decided to join the Church in June 1993. Before they were baptized, they were joined as a couple in a marriage ceremony at Praia’s civil registry.

In July 1994 President Aníbal Moreira, who is a bank administrator and president of the Praia District, and his wife, Maria do Rosario (Zézá), traveled to the Washington Temple in Washington, D.C., and became the first Cape Verdean couple to be sealed in a temple. Other marriages, too, reflect a strong commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Citing more than 80 marriages and baptisms similar to the Cardosas’, President Antonio Mascarenhas, president of the Republic of Cape Verde, recently honored the Church for helping strengthen family life. Other government leaders have publicly admired Church members’ emphasis on self-reliance and caring for neighbors. As President Moreira puts it, “In the pages of the history of Cape Verde, historians will speak highly about the Latter-day Saints.”

Fortunately, like many of you, I came from a home where that kind of influence was available. Near my eighteenth birthday I was drafted into World War II. I found myself in an entirely new environment. I had always been taught in my home to take time out at night to pray, but I found this a little delicate, where in a typical barrack, there would be over fifty men on a floor. I used to try to get a bunk near the end of the room, where there would be a little privacy, and I would wait until the lights would go out before I would crawl out of bed to say my prayers.
I remember at Fort MacArthur everything went well for the first few nights and then finally one night, shortly after the lights went out, I crawled out of bed and knelt down to pray. About that time two half-stewed characters came in, flipped on the lights, and aroused all of us. A couple of fellows across the aisle from me saw me on my knees. Typical of that kind of environment, they started to poke fun. One of them, pointing to me, shouted so all could hear, “Hey, holy Paul, pray for me!” I felt a little chagrined and somewhat embarrassed and I thought to myself, “Now, what do you do?”
My mother had taught me a great principle. She used to say: “In delicate situations, use a sense of humor. It always helps.” So while still on my knees, I squared my shoulders, looked at both of the soldiers, and said: “Would you give me your full names because I don’t think the Lord knows you.” Later, I’m pleased to say, they did come to know the Lord because they too took time-out.

Recently, some members of my family determined it would be fun to bicycle from Bozeman, Montana, to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, in the United States. This 225-mile journey would take us three days, and we would cross the Continental Divide on three occasions. We determined that traveling through the mountain passes with good weather would be a wonderful experience that would help us appreciate God’s creations.

After careful planning and preparation, two of my sons and my only daughter and I set out on the first day to cycle to our overnight stop in Big Sky, Montana. The morning was perfect, and we expected a delightful journey. However, as we traveled along, dark clouds gathered and brought rain, which eventually became sleet and hail and made us extremely cold and wet and miserable. As we concluded day one of our journey and reached our overnight destination, I was reminded that life can be just like that day. Fortunately, we had prepared for all types of weather conditions; had we not done so, it would have been difficult to complete our journey that first day. At each stage of life’s journey, we should set out full of hope and optimism, but we should be prepared nonetheless to face opposition or hardship at some point.

On day two of our trip, we headed to West Yellowstone. Everything was as it should be—the bicycles were running smoothly, our legs rested, as we progressed toward our second destination. It was then that I realized if we are not careful when everything is going just right in life, there can be a temptation to forget our Heavenly Father and give credit to ourselves for our happy state. Don’t make that mistake.

On day three of our journey, I learned that even though we may have some uphill struggles in our lives, our attitude will determine how we face them. On that day we crossed the Continental Divide three times, rising from an elevation of 4,800 feet to 8,300 feet. Climbing steep mountain passes on a bike requires the right attitude to get to the right altitude. It’s the same with life. By setting worthwhile goals and keeping your eyes fixed on them, you will learn self-discipline and accomplish much. Yes, there were times when climbing the steep mountain grades was as much as I could bear, but I didn’t give up, because I was fixed in my purpose.

As our family concluded the 225-mile bicycle journey, we learned that no matter how difficult things can become on this road we call life, great happiness is waiting for those who keep the commandments and endure to the end.

Recently our family visited with a dear friend, Sister Louise Lake, who has lived her gracious, sharing life in a wheelchair for more than a quarter of a century.
Perhaps because our 12-year-old son was with us, Sister Lake told us of another 12-year-old with whom she became acquainted in a rehabilitation center in New York where she was working. The boy had been blind and for most of his 12 years had lived a sad existence, thought to be uneducable, incapable of learning. Then he was given a chance, thank the Lord, and a marvelous spirit and fine mind were discovered. He told his friend that he had thought all his life that being blind was the worst thing that could happen to one—until he met Campy. Campy was Roy Campanella, great athlete, who at the height of his career was rendered physically helpless in an automobile accident. The blind boy said he had decided after meeting Campy that his condition was worse than not being able to see. “But there is something even worse than that,” he said. He talked of feeling his way down the hall at the hospital, hearing the scuff of feet as people passed him by. “There is something worse than being blind or crippled, and that is to have people not understand you,” he said. “I guess they think that because I am blind I can’t hear or speak either.”

