Gospel Story Finder

I loved Primary and had many wonderful teachers who taught me the gospel. One, though, was very special to me. Sister Mary Stevenson taught Primary in the LeGrand Ward in Salt Lake City. One summer she taught our class to play the harmonica. She told us that by summer’s end we would play for George Albert Smith, who was then the President of the Church.
We worked hard, and the important evening finally came. Before we left for President Smith’s house, Sister Stevenson told us that we were going to shake the hand of a prophet, that it would be a special experience, and that we would always remember it. What a thrill to be so close to a prophet!
To such a little boy as I was, President Smith looked very tall. He greeted us with a friendly smile. We played two or three of his favorite songs on our harmonicas. When we finished, he shook hands with each of us and thanked us for our visit. Sister Stevenson was right—I never forgot that experience. I shall always be grateful to my Primary teacher for such an opportunity.

In 1993, I was married and had one child. One day at work, a secretary took a Book of Mormon to the office, placed it near a glass, and left it. She did not tell me what the book was about, but I was curious. I decided to keep the book. Around the same time, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints started visiting my mother. One day, while visiting her house, the missionaries knocked on her door, and I happened to answer it. As we visited, they asked if they could see my family too. My spouse and I agreed.
At our first meeting, I was surprised to learn that this religion had a book called the Book of Mormon. It contained over a thousand years of history and told the story of Jesus Christ coming to the Americas, paralleling the time period of the Bible. I read the entire book in four days and felt immense joy. I knew with certainty that it was the book I longed for, that God and Jesus Christ loved everyone, even those of us who live in the Americas.
In March 1993, my spouse and I were baptized, and we covenanted to give our lives to help establish the kingdom of God in this small place on earth. This decision brought miracles into our lives and into the small branch we attended.
Before our baptism, 11 brethren in the branch had prayed every day at 6:00 a.m. for a family to come and stay so they wouldn’t have to close the unit. At the same time, I had been praying for a permanent home. We all had our prayers answered!
A month after we were baptized, I was called as music leader, and my husband became the president of the Cua Branch in Palo Verde, Venezuela. Two years later, in October 1996, we traveled with our two children to the temple in Lima, Peru, and were sealed for eternity as a family.
As I tell my story, my children say, “Our mom came to earth saying, ‘There is a book! There is a book! I have to find it!’” But in reality the book found me!
From the moment I found the Book of Mormon, my life had meaning, purpose, and direction. I feel the love of God and my Savior, Jesus Christ.

When Leigh got home from school, she found her mother carefully going through a big cardboard box of clothes. “What’s that?” she asked her mother.
“Another box of things from the Ellers.” Her mother held up a green corduroy jumper and asked, “Do you like this one?”
Leigh nodded her head, but after rummaging through the box, she held up a red velveteen party dress with lace ruffles and said, “I like this one better.”
“That’s lovely, Leigh!” her mother exclaimed. “It hardly shows any wear at all.”
“Why do the Ellers give us their clothes?” Leigh asked, examining a white silk blouse.
Her mother looked up and reached out to stroke Leigh’s copper hair, then turned away and sighed, “Because we need them, Leigh, and the Ellers are kind enough to share with us.”
Leigh didn’t mind wearing the Ellers’ pretty clothing, even if it was used. Since the Eller girls went to a different school, no one in Leigh’s school recognized her “new clothes.” Leigh never told anyone about the hand-me-down box.
One day in school Mrs. Kratz, Leigh’s fourth-grade teacher, announced, “I want each of you to think about what you want to be when you grow up.”
All the children moaned—all except Leigh. Leigh had wanted to be a writer ever since she had first learned how to read.
“And,” Mrs. Kratz continued, “I want each of you to be prepared to tell us what you’ve decided in a little speech next Wednesday.”
“A speech!” Leigh gasped quietly. She had never spoken in front of a class before. What will I say? she wondered. What will I wear?
When Leigh got home from school that day, she tore through the house, frantically calling her mother.
“What’s the matter, Leigh?” her mother cried. “Are you hurt?”
Leigh explained breathlessly, “I have to give a speech in class next Wednesday.”
“A speech?”
“I have to talk about what I want to be when I grow up, and I have to do it in front of the whole class! I have to look my best so no one will laugh at me, and I don’t have anything to wear!”
Mother came down from the ladder where she’d been hanging some curtains that she had washed. “What about one of the dresses that the Ellers gave us?”
“Not hand-me-downs,” Leigh protested. “Not this time. For once can’t I have a new dress?” she pleaded.
“Well, perhaps we can afford to buy fabric to make you one,” offered her mother.
Looking at her feet, Leigh barely whispered, “Not a homemade dress. A new store-bought dress—like the Ellers wear. Just this once. Please.”
Mrs. Baugh knelt before her daughter, placed her hands on Leigh’s shoulders, and looked straight into her troubled eyes. “We can’t spend very much on a new dress, but we’ll go look Saturday.”
Leigh was ecstatic as she hugged her mother. Later that night Leigh lay awake in bed, thinking about a store-bought dress. She said “look,” Leigh reminded herself, not “buy.” But I have twelve dollars saved from babysitting, and with what Mother has, I should be able to buy a dress as nice as the Ellers wear. She drifted off to sleep, dreaming about her first trip to one of the fine dress shops in town.
But when Saturday came, they didn’t go to a fancy shop. They went to a factory outlet store that didn’t look much different from the local grocery store. Leigh tried to conceal her disappointment as her mother led her to a rack full of dresses her size. One by one, they pulled the dresses off the rack and held them up to Leigh, looking for the perfect one for her first speech. The dresses were nice but not special—just plain cotton-polyester dresses like Leigh had worn before the Ellers started sending their clothes. Leigh hesitated, then asked, “Where are the fancier dresses, Mother?”
“Oh, Leigh,” her mother sighed good-naturedly. “There aren’t any fancy dresses in here, and if there were, we couldn’t afford them.”
Leigh wandered to the front of the store and peered out the big plate-glass window. Across the street a little girl in a beautiful blue coat and hat was just leaving an expensive dress shop with her mother, who was laden with ribbon-tied boxes. Leigh turned toward the check-out counter in the factory outlet and watched the cashier stuff purchases into plain brown paper sacks.
Mrs. Baugh came up and put an arm around her daughter, then looked out the window at the store across the street. “Maybe someday, Leigh,” she murmured.
“Let’s go home and see if we can find something in the hand-me-down box,” Leigh offered, trying to smile. “The red velveteen dress with the ruffles is much prettier than any of these dresses.”
Back home, Leigh tried on the red dress and was as pleased with how it felt as with how it looked. The velveteen was wonderfully soft, and the red brought out the natural rosiness in her cheeks and the highlights in her hair. Her mother pinned a new hem while Leigh twirled about in her slip, planning her speech.
On Wednesday Leigh practiced her speech aloud one last time while her mother carefully pressed the velveteen dress. Leigh had never felt more confident in her life.
When she got to school, Leigh noticed Linnie Lubette staring at her.
“Is that a new dress, Leigh?” Linnie asked with a sneer.
“Yes,” Leigh answered. “I got it for my speech today. Are you all ready?”
“Of course,” Linnie answered. Then she took Leigh’s arm and jeered, “Didn’t I see that dress at my ward’s Christmas party?”
Stunned, Leigh pulled away and sat down as Linnie started snickering. Then Leigh remembered that the Ellers and the Lubettes belonged to the same ward. Cindy had probably worn the dress to their ward’s Christmas party. If Linnie had admired it, she would remember it. Leigh was embarrassed and wished that she had worn any of her other dresses.
Suddenly she heard her name called.
“Why don’t you go first, Leigh?” her teacher asked. “We’re anxious to hear about your career choice.”
Leigh slipped out of her seat and walked slowly to the front of the room. Before she even had a chance to gather her thoughts, her teacher spoke again. “My, don’t you look lovely today, Leigh. Is that a new dress?”
Before Leigh could respond, Linnie chirped, “It’s not new. It’s a hand-me-down from Cindy Eller.”
Leigh was mortified. Now everyone would know that she wore hand-me-downs! She hung her head to hide the tears that were welling up in her eyes.
The room fell silent.
Leigh felt her teacher’s arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “We’re both fortunate, Leigh. See this dress that I’m wearing? It’s a hand-me-down too.”
Leigh looked up for the first time and stared through tear-filled eyes at her teacher’s pretty blue dress. “You see”—her teacher turned to explain to the class—“I can’t afford many nice dresses like this. But my sister, who is a doctor, has many beautiful clothes. She shares them with me because she loves me.”
Leigh slowly turned her gaze from her teacher to Linnie, who was shrinking into her seat.
“I’m glad, Leigh,” her teacher continued, “that you have a friend who is kind enough to share her nice things with you. Now,” she said, going back to her desk, “tell us what you want to be when you grow up.”
Leigh cleared her throat. “I want to be like your sister.”
“A doctor?”
“No,” Leigh replied, smiling. “Someone kind enough to share with others.”

