Gospel Story Finder

“Please. Please. Please.”
“No. And stop following me around.”
“But I want to come with you,” she continued to beg in her six-year-old voice.
“Knock it off, Linzie. Just once I’d like to go somewhere without you coming with me.” I could feel the anger in my voice rising. I was so tired of her being my tagalong. Everywhere I went she had to come too or else she would throw the biggest tantrum. She knew that even the slightest whimper would get her anything she wanted. This time was no exception.
“Where are you going, Bree?” my mom called from the kitchen, where she was making dinner.
“I have to go to the store to get some paper for school. I’ll be gone only 10 minutes.”
“Well then you can take Linzie with you.”
“Yea! Yea! Yea!” The tears immediately ceased when Linzie realized her victory.
“Mom, she’s such a pain. Why do I always have to take her with me?”
“Because she’s your sister, that’s why.” I should have expected that one.
“Fine. Whatever. Hurry up, and get your shoes on, Linzie.” I knew I was acting like a brat, but I had hours of homework to do.
“Okay, let’s go,” Linzie said angelically.
During the drive to the store, I turned up the radio so I wouldn’t have to talk to my sister. We both stared straight forward. The store was busy, and the lines were long. All I could think about was all the homework that awaited me, and how I was going to be up past midnight finishing it. The ride home started off as solemn as the ride to the store. I was determined to let Linzie know how annoyed I was.
“Bree, Bree,” she said timidly.
“What, Linzie?” I didn’t bother turning down the radio.
“You know why I always want to go with you everywhere?”
Her sincerity caught my attention. “No, why?”
She sat quiet for a moment before responding. “Because—because I’m gonna miss you a lot because you’re going to college soon.”
I looked at her. She was staring at me with her beautiful blue eyes. I really didn’t know what to say. “I’ll miss you too. A lot. I’ll still get to come home sometimes, though.”
“Will we be able to do stuff when you come home?”
“Of course, silly girl.”
“Good,” she said as we rounded the corner onto our street.
That was all that was said, but that day I learned a huge lesson about the importance of developing a lasting relationship with my sisters and brother—even when they’re young. It reminded me of the scripture in Mosiah 3:19: “Becometh as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him.”
I don’t think Linzie knew the huge impact her innocent comment had on me. Now I try to be more tolerant of the things that my younger siblings do, because when I’m gone, I will miss them.

I’ve always had anxiety. When I was 17, I noticed that most of my anxiety attacks occurred at church.
I was always told that if I’d read the scriptures, say my prayers, and go to church, I’d be happy. Well, that wasn’t the case for me. I’d enjoy the first few minutes of church, and then a panic attack would begin.
My bishop helped me realize that the spiritual expectations I had set for myself may be the cause. I thought I had to have the same miraculous spiritual experiences I heard about. It made sense to me that this pressure could cause my repeated attacks.
One day someone asked me, “Why do you still go to church?” I was taken aback. Why was I still going to church? I wasn’t forced to go. I didn’t receive any miraculous blessings. But I realized that I kept going because I knew the Church was true and that Heavenly Father wanted me to be there. My love for Him overpowered my desire to be free from anxiety.
Sometimes I wanted immediate blessings from Heavenly Father. I thought He’d bless me with fewer panic attacks just because I went to church. But I’ve learned that it doesn’t work that way. I often have to push through the attacks and attend church before I can see His blessings.
Now I’ve realized I can also ask for help from my parents and medical professionals. I still have bad days, but they don’t control me. Instead, they help me prove to my Heavenly Father that I love Him and that I’ll fight through this challenge with His help.
In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus Christ asked if His trial could be lifted, but in perfect obedience to our Heavenly Father, He pushed through the greatest trial of all. Because of this, I know He will give me the strength to endure my trials as well.
Heidi L., Hawaii, USA

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow probably understood this when he penned the poem “Christmas Bells” that would be set to music and become a favorite Christmas carol—the refrain of which I mentioned earlier.