I really don’t know why I signed up for seminary in 11th grade. Ninth grade was easy enough to explain. My best friend, Mary, begged me. Her mother insisted that she attend, and Mary vowed she’d die of boredom if I didn’t go with her. We’d been practically inseparable from the time we were two, so I believed it was my duty to go with her.
Tenth grade was a little more difficult to explain. I registered for seminary with Mary—again because she had to. But her mom remarried before the school year started, and Mary moved to Nevada. That year, although I didn’t drop the seminary class, most of the time I didn’t attend. I wasn’t interested in what the seminary teacher had to offer, and I was lonely without Mary.
By default, I registered for seminary again when I was a junior, mostly because there were no other classes I wanted. So I went and sat in the back, nestled by myself in the corner. Brother Hardy often tried to involve me in the discussions and scripture reading. Sometimes I participated, but most of the time I declined during our study of the Book of Mormon.
Every day Brother Hardy closed his lesson by bearing testimony to the truthfulness of the gospel. He seemed sincere enough in his beliefs, but each day I grew increasingly irritated at his word choice. He always said “I know.” But he couldn’t, I thought. He was wrong. He could feel, he could think, he could believe. But he could not know.
After class one day I decided to set him straight. He turned and smiled at me, and his eyes smiled too. “Sister Atwood, what can I help you with?” he asked.
“It’s about your word choice,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d say ‘I believe’ rather than ‘I know.’ You can’t know what you can’t see.” I turned to walk away, certain he’d choose his words more carefully from then on.
“Sister Atwood, wait!” he called out after me.
I stopped and looked at his gentle green eyes. Something about him drew me in, something in his gaze. “What?” I asked.
“Sister,” he said softly, “do you want to know?”
I shook my head in disbelief. “But no one can know what they can’t see.” I didn’t want to tell him I didn’t believe there was a God; I didn’t want to let him know how hopeless and bleak the world looked to me. “No one can know,” I mumbled again, and the conviction of that belief left me lost, lonely, and small.
Brother Hardy reached for a book on his table. “Have you ever read the Book of Mormon, Colleen?”
“No.”
“Do you have one at home?”
“No. I have a Bible. But I don’t read it anymore.”
“Here.” He held the book out to me. “This is yours. You keep it. Every night before you go to bed, kneel down and pray to your Heavenly Father. He’ll hear you. Even if you haven’t prayed to him for a very long time. Ask him to help you understand what is in this book. Remember, always pray before you read. Read it just like you would those good books I see you with. Read it as if the people in this book are speaking directly to you. Will you do that?”
I shrugged my shoulders and took the book from him. I didn’t want to take his book. But he was so kind I didn’t want to tell him no.
The next day Brother Hardy bore his testimony. And he said “I know” again. He didn’t understand after all. He watched me as I walked out the door that day. I could feel his eyes fixed on me even while he talked to the other students. I didn’t look back.
At home that night I picked up the book. I knew he’d ask me if I was reading it. I didn’t want to lie to him, so I thought about dropping the class as I set the book back on my nightstand.
For the next several days, I went to seminary, dreading the day he’d pull me aside. Although he always greeted me warmly, he never asked me if I’d been reading the book. I began to relax and decided to stay in the class. I even took my turn reading scriptures. The days passed, and, as always, Brother Hardy bore his testimony. He looked me squarely in the eyes each time he said “I know.” Always the look was gentle, almost pleading.
One night, with nothing else to do, I picked up the Book of Mormon and turned the pages. I started reading Joseph Smith’s testimony. Then I remembered Brother Hardy’s instruction to pray first. So I crawled out of bed and knelt on the floor. “Help me to understand,” I asked simply. I finished Joseph’s testimony and the testimonies of the Three Witnesses. Night after night, I stayed with my plan. Pray then read. Let those in the Book of Mormon speak to me.
Soon the voices were real, and it seemed that Nephi was pleading with me because of the hardness of my heart. My appetite for the book became insatiable, and I read into the wee hours.
In 3 Nephi when Jesus Christ visited the American continent, I felt that I was there with them, that I could see and feel the prints of the nails in his hands and feet. I cried. When the Nephites fell away and all but Moroni were slain, I wept again.
Then I read the promise found in Moroni 10:3–5 [Moro. 10:3–5]. I put the bookmark in the book, closed it, climbed out of bed and knelt down to pray once again. “Heavenly Father,” I asked simply, “if it’s true, please help me to know and understand.” I closed my prayer and climbed back into bed, my eyes so full of tears that they blurred my vision.
I finished reading the Book of Mormon, then lay awake at the wonder of it. I knew—without seeing or touching—that the Book of Mormon was true. For the first time I knew Heavenly Father and Jesus were real. I knew Joseph Smith had seen God. And by the power of the Holy Ghost, with my spiritual eyes, I too saw him.
The next day I sat on the front row in seminary. When Brother Hardy finished his lesson by saying “I know,” I said “amen.” He stopped me after class. “It’s been a while, Colleen. How are you doing with the reading?” he asked.
“Oh, I finished it,” I said.
“Good!” He clapped his hands together. “Good! And?”
I looked at the ceiling and shook my head. “And I know,” I choked. “I know.”
In the years since, I have often thought of Brother Hardy. I have wanted him to know that I married a returned missionary in the temple and that I have two fine sons who also will serve the Lord in the mission field. I have wanted Brother Hardy to know how his pebble rippled.