Thursday morning when the children met, Natalie appeared about to burst. “We’ll collect aluminum cans today and give the money we make to the homeless shelter.” All afternoon they knocked on doors asking for old cans. They searched along roadsides too. A large stack of cans grew in their backyard.
When Dad came home, he volunteered to take the cans to the recycling center.
“Thanks, Dad,” Travis said. The others nodded their thanks too. They all helped load the plastic bags filled with cans into their van. Natalie went into the center with Dad and proudly brought back a check for their efforts. “It’s not much, but every little bit helps,” she said.

Mike is truly a special person, but it took me 18 years to realize it. Mike is my older brother, and for years we struggled to get along. We are very different. Mike, the family athlete, played basketball while I practiced the piano. I excelled in English and literature. Mike’s forte is science. But instead of our differences forming a complementary relationship between us, we let them turn into feelings of anger and contention.
Consequently, those negative feelings began to concern our parents. “Jeff, we are an eternal family. If you and Mike can’t get along now, you’re not going to be happy with him in the eternities,” my father said one day. “Of all the relationships in your life, this is one of the most important. You must put forth all your effort to build it up. It will take a lot of work; everything worthwhile does.”
That night I thought a lot about what Dad had said, and I knew he was right. I promised myself that I would try my best to build a better relationship with my brother.
With the hopes of building a friendship between Mike and me, our parents planned a long family vacation in Alaska where we could spend a lot of time together fishing, hiking, and camping. Mom and Dad’s plan caught a snag, though. Both Mike and I wanted to stay home to work and earn money for college. Disappointed but supportive of our decision, our family left us in Houston to work for the two months they would be in Alaska.
After they left, we both searched for good jobs with little success until Mike finally found one. The catch was he needed me too. A real estate manager had several houses that needed exterior paint jobs, and he was looking for a couple of guys to paint. At the time, the thought of working several hours every day with Mike was not appealing. But the money was too good to refuse.
On our first day of painting the change in us began. At 5:30 A.M., Mike yelled into my room, “Come on, get up! It’s only going to get hotter!” With a groan, I got dressed. We both knew once the sun was up, the temperature would rise quickly, making outside work even more miserable. Mike loaded the van with our equipment, while I made juice and packed fruit that we hoped would give us periodic reprieves from the beating sun.
As we began to paint, we realized our painting strategies were quite different. While I spent a lot of time on each area, moving on only when the area was well-coated and no spots showed, Mike would paint an entire wall quickly and messily and then return for a second coat to cover any missed spots. The different strategies were equally efficient and caused no problems until we both had to work in the same area. We then compromised. Mike began with his first coat and I followed behind, catching every spot and finishing details. We finished much faster than expected.
Another potential conflict arose in choosing a radio station to listen to. While Mike preferred the “light” station, I complained it was more monotonous than the painting. I didn’t want to argue, though, so I was preparing to give him the choice. But it was Mike who acquiesced. During the course of that day, Mike listened to more alternative rock than ever before. I even caught him singing along several times.
Though we painted through some periods without talking, we also maintained long periods of conversation, perhaps longer than we had ever talked before. Conversation made the job go faster, and as we talked it became clear that we had some things in common. In that one afternoon, we talked about school, the Church, music, and art. I told about a bizarre dream I’d had. He told me about his most embarrassing date. We found ourselves laughing as we realized we had repainted an entire wall in the midst of our conversation.
It was beginning to get dark when we finally finished the house. We cleaned our equipment, loaded the van, and then surveyed the house with satisfaction. As I drove home, I thought about something I’d learned in a physics class. Physicists define work in terms of force (effort) and displacement (movement). Thus, work becomes a term of progress, dependent on effort and movement. I thought about our first day of painting that same way. It had required a lot of effort, and we could see our progress on the house. But there was other work we had done that day too. Our relationship had become stronger. It wasn’t without effort, though. The words of my father echoed in my mind: “It will take work; everything worthwhile does.”
Later, I talked on the phone to my parents about the first day of painting. I told them despite the Texas heat, we were able to finish the first house. “Working with Mike wasn’t too bad. In fact, it was kind of fun,” I told my mom. “I’m excited to start the next house.”
Indeed, I couldn’t wait to continue what would turn out to be my real summer work—appreciating my brother.