Mr. Longfellow used church bells ringing on Christmas Day as the setting for a poem he wrote during the Civil War. The fighting had been fierce and touched the lives of the Longfellow family personally. Mr. Longfellow’s son Charles, who had enlisted in the Union Army at 17 years of age, had arrived home about two weeks prior to Christmas 1863 after being critically injured in a battle.6 While Charles eventually recovered from his wounds, his father was likely concerned about the long-term health of his son and of his country. In addition to these concerns, Mr. Longfellow continued to feel the grave loss of his beloved wife, Francis Appleton Longfellow, also known as Fanny. In 1861, the same year the Civil War broke out, Fanny died from injuries she sustained when her light summer dress ignited in their home. The light weight of the fabric and the hoops she wore allowed ample oxygen to feed the flames, and Mrs. Longfellow was quickly engulfed. Mr. Longfellow attempted to extinguish the fire and was himself burned in the process. With her death he was left to raise five children and manage the affairs of his home as a single parent.7 The death of his wife and his son’s critical injuries were not the only tragedies in Mr. Longfellow’s life. Fanny was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s second wife, and together they had a daughter also named Frances who died when she was 17 months old.8 His first wife, Mary Potter Longfellow, died just over a month after she miscarried during her sixth month of pregnancy.9 This was a man who had every reason to pity himself and feel cranky about his condition, and yet he declared in beautiful verse:

Not all who received mission calls were enthusiastic about serving. John Alma Hess referred to his mission call as “that cursed letter from Box B,”6 but went on to serve a three-year mission to Germany. A surprised Eli Beckstead wrote, “I am not a believer in the gospel … but will investigate the Church works a little more fully, and you might possibly hear from me in the future.”7 When Clarence E. Post responded, “Dear Bro., I am ready to go but don’t want to go very bad,” President Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918) assigned the Church mission secretary to “comfort him.”8 Elder Post began serving in the Northwestern States Mission one month later.

On September 26, 1923, a young 23-year-old aerial photographer in the United States Army was in flight over the Island of Oahu, Hawaii. He documented this picture of what the Hawaii temple looked like in 1923, just four years after the temple was completed.

He also documented in his journal personal thoughts while serving as a young 23-year-old in the army in Hawaii. This was his journal entry on Thursday, January 1, 1925. He said, "I woke up this bright sunny new year's morning in the land of liquid sunshine, Honolulu Hawaii. Had breakfast and spent the morning at the L.D.S. mission home. At noon Elder Don Nelson and I left for Luke field where we spent the afternoon looking about the field. We returned at five thirty after which I took in a movie."

I will be forever grateful for that young 23-year-old aerial photographer, Willard James Watson, my grandfather, for documenting things of his testimony for me. I never met my grandfather. In 1950, at the age of 50, he passed away, before I was born.

One day, I found his journal and began to read it. It took me into the early hours one morning. I had come to the end of his writings but could not put it down. Something told me there was more I needed to know inside. I searched the whole journal again when finally, in the very back, there was a page and part of the cover that contained a small pocket.

These certificates are just some of the things I found in that small pocket. I know he left them for me to document his life and that he had a testimony of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

My father had an idea that his boys ought to learn to work, in the summer as well as in the winter, and so he bought a five-acre farm which eventually grew to include more than thirty acres. We lived there in the summer and returned to the city when school started.

We had a large orchard, and the trees had to be pruned each spring. Father took us to pruning demonstrations put on by experts from the agriculture college. We learned a great truth—that you could pretty well determine the kind of fruit you would pick in September by the way you pruned in February. The idea was to space the branches so that the fruit would be exposed to sunlight and air. Further, we learned that new, young wood produces the best fruit. That has had many applications in life.

One of my family's unanswered prayers is to have children. My husband, Marc, and I experience unexplained fertility issues, and for several years, I wasn’t sure how this painful experience would ever be for our good.

Desperately wanting to be parents, even getting pregnant a couple of times—but ultimately ending in miscarriages. Our hearts broke. The ache was amplified by well-meaning but unaware comments from people in our community. These people didn’t know that building a family wasn’t something we were putting off; it was something that was consuming almost every waking moment of our lives for several years.

Eight years ago, after our second miscarriage, my grief was almost unbearable. My body and emotions spiraled. I felt so depressed, betrayed by my body, and angry, oh so angry, I didn’t even want to pray.

And some days I didn’t. But I kept at it. I continued going to Church, knowing that God would heal and mend our broken hearts. During this time, I listened to the sacrament prayers with such intensity. I desperately needed to receive the promise “…that they may always have his Spirit to be with them.” [33]

Another name for the Spirit is the comforter. In John 14:18, the Savior promises His disciples, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.” [34]

We needed the Spirit to comfort us during one of our most difficult experiences.