Early one Saturday morning, as the sun began to rise over Nsit Ubium, a group of young single adults gathered for a special institute class unlike any other. We called it “Breakfast with President Nelson.” Our course material was Teachings of the Living Prophets, and our next topic was “Succession in the Presidency.”
After the class, we met with our stake president, President Williams, and the YSA representative. I felt impressed to make the next lesson one that would not only be heard but also experienced. In our discussion, the Spirit reminded us of King Benjamin’s powerful counsel: “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).
We prayerfully selected some elderly members of the stake who needed support with household chores or farm work. Then, without revealing our full plan to the students, we asked each to bring a small, affordable token—perhaps a bar of soap, a sachet of milk, or any household item they could easily offer.
When the day arrived, our class began as usual at 6:30 a.m. As we studied the inspired order of succession in the First Presidency, we came to a beautiful realization together: in the Church, every calling—from the newest convert to the prophet of God—is an invitation to serve.
At the end of the lesson, I shared our plan. The refreshments we had prepared for class would be divided—half to be enjoyed and half to be given to those we would visit. I could see the excitement on the students’ faces as they realized that today’s gospel learning would be lived out in action.
Our first stop was the humble home of Sister Rosemary Abraham, an elderly sister who had been unable to attend church for years due to health and age constraints. Together, we cleared her lawn, swept her backyard, and presented her with the small gifts we brought. Her smile and tears spoke louder than any words.
Next, we visited Brother Harrison Ekanem, a long-time member, and his wife, a kind friend of the Church. Their home needed much care. We washed their clothes, cleared the bushes, and helped crack palm kernels she sold to support the family. Watching the young people labour joyfully touched her deeply. She promised to come to church to learn more about “these good people.”
Our final stop was at the home of a former patriarch who had suffered a serious accident and could no longer walk properly. This visit became the most emotional of all. As we helped peel cassava, clear his yard, and sweep around, he was moved to tears of gratitude—and so were we.
On our walk back to the stake centre, about a mile away, the students broke into hymns of praise. Their voices filled the quiet morning air as they expressed gratitude for the opportunity to serve. They spoke of how they had felt the Savior’s love and how their understanding of service had deepened.
Before we parted, one of them said, “Brother Ibok, can we do this every week? And maybe extend this same gesture to friends who aren’t members?”
That simple question felt like the echo of King Benjamin’s legacy—a reminder that true discipleship is found not just in what we learn but in what we do with that learning.
That day, we didn’t just study about prophets—we lived their teachings.

After my husband passed away, loneliness enveloped me. A heaviness pressed on my chest. Each time I served in the celestial room, I prayed to find solace. Little by little, grief lifted, and peace crept into my heart as I began to see a celestial view of life. I now find it a privilege to see couples holding hands, friends embracing, and families gathered in a circle, enjoying the Spirit. Because of the Savior’s Atonement and my covenants, I know the blessing of a forever family will be mine in eternity.