Delphine, a convert from Paris, France, has a difficult family situation, so when the missionaries taught her that families can live together in the celestial kingdom, she wasn’t sure she wanted that. As the missionaries continued to teach her about the three degrees of glory, however, she was comforted. She learned that she will get to be with those she loves who chose to follow the gospel. With a better understanding of the plan of salvation, she said, “I found it much more just, and that reassured me.”

Children are so capable of learning the significant things of the kingdom. As we listen to them we can better understand how they are applying what they are learning about the gospel. A father explained to his four-year-old daughter that the family had spent most of the day cleaning the house and every room was clean except one.

“Do you know which room is not clean?” he asked her.

“Mine,” she quickly replied.

“Do you know anyone who could help clean your room?” he asked, expecting her to answer that she could.

Instead she replied, “Well, Daddy, I know that any time you are scared, worried, or need help, you can get down on your knees and ask Heavenly Father to help.”

It is interesting to note that as we listen to our children, they can also teach us.

Jim and Helen Gebhard are from Grand Junction, a small town in western Colorado. Jim is an orthopedic surgeon and specializes in treating patients with spinal conditions.
Like the Tarrs, the Gebhards considered volunteering as area medical advisors and since they speak Spanish, they thought they could serve in a Spanish speaking country. However, they were also contacted about coming to American Samoa, where the hospital has not had anyone with a spinal specialty before. Upon arrival, Dr. Gebhard had a long list of patients to see.
“We have been able to help patients that have become paralyzed because their conditions were not recognized in time,” he says. “They will be helped even more when we get our surgery operations going here.”
Sister Gebhard has a master’s degree in child development and taught courses at the local community college in Grand Junction for parents with preschool children. She now teaches those same classes at the American Samoa Community College five days a week.
The Gebhards have already developed some very close relationships with patients. “We’ve even been invited to two weddings!”
Robert Keddington worked in emergency medicine in Utah and retired several years ago. In 2020 he got a call from a senior Church leader in Salt Lake City asking him if had ever thought about serving a medical mission.
“My wife, Sue, and I prayed sincerely to know if this was something we should do and got a lovely answer from our Father in Heaven that we should go.”
“I wasn’t too sure about getting back into practice after being away for so long,” Dr. Keddington says. “I was also concerned about seeing patients with conditions related to the tropics, something I had never seen in my practice in Utah. But before I left, my local church leader gave me a blessing and told me that I would be blessed with recall to help the people here. I found again and again that as I was examining a patient, I could recall something I learned in medical school more than 40 years ago that was just what this patient needed. Truly a blessing from the Lord.”
In July 2022, the Keddingtons completed two years of service in Pago Pago. They loved every minute of their time there.
Former Pacific Area President Vincent Haleck spoke at a farewell event for the Keddingtons. He remembered how difficult it used to be for patients in American Samoa to receive necessary medical attention. “I saw many islanders try to [go] to New Zealand to get treatment but so few were able to . . . I thought how wonderful it would be to have these medical treatments available right here at home in American Samoa.” With encouragement from President Russell M. Nelson, himself a physician, it was Elder Haleck who developed the programme that eventually brought the Keddingtons and other doctors to the Pacific.
In his final remarks, Dr. Keddington said, “I have seen the hand of the Lord in my service to the people here,” he says.
“It’s been a humbling, gratifying experience.”

Steven (8) and Douglas (11) Brown, and Kevin (8) and Kimball (11) Galbraith were neighbors in Sugar City, Idaho. On Saturday, June 5, 1976, they were planning to go fishing at their secret spot on the Teton River after Steven and Douglas had finished mowing their lawn.
Ordinarily the boys used a power mower but for some reason that day they used the hand mower even though it took longer. Word about the dam breaking came before they finished the lawn.
Doug said, “If we had used the power mower we’d have been at the Teton River and Dad doesn’t think that he could have gotten us out and we probably would have drowned.”
One month later Steven, Douglas, Kevin, Kimball, and Paul went back to see their homes. (see photographs)—