Slowly, I started to trust God with my hopes and dreams again.

President Jeffrey R. Holland shared, “God expects you to have enough faith and determination and enough trust in Him to keep moving, keep living, keep rejoicing. In fact, He expects you not simply to face the future (that sounds pretty grim and stoic); He expects you to embrace and shape the future—to love it and rejoice in it and delight in your opportunities.
God is anxiously waiting for the chance to answer your prayers and fulfill your dreams, just as He always has. But He can't if you don't pray, and He can't if you don't dream. In short, He can't if you don't believe.” [35]

Through this trial, God began shaping us into something we could not become otherwise—we learned empathy and compassion, we learned to understand invisible struggles, we learned to assume positive intent, and to listen without judgment. This experience has refined us, and we are not defined by being childless here on earth. This season of childlessness has allowed us opportunities to give, love, serve, and support others in capacities that otherwise would have been nearly impossible.

I can see His promises unfolding—that all these things truly have and can be “…for [our] good.” [36]

Bacalar is a small, ancient town in the state of Quintana Roo, Mexico. It has about seven thousand inhabitants, and you can walk from one end of town to the other in only forty-five minutes.
Most of the homes are wooden huts with palm-tree leaves or aluminum sheets for a roof. The town sits on the edge of a beautiful lagoon that flows into a bay on the Caribbean near the bordering country of Belize, Central America.
In October 1982, the Bacalar Branch was organized, with just four members—my father, my mother, my sister, and me. I was sixteen years old at the time. A week later in family home evening, my father asked us a question: “What can we do so our branch will grow?”
For a while, we were all silent, thinking of an answer. Then my mother enthusiastically said, “Christmas is near. Why don’t we have a party for all the children in town? Many of them have never been to a party, and it would be a good experience for all of them. Surely many hearts will open to receive the gospel.”
We all thought this was an excellent idea, and my father began making assignments. Mother would make rag dolls for the girls; my sister would make piñatas and fill them with candy; my father would invite the state’s symphonic band to play Christmas carols during the party; and I would make airplanes out of vines for all the boys. We decided we would need 150 dolls and 150 airplanes. Joyfully we accepted our responsibilities, not realizing what sacrifices we would have to make in order for our party to become a reality. We realized this little by little.
In a later home evening, my father told our family that we wouldn’t be able to have Christmas gifts or a special Christmas dinner, as we usually did. I didn’t like that idea very much.
Then one afternoon when I returned home from school, I noticed that a bedsheet and some curtains were missing. A few days later, I couldn’t find some of my clothes. The same things were happening to my sister. When we investigated, we discovered that our mother was making rag dolls from the missing sheets, curtains, and clothing. I didn’t like that, and I almost argued with my mother about it.
As Christmas grew near, I had to sacrifice more and more of my time, money, and efforts in order to make the airplanes. My mother’s back started to hurt because she was spending so much time sewing the dolls by hand, and I finally had to sew on the dolls’ button eyes. I didn’t like that, either.
At last it was the day before the party. My father told me to put on a white shirt and tie so we could go to all the homes to invite the children.
On the day of the party, the children began arriving early—some came with their parents, and others came alone. In the afternoon, many more children arrived. The state’s symphonic band came and played Christmas hymns. I told Christmas stories. Next the children broke the piñatas, and each received some candy. Finally, two big lines formed—one for girls and one for boys—and my sister and I gave away the toys we had made.
I can’t describe the happy faces of those little children. But just one of those happy faces would have made all of our sacrifices worth it. Anger and envy disappeared from my heart and were transformed into tears of gratitude and joy. As each child took his gift, I received one of the most precious gifts of my life—the joy of serving others.
After our party, the missionaries arrived in Bacalar. Within two months, our branch had grown from four members to twenty-five. Six months later, there were forty-five members. Today, eleven years later, the Bacalar Branch is a ward with a beautiful meetinghouse.
Mother had been right. Because of the spirit of that first Christmas, many hearts—including our own—did open to receive the blessings of the gospel.

Let me illustrate this, about twenty years ago, I had a friend who told me his story about himself. He grew up in the church, was a faithful member, and served an honorable and successful mission. He returned home and decided to attend a good university in California that would further his potential career. The worldly influences around him began to take their hold on him. He met a young woman and started to date her. He let his defenses down and broke the law of chastity and as a result he contracted from her the HIV virus.