When Tropical Storm Washi descended on the Philippines in 2011, it flooded the area with a deluge of water and wind. Some 41,000 homes were damaged, and more than 1,200 people lost their lives.
Prior to the flooding, Max Saavedra, president of the Cagayan de Oro Philippines Stake, had felt prompted to create a stake emergency response team. He organized committees to fulfill various assignments—everything from search and rescue to first aid to providing food, water, and clothing.
As the floodwaters receded to a safe level, Church leaders and members mobilized. They accounted for the safety of each member and assessed the damage. One member supplied rubber rafts to bring stranded members to safety. The meetinghouses were opened to provide shelter to all who needed food, clothing, blankets, and a temporary place to stay. Clean water was a critical need, so President Saavedra contacted a local business that owned a fire truck, and they transported clean water to the meetinghouse evacuation centers. Members with professional medical experience responded to those who had been injured.
Once Church members were accounted for, President Saavedra and his team visited other evacuation centers in the city and offered to help. They brought them food and other supplies. Many of the members, though they had lost their own homes, selflessly served others immediately after the storm. As the rains stopped and the ground dried, Mormon Helping Hands volunteers from three stakes went to work distributing supplies as well as helping with cleanup.

Blessings come from holding true to our principles. When I was the president of the Cottonwood stake, one of our stake patriarchs was Dr. Creed Haymond. He would occasionally bear strong testimony of the Word of Wisdom. As a young man he was the captain of the University of Pennsylvania track team. In 1919 Brother Haymond and his team were invited to participate in the annual Inter-Collegiate Association track meet. The night before the track meet, his coach, Lawson Robertson, who later coached several Olympic teams, instructed his team members to drink some sherry wine. In those days, coaches wrongly felt that wine was a tonic for muscles hardened through rigorous training. All the other team members took the sherry, but Brother Haymond refused because his parents had taught him the Word of Wisdom. Brother Haymond became very anxious because he did not like to be disobedient to his coach. He was to compete against the fastest men in the world. What if he made a poor showing the next day? How could he face his coach?

The next day at the track meet the rest of the team members were very ill and performed poorly or were even too sick to run. Brother Haymond, however, felt well and won the 100- and 220-yard dashes. His coach told him, “You just ran the two hundred and twenty yards in the fastest time it has ever been run by any human being.” That night and for the rest of his life, Creed Haymond was grateful for his simple faith in keeping the Word of Wisdom.

“Brueder Missionare, warten Sie einen Moment!” cried Sister Schmiedl, hurrying out of the apartment house door into the cold January air. My companion and I dismounted our bikes and turned to her. “I’m glad I saw you. Sister Jonas is sick; they’ve taken her to the hospital.”
“When did this happen? What’s the matter with her?”
“Yesterday afternoon … something to do with the liver. Brother Wist said they don’t expect her to last the week at her age.”
“Terrible!”
“Ja! She wants very much to see you, and she asked to be administered to.” Sister Schmiedl had that desperate but firm Austrian look that told us we had better get over to the hospital as soon as possible.
We pedaled our way in silence through the snow-clogged streets toward our apartment. Elder Rogers and I weren’t regular companions. His companion was the district leader. My companion, Elder Smith, and the district leader had gone to Linz to work for the day. We often traded so we could get different ideas on how to approach people about the gospel and to gain experience working with various elders. That particular day didn’t seem much improved by the absence of our senior companions. You see, Elder Rogers and I were both junior companions with very little experience. Between the two of us, we had a total of six weeks in the field.
Warming our stiff hands over the coal stove in the landlady’s kitchen, we wondered what we were going to do. Or more precisely, how.
“Have you ever given a blessing to the sick?”
“No, Elder Rogers, I haven’t. Not even in English.”
“Well, comp., this could be tricky. Neither have I.”
We knew stalling wouldn’t do any good. Even if Sister Jonas’s condition hadn’t been so urgent, delaying until morning wouldn’t guarantee Elder Smith’s getting back to perform the ordinance. The wind was whipping the dusty snow into a regular gale outside, and trains all over central Europe were being halted. Winter 1970 was to become one of the worst winters in the history of the continent, and that’s a lot of history.
We decided not to take the bikes, preferring a long walk to a slide that might take us to the hospital rather than visitors. As we went, our breath came out in big puffs of white vapor that froze to the fibers of our scarves and collars and gave our eyebrows and noses a Frosty-the-Snowman appearance. Fortunately, the hospital was not too far away, and Wels is a small town in any case. The nun at the desk looked doubtfully at us when we introduced ourselves as ministers of the Church of Jesus Christ, but our identification papers convinced her, and we proceeded down the corridor, even though there were no visiting hours on Tuesday.
Sterbezimmer 319 is a room where patients with only a few hours or days to live are kept isolated from others. It was a reasonably pleasant room, despite its awful function, and the white lace curtains gave a feeling of hope, even when hope was long gone. Sister Jonas lay in a bed by the window; from there she could watch the storm’s progress. Outside the wind was still playing ball with the fallen snow, but it seemed a few rays of sunlight were trying to find a way through the clouds. As we entered, Sister Jonas looked and smiled.
A nurse was there. “Don’t be long,” she said and then left, assuming we had come to give the last rites.
“I’m glad you came,” whispered Sister Jonas.
“Don’t be afraid. Do you believe you can be healed?”
“Yes, now I do.”
Elder Rogers produced a vial of pale yellow oil, and, in a quavering voice, anointed her. Now it was my turn. I paused. How did they tell us to pronounce a blessing at the Language Training Mission? An instant’s hesitation, and, “Otilie Jonas, Im namen Jesu Christi … ”
My time in Wels was almost gone, and I expected to be transferred to another town in a few days. Elder Smith had long since been sent to Vienna, and Elder Rogers had followed him. I looked out on our little congregation in sacrament meeting and had difficulty holding back the tears. The hardy souls in these small and sometimes obscure branches mean a lot to the missionaries who labor there. When I left home to come to Austria, I knew I’d soon return, but I knew when I left Wels I would probably never see these people again.
It had been a long winter, and even in the spring it was still a bit chilly. Others felt it too, and in the back, a sister got up and stoked the little potbellied stove. It was Sister Jonas. When she finished, she returned to her chair, and I got up to walk to the pulpit—what could I tell these people?
I told them about Sister Jonas. I told them how much it had meant to us to be there when she needed a blessing, though we had been so inexperienced. I told them how the Lord had helped us when we didn’t know what to do. And I told them that if they would trust in Him, He would help them too.
Afterward, Sister Jonas came up to me with tears in her eyes. “That blessing saved my life,” she said. “I know the Lord healed me.”