On my dad’s side, my paternal grandfather suffered verbal abuse from his father (who also struggled with substance abuse), so he was prone to anger and violence. My grandfather was also a single parent for a time, which led to my dad being displaced in foster homes as a child. Ultimately, my dad struggled for a long time to build a good relationship with my grandpa and to communicate his emotions effectively.
Why am I telling you these difficult family stories? Well, I recently learned it’s helpful to acknowledge difficulties that occurred in our family’s history. It’s helpful because the effects of challenges in our ancestors’ lives can influence how our current families function in mortality.
Our ancestors may have suffered many types of traumatic events, such as grief, war, abuse, crimes, financial instability, natural disasters, etc. And the effects can show up in later generations of families through common issues:
Communication problems
Unhealthy coping mechanisms
Attachment issues
Or more serious issues, including:
Mental health issues
Abuse
Addiction
When the negative psychological effects of traumatic experiences are transferred from one generation to another, experts call this phenomenon “generational trauma.”1 The purpose of identifying generational trauma isn’t to place blame on an ancestor for your issues. But becoming aware of generational trauma can help us understand some of the influences behind our own unhelpful habits, create new healthy behaviors, and invite peace into our homes.
Elder Gerrit W. Gong of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught:
“Just as joys come in families, so can sorrows. No individual is perfect, nor is any family … Yet, with heaven’s help, we can come to understand our family and make peace with each other.
“… The promise … always is that, in and through Jesus Christ, we can become our best story and our families can become happy and forever.”2
Here are a few ways I was able to heal my own heart and family relationships after learning about the generational trauma that affected my family:
Strive to become aware of negative habits in your life. Seek guidance from Heavenly Father. He wants us to rise above the conflicts in our lives, and He is more than ready to help us become “new creature[s]” (see 2 Corinthians 5:17). Attend the temple, search the scriptures, and consider counseling with Heavenly Father about working with a mental health professional or finding and reading self-help books that can offer helpful perspectives.
In my case, I denied that I had communication problems until I hit a dark point in my life and realized I needed help addressing some of my behavioral and thinking patterns.
So, after seeking guidance from Heavenly Father, I felt prompted to start meeting with a therapist. We put pieces of the puzzle of my heart together and discovered that the sources of many of my behaviors like masking pain with humor, burying emotions, and struggling to communicate effectively could possibly be traced back to a few generations before mine.
At first, I was scared by what this discovery meant for me. How could I possibly change habits that had been ingrained in me and my family? I even started to fear for my future family. Would I pass my issues on to them?
With these thoughts weighing on my mind, I didn’t think I could muster the effort to face these feelings and change these behavior cycles. But the Lord has counseled us to “be not afraid, only believe” (Mark 5:36).
As I prayed, God showed me that if I had a willing heart, He could change my heart and help me alter the behaviors that were preventing me from having healthy relationships and from growing emotionally and spiritually.
Through trials, we are given a choice to come unto Christ for hope, growth, and healing—whatever that healing may entail.
Ultimately, my healing involved the Savior. With Him, I was able to have difficult yet healing conversations with my family members, to take steps forward, to love more deeply and build greater relationships, to take uncomfortable steps forward, to forgive, and to find hope in the future. Believing in what Jesus Christ could do for me was the first step toward inviting His healing balm into my life through temple worship, prayer, and exercising faith.
As I combined these powerful spiritual tools with therapy and self-help books that helped me develop my communication skills, learn to feel and process my emotions, and understand the underlying reasons behind my behaviors, I have been able to see miraculous results of involving the Savior and Heavenly Father in this journey.
Some of us may struggle with serious repercussions from our family’s past like abuse, addiction, or other traumatic challenges, which can take time, faith, and professional help to heal. But as Elder Patrick Kearon of the Seventy taught, “Courage, patience, and faithful focus on [the Savior]” will help you “let go of your pain and leave it at His feet.”3 Through Him, we can mend bonds, set boundaries, break negative cycles, and build beautiful, charity-filled homes and relationships.
Elder Gong also counseled:
“Genetics and family patterns influence but do not determine us.
“... Learn and acknowledge with gratitude and honesty your family heritage. Celebrate and become the positive and, where needed, humbly do everything possible not to pass on the negative. Let good things begin with you.”4
I am still a work in progress, but I am so grateful for my resilient ancestors and family members who inspire me. I am awed by Heavenly Father and our Savior, who can help us build up the relationships we cherish and endure and grow. Truly, it is through Him that I can help spread goodness in my family and fill our homes with joy.

The last time I saw my little sister, Lorraine, was in a sound-proof hospital room that smelled of sweet soap. She lay in a huge metal bed with sterile white sheets, surrounded by tanks and tubes and oxygen equipment. The doctors confirmed what she herself knew:
“Mommy,” she said in her calm, sweet voice, “mommy, I’m going to die.” She asked us to pray for her—we who had forgotten how to pray.
The night before she died, I sat at her bedside while mom and dad got a few hours of much-needed rest. She was in a coma, and I held her delicate hand in mine under the oxygen tent, trying to make her live through my own will-power. My throat ached as I thought about how little I really knew her. Ten years separated us—ten years and my own personal apartment and exciting career.
After a few minutes, I heard someone enter the dimmed hospital room. I looked up to see a man, slightly balding, with soft eyes and a kindly smile.
“Hello,” he said in a gentle voice. “I’m Brother Hughes, your home teacher. I—just found out.”
“Brother?” I wondered silently. “Oh … a Mormon.”
Home teachers were those men who always came in dark suits and who were very nice and chatted for a while and then politely left. Or were those missionaries? We were inactive and in fact had avoided contact with the Church during the two years we had lived in this city. I wondered how he had found us.
“How is she?” he asked. He was smiling a soft, wise smile, the kind that comes mostly from the eyes. I knew he did not feel more righteous than we were, and I felt he was not there just out of curiosity. Somehow I could feel that he really cared.
For some reason, my first reaction was to try to impress him by delivering a detailed clinical description of the many complications that had led to the hopeless prognosis the doctors had given. But instead, only a strange groan escaped my lips, and the tears began to fall unrestrainedly.
I don’t really remember everything Brother Hughes said to me that night, except that when he left I knew Lorraine would be alive somewhere, and that this pitiful little body with the thin, golden hair was only the shell that had housed her for a time. Not that he actually came out and said it, but somewhere in the back of my mind I could see her running and stretching out her arms to a loving being who held her just like dad had done.
Lorraine left us. But Brother Hughes came again and again.
A year later, in the temple, we shed tears as the Spirit bore witness to us that Lorraine was with us as we were sealed together as a family. And a few days afterward, I was married in the temple.
I often think about Lorraine, and when I do, I remember that wonderful home teacher who taught us once again to pray, who showed us again the one true way where tragedy is supplanted by eternal hope.