Later because of his testimony of the church, he repented and returned to full church activity. He told me, with tears in his eyes, that because he broke the Law of Chastity, just once, he could never marry and have the blessings of children bound to him forever because of the risk and threat of them getting the HIV virus. At that time, he said that the virus had progressed and likely would advance into Aids. He knew he would eventually die soon from it. I have lost touch with him, but I have a feeling he is now passed on.

One cold winter night many years ago in a little village in Spain an old man named Pedro and his wife, Joanna, sat in front of a cozy fire in their home. They owned enough to be very comfortable, but instead of giving thanks to God for the benefits they enjoyed, they spent much of their time wishing for the good things their neighbors had.

“This wretched little house of ours is only fit to house a donkey!” cried Pedro. “I wish we had a fine house and farm like our neighbor, Diego!”

“His house and farm are good enough for them,” answered Joanna. “But I would like a mansion such as the one of Don Juan de la Rosa.”

“Then there’s that old donkey of ours,” went on Pedro sullenly. “Good for nothing—nothing at all. He cannot carry an empty sack! I wish I had Diego’s strong Andalusian mule!”

“O, aye!” said Joanna. “Diego’s mule is better than our donkey, but I’d like a white horse with trappings of scarlet and gold like the one of Doña Isabella. It seems that some people have only to wish in order to get a thing, but I’ve never had such luck. How wonderful it would be if we had but to speak to have our wishes come true!”

Scarcely were the words out of Joanna’s mouth when there on the hearth before the old couple stood a beautiful little lady. She was only eighteen inches tall and her dress was white and filmy and full of opal tints as though made of smoke. A smoky veil floated down from a crown of sparks on her head. In her hand she had a little golden wand and a single spark glowed on the very tip of it.

“I am Fortunata,” said she. “I have heard your complaints and have come to give you what you desire. You may have three wishes, one for each of you, and the third you shall agree upon between you. I will grant that last wish in person when I return at this time tomorrow.”

Then Fortunata sprang through the flames and disappeared. The old couple were delighted at the thought of having three wishes come true. They began to think of what they most wanted in all the world. Wishes came swarming to them as thick as bees to a hive. There were so many that came crowding to the minds of the old couple that they could not agree offhand on just which three to wish for. So they decided to put off their decision until the next day, and they began talking of different things altogether.

“I dropped in at Diego’s this morning,” said Pedro, “and they were making black puddings. Um! but they smelled good! Diego can buy the best of food. He does not have to put up with the poor food we have to eat!”

“True! True!” said Joanna. “I wish I had one of Diego’s puddings this very minute to roast on the ashes for supper!”

The words were hardly out of Joanna’s mouth when suddenly on the hearth appeared a delicious black pudding! The woman’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but Pedro jumped up in a rage. “You foolish woman!” he cried. “You have used up one of our precious wishes to ask for nothing more than one poor little pudding! It makes me so angry that I wish the silly pudding were stuck fast to your nose!”

Then before the words were hardly out of his mouth the black pudding flew across the room and fastened itself to Joanna’s nose. The old man shrieked in surprise and Joanna screamed with horror. She shook her head as hard as she could but the pudding clung fast to her nose!

“See what you have done, you foolish man!” she wailed. “I made a poor wish but it hurt only myself. Look what you have done to me!”

Then the dog and cat, sniffing the delicious odor of the pudding, came leaping up, springing and pawing to lick the pudding from Joanna’s nose!

“Down! Down!” shrieked Joanna, as she tried to drive the animals away. “For our third wish we must ask that this miserable pudding be taken off my nose!”

“Don’t ask that!” cried Pedro. “What of the new farm I wanted? Think of the palace you wanted.”

“I don’t care about that anymore,” Joanna insisted.

“Let us wish at least for a fortune,” Pedro pleaded. “Then you can have a golden case set with jewels to cover the pudding on your nose!”

“No,” said Joanna. “All I want is to be rid of this awful nose.”

“Then we shall be left just as we were before!” sighed Pedro.

“And that is all I desire,” Joanna said. “I see now we were well enough off as we were!”

No matter what Pedro said, nothing could change Joanna’s mind. And so at last they agreed.

On the following night little Fortunata rose from the flames and asked them to tell her their third wish. They answered both together, “We wish only to be as we were before.”

And immediately their wish was granted.