On Christmas Eve, 1997, I met a remarkable family. Each member of the family had an unshakable testimony of the truth and of the reality of the Resurrection. The family consisted of a mother and father and four children. Each of the children—three sons and a daughter—had been born with a rare form of muscular dystrophy, and each was handicapped. Mark, who was then 16 years old, had undergone spinal surgery in an effort to help him move about more freely. The other two boys—Christopher, age 13, and Jason, age 10—were to leave for California in a few days to undergo similar surgery. The only daughter, Shanna, was then five years old—a beautiful child. All of the children were intelligent and faith-filled, and it was obvious that their parents, Bill and Sherry, were proud of each one. We visited for a while, and the special spirit of that family filled my office and my heart. The father and I gave blessings to the two boys who were facing surgery, and then the parents asked if little Shanna could sing for me. Her father mentioned that she had diminished lung capacity and that it might be difficult for her, but that she wanted to try. To the accompaniment of a recorded cassette, and in a beautiful, clear voice—never missing a note—she sang of a brighter future:
On a beautiful day that I dream about
In a world I would love to see
Is a beautiful place where the sun comes out
And it shines in the sky for me.
On this beautiful winter’s morning,
If my wish could come true somehow,
Then the beautiful day that I dream about
Would be here and now.
The emotions of all of us were very near the surface as she finished. The spirituality of this visit set the tone for my Christmas that year.
I kept in touch with the family, and when the oldest son, Mark, turned 19, arrangements were made for him to serve a special mission at Church headquarters. Eventually, the other two brothers also had an opportunity to serve such missions.
Nearly a year ago, Christopher, who was then 22 years old, succumbed to the disease with which each of the children has been afflicted. And then, last September, I received word that little Shanna, now 14 years old, had passed away. At the funeral services, Shanna was honored by beautiful tributes. Leaning on the pulpit for support, each of her surviving brothers, Mark and Jason, shared poignant family experiences. Shanna’s mother sang a lovely musical number as part of a duet. Her father and grandfather gave touching sermons. Though their hearts were broken, each bore powerful and deep-felt testimony of the reality of the Resurrection and of the actuality that Shanna lives still, as does her brother Christopher, each awaiting a glorious reunion with their beloved family.
When it was my time to speak, I recounted that visit the family made to my office nearly nine years earlier and spoke of the lovely song Shanna sang on that occasion. I concluded with the thought: “Because our Savior died at Calvary, death has no hold upon any one of us. Shanna lives, whole and well, and for her that beautiful day she sang about on a special Christmas Eve in 1997, the day she dreamed about, is here and now.”