When John Batty was eight years old, his family was taught the gospel by two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It was 1854, and the Battys lived in Pilley, Yorkshire, England.
A few years later, George and Encora Batty and their children joined the Church and applied for passage on a ship sailing from Liverpool to New York City. They were going to Utah to be with the Saints.
A few months before leaving England, eleven-year-old John was skipping up a dirt path toward his home. As he went along the hard-packed trail, he noticed a large apple orchard in a nearby field. He could see that the trees were covered with ripe, red apples. His mouth watered, and he decided to take an apple from the nearest tree.
There was only one problem. The trees did not belong to John, and his father and mother had taught him that being honest was the best way to live. “Never take anything that does not belong to you,” his father had told him many times.
Ignoring his parents’ teachings, John quickly climbed a tree next to the path and picked three large apples. Placing one in each of his pants pockets and one in his mouth, he quickly slid down the tree trunk and raced up the road toward home. Before he got there, he had eaten all three apples and his stomach had begun to ache.
“What gave you a stomachache?” his mother asked.
“I don’t know,” John replied, being dishonest again. He knew that if he told his mother about the apples, she would ask where he got them.
John was tucked into bed to sleep off his illness. As he lay on his straw tick mattress that night, he made a promise to himself: He would work and save enough money to pay for those three apples. And he would tell the owner of the orchard that he had climbed the tree and stolen them.
Before he could keep his promise, however, his family sailed for America. John thought about those stolen apples every day during the long weeks it took to sail across the Atlantic Ocean.
From New York, his family went by boat, stagecoach, covered wagon, and foot to Council Bluffs, Nebraska. There they bought a handcart and piled their belongings in it for the long walk to Utah. Young John Batty walked and helped push the cart all the way. He wore out the only pair of shoes that he owned.
When the Battys arrived in Salt Lake City in September of 1857, President Brigham Young asked them to move on to southern Utah to live among the Indians in a small settlement called Toquerville at “the head of the Ash Creek.”
Barefoot, young John Batty walked the three hundred miles to Toquerville. Every day he thought about the stolen fruit. His conscience was so hurt that he could not even eat an apple.
Thirty years later, long after he was grown up and married, John Batty was called on a mission. He was asked to return to England to preach the gospel to his former friends and family living in the Yorkshire and Nottingham areas of England.
Upon his arrival in Liverpool, John made his way by train back to Pilley. Walking along a path toward the edge of town, he passed the same orchard from which he had stolen the apples as a boy. Standing among the trees was a very old, stooped, white-haired man.
John called out to him, “Do you own this orchard?”
“Yes,” the man replied.
“Have you owned it for a long time?”
“Fifty years.”
Here was John’s chance to repent of stealing those apples. “Sir,” he said, “I used to live nearby when I was just a boy. One day before my family sailed for America, I climbed one of those trees and stole three apples from you. I have been sorry ever since. I would like to ask your forgiveness and also pay you for them.”
“Certainly,” the man said, “but they will cost you three times as much as they cost clear back then.”
“That is fair,” John replied with a smile.
With only a little change in his pocket, John paid for the three stolen apples and bought another one to eat. In his journal that night, he wrote, “That was the sweetest apple I ever tasted!”

Another time, I was sent to speak to leaders of churches in the United States and ministers of those churches who had met in Minneapolis to deal with the problem of competition among churches.
When I arrived, I found that I was assigned to be a speaker. My subject was to be: Why there was a need for a restoration of the true Church through Joseph Smith. I was a last-minute substitute for Elder Neal A. Maxwell.
When I arrived in the city the night before the meetings and looked at the program, I called President Hinckley. I told him that the meetings were to last three days, that many talks were to be given at the same time, that the crowd could choose which one to attend. I told him that I thought if I told the truth, I feared that no one would come to my second session and that I might be coming home very quickly. I asked him what he thought I should do. He said, “Use your best judgment.”
I prayed through the night. Somewhere near dawn, I was sure I was to say about the Restoration not, “This is what we believe happened to Joseph Smith and why we believe it happened,” but, “This is what happened to Joseph Smith, and this is why the Lord did it.” In the nighttime I was given no assurance of the outcome, just a clear direction—go forward.
To my amazement, after my talk the ministers lined up to speak to me. Every one of them, one after another coming to me, told essentially the same story. Each of them had met a member of the Church somewhere in their lives that they admired. Many of them said that they lived in a community where the stake president had come to the aid of not just his members but of the community in a disaster. They asked if I could take back their greeting and their thanks to people I not only didn’t know but had no hope of ever meeting.
By the end of the three days of meetings, larger and larger crowds were coming to hear the message of the Restoration of the gospel and the true Church of Jesus Christ not because they believed the message but because they had seen goodness in people’s lives—the fruits of that restoration.