When I studied experiences in Church history, I realized that I might not be the only one who has felt this way. I found hope in the story of William W. Phelps, who was an author, missionary, and leader of the early Restoration. He was a good man. He preached the gospel wherever he traveled and became a trusted member of the Missouri High Council. William was also a close friend of Joseph Smith.
Which is why his betrayal of Joseph was particularly painful.
In 1838, mobs and militiamen attacked and pillaged the Saints in Missouri, destroying homes and beating resisters. In the aftermath, Joseph Smith and other Church leaders were arrested for baseless crimes. Afraid of being prosecuted alongside them, William W. Phelps and several others made a deal with the prosecutor: testify against Joseph Smith and go free.
Under oath, William joined others in bearing false testimony against the Prophet. After the trial, Joseph and other Church leaders were incarcerated in Liberty Jail. While William left the courthouse a free man, he felt the weight of his actions on his shoulders. Several years later, Joseph Smith received a letter from William asking Joseph for forgiveness.
“I am as the prodigal son,” wrote William. “I have been greatly abased and humbled.”
The Prophet wrote back, “Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal.”
Joseph Smith was filled with compassion for William. Just as the father celebrated the return of the prodigal in the scriptures (see Luke 15:11–32), so too did the Saints receive William Phelps back into the fold.
Repentance and forgiveness for William—which likely seemed impossible to him—was now a reality. And it can be a reality for us too!
Joseph Smith acknowledged the pain that William had caused: “We have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough for mortals to drink, was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us.”
But Joseph continued, “However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done.”
Joseph recognized that William’s sins had been paid for and that there was no need for William to suffer any longer. William’s repentance to Heavenly Father could free him from guilt.

I smile when I reflect on an account I heard concerning Brother Thales Smith and his service in a bishopric with Bishop Israel Heaton. Sister Heaton called Brother Smith one Sunday morning and mentioned that her husband was ill and unable to attend priesthood meeting. Brother Smith reported this to the brethren assembled that morning and asked the brother who was to offer the invocation to remember Bishop Israel Heaton in the prayer. Then he announced that the opening hymn would be “Israel, Israel, God Is Calling.” I suppose the smiles outnumbered any frowns. By the way, Bishop Heaton recovered.

In 1976, while on a business assignment to the former Soviet Union, I had an experience that verified the importance of having made a firm decision in advance to protect me from sin. While meeting with high government officials, business and industrial leaders, we signed a major contract for millions of dollars of computer sales. Thereafter, each one of us was offered a glass of vodka to toast the new business agreement. I declined, saying that I do not drink alcohol. Of course, all eyes were on me. Quickly they sent for a glass of fruit juice and the tense moment was resolved. Every time, thereafter, when I traveled to the Soviet Union, they made certain that they would not repeat the same mistake. I never again was offered an alcoholic beverage.

Eight-year-old Stewart was feeling happy. He had already been to church with his family. They had a big family, and this was a special day. Lots of friends and relatives were coming to eat dinner with them. Stewart was glad, because he loved being with all his cousins.
When his mother asked him if he’d like to go with her in the car, he quickly climbed in. As they drove around the corner, she told him that they were going to the store to get a few things that she needed for the dinner.
Stewart didn’t feel so happy anymore.
When the car pulled into the store parking lot, Mother climbed out and looked for Stewart. Where was he? She looked and looked. Finally she saw him crouched down in the backseat. “Aren’t you coming in with me, sweetheart?”
“No,” he mumbled miserably.
“OK. I’ll hurry.”
It wasn’t long until Mother came back carrying a bag. She put it into the backseat. As she drove home, she reached over and patted Stewart’s hand. “Why don’t you tell me what you are upset about.”
“I didn’t know that you were going to the store. I don’t ever want to go to the store on Heavenly Father’s special day.”
“Oh, Stewart, I’m so sorry! I will never go to the store on Heavenly Father’s day again.”
Mother knew that her little boy had made a better choice than she had. She knew that she shouldn’t shop on the Sabbath, even this one time, when it had seemed so important. Stewart taught her a lesson that she never forgot.
Stewart is all grown up now, and his mother is a grandma. Both of them remember that sunny Sunday afternoon and the lesson he taught her about keeping the Sabbath Day.

When I was young, I always wanted everyone to feel included. If children on the playground were being picked on, I wanted to be their friend. I remember befriending one girl other children were mean to. Years later, after I was married, she was my neighbor. When I saw her, we happily greeted one another. I thought, “Look at her now. She’s a wonderful mother who serves well and works hard to teach her children.” I am so glad that when I was little I was nice to her. Then when I saw her again, I didn’t have any regrets. We were still friends.