Probably the most significant thing I learned while on my mission, other than the gospel, is the importance and power of prayer in missionary work—prayer plus appropriate and timely fasting.
While serving in Edinburgh, Scotland, my companion and I had decided not to proselyte in a certain area of the city because we thought other areas would be more productive. There were only two missionaries in all of Edinburgh, a city of about a half a million people. We went about our work in other areas of the city, but we had a feeling that there may be someone we needed to teach who lived in the area in which we had chosen not to proselyte. We decided to set aside a certain day to fast and pray for that area and to proselyte there. We prayed that we would find someone who was prepared for the gospel.
On that day we knocked on the door of Alex and Lilly Clark, a young couple who invited us in right away. We taught them the first discussion and gave them a copy of the Book of Mormon. We asked them to read it and pray about it. We asked if we could return to share more of our message.
They told us that Alex was leaving the next day for a six-month military assignment. Feeling it inappropriate to meet with Lilly in Alex’s absence, we gave them each a copy of the Book of Mormon and repeated our challenge to read and pray about it. We also gave them the address of our chapel.
My companion and I were impressed by them and hopeful for them, but we were not optimistic, knowing what often happens when investigators go for such a long time without contact with the missionaries.
In the meantime I was transferred from Edinburgh to Nottingham, England. About six months after our visit with the Clarks, the mission president asked me to travel back to Edinburgh to handle some mission business. While there, my companion and I attended Sunday services at the Edinburgh branch. You can imagine my surprise and thrill when I saw Alex and Lilly Clark walk into the chapel.
Alex had just returned from his military assignment, and the two of them were soon on their way to baptism. The Clarks became active members of the Church in Edinburgh. When the Edinburgh Scotland Stake was created, Alex Clark was called to be its first stake president.
Forty-one years later, Lilly told my wife and me and two of our grown children that when my companion and I knocked on their door that day, she and Alex were busy getting him ready for his assignment. They didn’t think they had time for one more thing. But when she opened the door, she was overcome with the thought: “You’ve come! It’s you, and you’ve come.”
Alex and Lilly were not looking for religion that day, but when we knocked on their door, Lilly knew she had to let us in. Because she followed this prompting, her family’s lives were changed forever. And so was mine!
As the Lord states in D&C 31:7: “Yea, I will open the hearts of the people, and they will receive you. And I will establish a church by your hand.”
Truly the Clarks’ hearts were opened that day by the power of prayer in missionary work.

Jennifer handed Mom a piece of paper after church. She listened as her mother read the note: “Jennifer has been asked to give a talk in Primary next Sunday, February 14.”
“Mom, will you please help me?” Jennifer asked.
“Of course I will,” Mom said. “You can think and pray about what you would like to say. This week we can work on your ideas.”
“Thank you, Mom!” Jennifer said. She was a little scared, but she knew she could do it with help from Heavenly Father.
The next day as Jennifer cut out paper hearts to make valentines, an idea popped into her head. She ran to find Mom and handed her the paper heart.
“Do you think I could make some hearts to use in my talk?” Jennifer asked.
“Yes,” Mom said. “Let’s write a list of things that make your heart happy. Then we can find pictures of those things to put on the hearts.”
Jennifer had fun cutting out pictures and gluing them onto the hearts.
On Sunday morning, Jennifer knelt to say a prayer. She had done all she could to get ready for her talk. She asked Heavenly Father to help her remember what to say.
The Primary children sat and listened as Jennifer gave her talk:
My heart is happy because I have a family that loves me. We can be an eternal family.
My heart is happy when I choose the right.
My heart is happy because I know Joseph Smith was a true prophet and that Thomas S. Monson is a prophet today.
My heart is happy when I come to Primary and sing Primary songs.
My heart is happy when I read the scriptures. I know the Book of Mormon is true.
My heart is happy because Jesus Christ is my Savior. I know that He loves me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Chris watched as a man in a Scout uniform carefully placed six cars at the top of the track. “Our car is in lane two,” Chris whispered to his dad. His stomach was aching. He wished they had stayed home.
“Which one is yours?” Sarah, his sister, asked loudly.
Chris pretended to not hear her, not wanting to draw attention to his car.
But Sarah persisted. “Chris, which one is yours?”
“It’s the one in lane two,” Dad answered her. “The yellow one with the red stripe.”
“Oh!” Sarah exclaimed proudly. She turned to her friend, Brandy, and pointed up at the cars. “That’s my brother’s car. The yellow one with the red stripe.”
Chris looked at his dad. “Will you please make her be quiet?” he begged.
Dad smiled understandingly. “Sarah,” he said, “would you and Brandy get us some cupcakes, please?”
Sarah was delighted with the assignment. She and Brandy hurried off to the kitchen.
“Thanks,” Chris muttered.
“Cheer up, Son,” Dad said, putting his arm around Chris’s shoulder. “It’s not the end of the world. It’s just the Pinewood Derby.”
Chris forced himself to smile. “You’re right, Dad. We can try again next year.”
Dad nodded. “This year is just for practice. We’ll do better next year.”
When everything was set, the crowd cheered and the races began. Chris didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t help himself. He stood up to get a better look as he watched his car win the first race. “We won!” he gasped in disbelief. “Just barely, but we won!”
“I guess the car’s in better shape than I thought,” Dad said.
Sarah and Brandy returned with cupcakes for everyone. “How did your car do, Chris?” Sarah asked.
“It won!” Chris told her happily.
“Really? I thought it was broken.”
“It is,” said Dad. “And the races aren’t over yet. They race the cars six times, once in each lane. Then they average the times. We’ll see how our car holds up.”
The car didn’t hold up very well. It went slower each time it raced. In the last race, Chris’s car crossed the finish line well behind the other cars.
Brother Rogers came over. “I’ve never seen anything like it. What happened? Your car started out great.”
“I’ll show you.” Dad picked up the car and turned it over. The back left wheel was sitting awkwardly on the axle. “Our car had an accident before the race.”
“Oh?”
“My little brother, Adam, threw it,” Chris explained. “I wouldn’t let him play with it, so he grabbed it and threw it.”
“It was a pretty good throw, but a pretty bad landing,” Dad added. “It cracked the wheel and bent the axle. I managed to straighten the axle, but there was nothing I could do about the wheel.”
“And where’s Adam now?” Brother Rogers asked.
“My mom stayed home with him,” Chris said. “She said she didn’t think he would enjoy watching the races. I think maybe she was afraid he would ruin someone else’s car.”
Brother Rogers ruffled Chris’s hair. “I have a little brother. They can be a trial sometimes.”
Chris nodded his head. “That’s for sure. But it wasn’t really his fault. All he wanted to do was roll it across the floor like I was doing. If I had let him have a turn, he wouldn’t have thrown it.”
“Think of it as a learning experience,” Brother Rogers said. “Next time you’ll be more patient with him.”
Chris nodded.
The man in the Scout uniform whistled loudly. “If I could have everyone’s attention, please. We have some trophies and ribbons to award to the winners.”
Chris picked up the cupcake Sarah had brought him. “Well, I guess I’ll eat my cupcake now.”
Sarah smiled. “I’ll go get you another one if you want me to.”
“No thanks.”
“I’m sorry your car didn’t win,” Sarah said. “Maybe it will get a prize for being the prettiest.”
Chris shook his head.
Brother Rogers announced the names of the boys with the best overall times. Chris watched as each boy shook hands with Brother Rogers and took his prize. Next, there was an award for the best-looking car. Sarah shook her head sadly when Chris didn’t win.
“We have one more prize,” Brother Rogers announced. “We have a prize for the car with the single best time. And the winner is Chris.”
Chris looked up, surprised. “Me?” he asked, fearing he had heard wrong.
“Yes, you,” Brother Rogers laughed. “Your time in the first race was the fastest time all night.”
Chris hurried up to the podium, wiping the cupcake off his hands as he went. He smiled as Brother Rogers handed him the trophy.
Chris hurried to his seat. “Check it out,” he said proudly, holding the trophy out for his dad to see.
“Let me see!” squealed Sarah. As she reached for the trophy, she lost her balance and started to fall.
Chris and Dad both grabbed Sarah and held her steady as the trophy fell to the ground. It landed with a loud crack, and broke into two pieces.
Chris groaned. “Not again.”
Sarah started to cry. “I’m sorry.”
Dad picked up the pieces. “I’m sure we can glue it back together.”
“What happened?” Brother Rogers asked.
“Just another learning experience,” said Chris. He turned to Sarah. “Don’t feel bad. I know it was an accident. Anyway, it makes sense that my broken car should win a broken trophy.”
Sarah smiled through her tears. “You’re not mad?”
“No, I’m not mad. Let’s see if there are any more cupcakes. I think Adam would love it if we took him one.”