How well I remember my father, the bishop of our ward, filling my small red wagon with food and clothing and then directing me—as a deacon in the Church—to pull the wagon behind me and visit the homes of the needy in our ward.

Often, when fast-offering funds were depleted, my father would take money from his own pocket to supply the needy in his flock with food that would keep them from going hungry. Those were the days of the Great Depression, and many families were suffering.

I remember visiting one family in particular: a sickly mother, an unemployed and discouraged father, and five children with pallid faces, all disheartened and hungry. I remember the gratitude that beamed in their faces when I walked up to their door with my wagon nearly spilling over with needed supplies. I remember how the children smiled. I remember how the mother wept. And I remember how the father stood, head bowed, unable to speak.

These impressions and many others forged within me a love for the poor, a love for my father who served as a shepherd to his flock, and a love for the faithful and generous members of the Church who sacrificed so much to help relieve the suffering of others.

Photograph from Getty Images
When we moved from the United States to Vietnam, my husband and I were determined to never miss church. After a year, we hadn’t missed a single Sunday meeting, but we were frequently late and often missed the sacrament. Our sacrament meeting started at 8:30 a.m. With three little children, getting ready for church on time often seemed impossible.
As a family we decided that we needed to arrive consistently on time for church and partake of the sacrament. It was a struggle, but we made it to church on time four Sundays in a row. I noticed the difference our efforts made. We had more spiritual experiences during the week.
The following Sunday, however, we woke up late. It was already 7:30 a.m. I told my husband that it was hopeless, but then I thought about how we would be blessed if we did our best to get ready anyway. So, we hustled!
By the time we got to church, we were 20 minutes late. I felt that we had failed. We heard singing when we walked in, and when I opened the door, someone was going up to the stand to pray.
“Was that the opening hymn?” I whispered to the missionary standing by the door.
“Yes,” he said. “We started late today.”
I was stunned. I thought we had fallen short again, but we arrived at church just in time! Tears streamed down my face as I felt Heavenly Father’s love for my little family and me.
Later we learned that when the missionaries had arrived at church that Sunday, they realized that no one had brought bread for the sacrament. No store was nearby, and bread can be hard to find in Vietnam. After a momentary panic, the elders remembered they had bread at home.
A few days earlier, the elders had come to our home for dinner. That evening, I had prepared homemade bread for them. Church had started late Sunday morning because the elders ran home to get the bread I had made for them!
God sees our efforts as we strive to keep His commandments. Although we sometimes fall short, He loves us and will prepare ways for us to succeed—even when it is just to get to church on time.

Nearly a century ago, a family from Oregon was vacationing in Indiana—over 2,000 miles (3,200 km) away—when they lost their beloved dog, Bobbie. The frantic family searched for the dog everywhere but to no avail. Bobbie could not be found.
Heartbroken, they made the trip home, each mile taking them farther away from their cherished pet.
Six months later, the family was stunned to find Bobbie on their doorstep in Oregon. “Mangy, scrawny, feet worn to the bone—[he] appeared to have walked the entire distance … by himself.” Bobbie’s story captured the imagination of people across the United States, and he became known as Bobbie the Wonder Dog.

One time when I was young, my friend and I had climbed up on top of a concrete water tower. It was probably 10 or 12 feet tall, and the ground below it was covered with huge boulders to prevent the soil from eroding. As I was playing, I stepped over the edge. I felt myself being lowered to the ground, and I wasn’t hurt. That was one of the first inklings I had that there is Someone watching over us.

Elder Robert L. Simpson was impressed by the faith of an old Maori brother in New Zealand.
As the missionaries came to his humble little fishing shack located off the beaten track, he hurried to find an envelope in which he had stuffed a sizable sum of hard-earned money. He promptly handed the envelope containing the money to the missionaries.
Inside the envelope was a letter from the mission office addressed to the man. He could not read English, but he could recognize the figures contained in the letter. He thought the mission needed the cash amount mentioned for some special purpose, and he had it all ready.
After the missionaries translated the letter for him, he was surprised to learn that the letter was a receipt for last year’s tithing. His faith was so strong that he was ready and willing to pay the same amount all over again if the Lord’s servants needed it for His work.