Six-year-old Jason rode down the street on his new red bicycle. It was the first time he had ridden his bike without his eleven-year-old brother, Ray, riding along beside him. Jason grinned as he thought about his big brother. Ray was fun to be with. He would often take Jason along with him when he went to the park or to the baseball field. But now Ray had gone to the store for Mother, so Jason was riding by himself.
“Aaaah,” he called as he pedaled past his mother.
She smiled and waved at him. Jason didn’t dare let go of the handlebars to wave back, but he gave her a big smile. When he turned around and pedaled back to his house again, his mother motioned for him to stop. Born with a profound hearing loss, Jason wore a hearing aid in each ear. The only sounds that he could hear were very soft and unclear, so Jason had only begun to learn to talk.
“Jason,” Mother said, at the same time using sign language, “I’m going into the house to do dishes now. It will soon be dark. Please come inside in just a few minutes.”
“OK.” Jason tried to form the word with his mouth as he finger-spelled.
Mom smiled and rumpled his hair before she walked into the house, and Jason pedaled his bike down the street again. It was exciting riding past the houses, with a rush of the wind against his face. Jason wished he could go farther than the corner. It would be neat to ride around the block. The thrill of such an adventure filled his mind. He decided to go partway around, then come straight back. But as Jason pedaled faster and faster, pretending that he was a fireman racing his truck to a fire, he sped down several blocks. “Aaaah!” he crowed happily.
Then the cry froze in his throat as he stared at the unfamiliar houses that he was passing. The bicycle wobbled and nearly fell over before Jason could come to a stop. He looked around him with wide, frightened eyes. Where am I? he wondered.
Jason turned his bicycle around and pedaled back toward the nearest corner. He peered at the houses in the gathering darkness. They were all strange. Jason choked back a sob. How would he ever get back to his own home? He couldn’t ask anyone for help. He pedaled up and down the streets looking for a familiar sight, but the longer he searched, the more confused he became.
Soon it was dark, and Jason didn’t know what to do. Suddenly there came to his mind a picture of his family kneeling in prayer, and he thought, I’ll ask Heavenly Father to help me!
Jason got off his bike and lowered the kickstand, then knelt on the sidewalk and folded his arms. Dear Father in Heaven, he prayed silently, I’m lost. Please help me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Jason opened his eyes, half-expecting to see a familiar face, but no one was there. He could see lights shining through the windows of nearby houses. He thought about his family in his own home and about how much he loved them. Maybe I’ll never see them again. Tears trickled down his cheeks at the thought. Then the words I am a child of God popped into his mind. They were from a Primary song that his mother had taught him.
“You can learn to say the words if you try,” she had said as she signed to him. “Then you can sing it with your voice, your hands, and your heart.”
Jason had tried. It was hard, but he could sing it well enough for his family to recognize it. Now he loved to sing it often, even though he could barely hear the sounds that he made. He knew that there was beautiful music inside him, though, because he had such a happy feeling when he sang.
Maybe, Jason thought, I won’t feel so scared if I sing. He squeezed his eyes shut against his tears and began, “I am a child of God,/ And he has sent me here,/ Has given me an earthly home/ With parents kind and dear. …”
As he sang the last few words, Jason opened his eyes. He could scarcely believe what he saw: His big brother was coming down the street!
“Aaaah!” Jason cried, leaping to his feet. “Aaaah!”
Jason started to run. He didn’t stop until he ran straight into his brother’s open arms. Ray caught him in a big bear hug, swinging him off his feet.
“I’d never have found you if I hadn’t heard you singing that song!” Ray exclaimed. “You’ve sung it so many times at home that when I heard that off-tune hymn coming to me out of the darkness, I knew just who was singing. It led me straight to you!”
Jason couldn’t follow all that Ray was saying, but he knew that he was safe, and he knew that Heavenly Father had answered his prayer.

Reflecting on her blessings helps Stefanie Egly of Hesse, Germany, trust in Heavenly Father’s plan and in His timeline.
Stefanie began writing down her blessings after a relationship with a good friend didn’t work out. “Though we hadn’t been dating, I had always hoped our relationship would develop into something more. My hope was destroyed when he told me he had a girlfriend.”
Heartbroken, Stefanie found comfort after reading an article on gratitude in the Liahona. She felt impressed to write down how she had been blessed—specifically how being single had been a blessing.
Her list helped her recognize that just because she hadn’t had the opportunity to get married, it did not mean she had been denied blessings. Stefanie recognizes that the Lord has blessed her with the chance to become an elementary school teacher and work with children. She has traveled, attended general conference, and participated as a counselor in the Especially for Youth program. Some of her dearest friendships developed through young single adult conferences that she has attended.
But the biggest blessing, she says, was being able to spend time with her grandmother shortly before she passed away, something that her siblings and cousins were not able to do because they lived far away or had families to care for.
Five years have passed since Stefanie started documenting her blessings. She still waits for the time when she will have the opportunity to marry in the temple. She says, “I don’t know when I will meet my eternal companion, but I trust the time will come. Until then, I know I will continue to have experiences that will help me learn and grow.” Heavenly Father has blessed her immensely, and she knows He will continue to do so if she is faithful.

Wilford Woodruff learned early in life to trust deeply in the power of the Lord. According to his own record, he had many accidents and other hardships and was spared only because of the mercy of the Lord. He fell into a caldron of scalding water at the age of three; he slipped from a beam in his father’s barn, landing on his face on the bare floor; he broke his arm by falling down some stairs; he was kicked in the stomach by an ox; he was buried beneath a load of hay when his wagon tipped over; he was in a wagon that overturned when a runaway horse bolted down a hill; he fell fifteen feet from a tree, landing flat on his back; he was saved from drowning; he narrowly escaped freezing to death when a passerby happened to see him crawl into the hollow of an apple tree; he split open the instep of his left foot while chopping wood; he was bitten by a dog in the last stages of rabies; he was thrown from a runaway horse and broke one of his legs in two places and dislocated both ankles. And all of this happened before Wilford was twenty years old!
Later he fell twice from the top of a mill wheel, narrowly escaping being crushed to death. On other occasions, he was dragged behind a runaway horse; a gun aimed directly at his chest snapped accidentally but fortunately misfired; and a falling tree hit him in the chest, breaking his breastbone and three ribs and badly bruising his left thigh, hip, and arm.
It is no wonder that he recognized early the Lord’s power to preserve him. Contemplating these accidents later in his life he said, “I, therefore, ascribe my preservation on earth to the watchcare of a merciful Providence, whose hand has been stretched out to rescue me from death when I was in the presence of the most threatening dangers.”
A thoughtful young man, he wanted to do what was right. In his early teens, he wrote, “My age is an important period in the life of every man; for, generally speaking, at this period of life man forms much of his character for time and eternity. How cautious I ought to be in passing this landmark along the road of my early existence! I feel that I need care, prudence, circumspection and wisdom to guide my footsteps in the path which leads to honor and eternal life.”
Wilford Woodruff’s constant search for guidance led him often to the Lord in prayer. Then, when he finally did have the opportunity to hear the gospel, he was well prepared to receive it.
He describes his introduction to the gospel: “Elder Pulsipher opened with prayer. He knelt down and asked the Lord in the name of Jesus Christ for what he wanted. His manner of prayer and the influence which went with it impressed me greatly. The spirit of the Lord rested upon me and bore witness that he was a servant of God. After singing, he preached to the people for an hour and a half. The spirit of God rested mightily upon him, and he bore a strong testimony of the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon and of the mission of the Prophet Joseph Smith. I believed all that he said. The spirit bore witness of its truth. …
“Liberty was then given by the elders to any one in the congregation to arise and speak for or against what they had heard as they might choose. Almost instantly I found myself upon my feet. The spirit of the Lord urged me to bear testimony of the truth of the message delivered by these elders. I exhorted my neighbors and friends not to oppose these men, for they were the true servants of God. They had preached to us that night the pure gospel of Jesus Christ. When I sat down, my brother Azmon arose and bore a similar testimony. He was followed by several others.”
Three days later, after carefully searching the Book of Mormon, he was baptized on 31 December 1833. He wrote: “The snow was about three feet deep, the day was cold, and the water was mixed with ice and snow, yet I did not feel cold.”
Soon after this, he went to Kirtland, where he met the Prophet Joseph Smith. From Kirtland, he and other new members accompanied the Prophet on the march of Zion’s Camp. During this period he was “moved upon” to start recording the significant events of Church history. Later he commented on this heavenly direction:
“The devil has sought to take away my life from the day I was born until now, more so even than the lives of other men. I seem to be a marked victim of the adversary. I can find but one reason for this: the devil knew if I got into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I would write the history of that Church and leave on record the works and teachings of the prophets, of the apostles and elders. I have recorded nearly all the sermons and teachings that I ever heard from the Prophet Joseph, I have in my journal many of the sermons of President Brigham Young, and such men as Orson Hyde, Parley P. Pratt and others. Another reason I was moved upon to write in the early days was that nearly all the historians appointed in those times apostatized and took the journals away with them.”

The Young Men and Young Women of the Grants Ward, Grants New Mexico Stake, really went the extra mile when they volunteered to wire signs to fences denoting the newly created national monument and conservation area known as “El Malpais.”

There were ten miles of fences surrounding the lava-filled valley with geological and archaeological sites. The youth were required to wire signs every tenth of a mile. The Bureau of Land Management representative expected the project to take all day. He was surprised and pleased to find that the youth completed it in a mere two hours, and he commented on their enthusiasm and efficiency.

The young men and women not only enjoyed the work, but felt good about the example they’d set. They were also proud to have a hand in helping their area’s new national monument.