Gospel Story Finder

When the missionaries showed me the filmstrip of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s First Vision, it was difficult for me to contain my tears. The story of his search for truth was in some ways similar to my own.
At that time, I was 20 years old and living in Italy, the land of my birth. For five years I had been looking for answers my parents’ religion had not been able to give me. I had sought these answers in other religions and philosophies, but something seemed lacking in all of them. During the year before I met the missionaries, that search had become the most important thing in my life. I distanced myself from some of my friends and even left the university where I had been studying. My relatives could not understand me.
At the end of 1984, I met the missionaries on the street and gave them my address. I knew very little about the Church, but for some reason I wanted to speak to them.
Some days later I was in my room. I opened my heart to God, asking Him to show me what He wanted me to do. As I prayed I felt a great peace surround me. At that exact moment, the doorbell rang. When the missionaries came in, I knew they had the answers I sought.

There’s a home for unwed mothers and abused children in the Fairfield California Stake, and the young women in the Vacaville Third Ward wanted to help out.
They took several activity nights to make stuffed bears. They also made sugar cookies to take to the home and let the children decorate. The main message they tried to convey was “You are a child of God,” and the smiles on the children’s faces told them they understood.

We can easily get our lives out of balance. I remember a few years that were particularly challenging for me. Our family had grown to seven children. I had served as a counselor in the bishopric and was then given the sacred call as bishop of our ward. I was striving to manage our business that required long hours each day. I pay tribute to my wonderful wife, who always made it possible for me to serve the Lord.

There was simply too much to do in the time available. Instead of sacrificing things of significance, I decided I’d get up earlier, take care of my business, then spend the time required to be a good father and husband and a faithful member of the Church. It wasn’t easy. There were mornings when the alarm clock went off that I cracked open an eyelid and glared at it, daring it to keep ringing.

Nevertheless, the Lord was merciful and helped me to find the energy and time to do all I had committed to do. Although it was difficult, I have never regretted making the choice to heed the Savior’s call and follow Him.

When I was 11 years old, my bishop called me in for an interview in his office. He said, “Ulisses, it’s time to start your preparation to go on a mission.” I was astonished because I was only 11 years old! But he said, “We have to start that process now.”
My bishop said, “I’ll interview you once in a while to see how your progress is.” Then he gave me some direction. He taught me about the commandments, the priesthood, worthiness, and honesty. I was so impressed because he looked in my eyes and said, “You will serve a mission if you follow the directions I am giving you.”
I always remembered his words, especially when I faced a challenge. For example, one time my mother gave me money to go to a store to buy some fruit. For some reason the cashier gave me back more money than I gave her to pay for the fruit. I started walking home, and when I opened my hand, I saw that I had more money than I had started with.
Satan tried to convince me that I could keep the money for myself. I thought, “I have some money to do whatever I want, and then I will give back the correct change to my mother.” But then I thought, “No, that’s not what the bishop told me. To be a missionary, I have to be honest.” I felt the Spirit at that time and went back to the store to give back the money. I felt good in my heart. I thought, “I was honest, I obeyed the commandments, and I am preparing for my mission. I will be a missionary, and I need to be honest.”
When I was going to high school, I worked to save money for my mission. My parents were poor and couldn’t afford to pay for everything. I didn’t earn a lot of money, but after paying tithing, I decided to buy one piece of clothing per month for my mission. One month I bought a shirt, another month a tie, another month another shirt. During those three years, I saved enough to buy everything I needed. I saved enough to pay for my mission. I learned the principle of saving. I learned the principle of being obedient to the law of tithing and how many blessings we receive when we pay tithing.
My mission was a great experience because it helped me understand the principles of life and how to apply the gospel in my daily activities.
Boys and girls, prepare for a good mission and a good life. The Lord is waiting to give us all the blessings we need.

For the last few years, I have participated in the Oakland Temple Pageant. This play depicts the miracles of the Savior in America and the history and Restoration of the Church. My first year, I sang in the balcony chorus for the last two nights only. I had seen the pageant a few times in previous years but never felt touched the way I did when I sang in it, especially on the first night.
When the person playing Joseph Smith received the plates from Moroni, he sang a song titled “I Would Exhort You” (see Moro. 10:4). Never before have I felt the way I did that night. There was nothing left to wonder. I knew it was true!

Chieko smoothed her soft, white dress. She was the angel in the Christmas Nativity play, and the show was about to start.
Chieko didn’t know much about Christmas or Jesus. Her family had come to Hawaii from Japan, and they were Buddhist. But her father’s boss had asked her to be in the play, and she was excited to be a part of it. She worked hard to learn the words.
“Fear not,” Chieko said as she stood on the stage. “For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.” She loved being in this play.
A few years later, Chieko met some missionaries. They were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “Would you like to come to church to learn more about Jesus Christ?” they asked.
Chieko remembered her part in the Christmas play. Who is Jesus? she thought. She wanted to learn more.
When she got home, Chieko asked her parents if she could go to church with the missionaries. “I don’t see why not,” Mama said. “As long as you still come to the Buddhist temple with us.”
At church, Chieko learned new songs and made new friends. In Sunday School, she learned that Jesus Christ was the Son of God. Because of Him, she could repent and live with God again someday. Chieko felt something special inside. She knew Jesus was real.
Years passed. Each week, Chieko went to the Buddhist temple with her family. And each Sunday, she went to church.
When she was 15, Chieko wanted to be baptized. She was a little scared to ask her parents. But they supported her. “We know you can be a good daughter and a good Christian too,” Papa said. Chieko was so happy!
As she grew up, Chieko kept following Jesus. Sometimes people were unkind to her because she was Japanese. But Chieko didn’t let that stop her. She treated everyone with kindness.
When she was 63, Chieko was called to serve as part of the Relief Society General Presidency. She visited Church members around the world. She shared the Savior’s love.
Chieko also spoke in general conference. “Let us come unto Christ,” she said. “Let us rejoice in Him, the giver of all good things.”*

A young friend of mine had a father who was serving as bishop. He often said he wished his dad was not the bishop so he could sit with the family in sacrament meetings and could spend more time at home and with the family. As the years passed, my friend changed his mind. He honored his father because he had served well as a bishop and the family had really learned more in many respects and had shared rich spiritual experiences that would not have come had the father been with the family more instead of being bishop. The son honored his father and his father’s Church calling, just as he honors the memories of that wonderful man.

Lydia always remained faithful, but one of her sons, Jesse, not only grew up inactive in the Church but would argue against the Church with his mother. J. William Knight recorded that on his grandmother’s last visit to the Knight home before her death, his father Jesse said:

“Mother, how is it you are not preaching to me as you usually do?” She answered, “Jesse, I have prayed in the Temple for my children many times and on one occasion the Lord made known to me that I was not to worry about you any more, that you would one day understand for yourself.” Father then said to her, “Mother, I know you must be mistaken, for I’m further from the Church now than I have ever been before.” She replied, “I don’t care what you say, I know you will one day see the Gospel for yourself, and I never intend to argue again with you about religion.” [Jesse Knight Family, 33]

Jesse’s mother then returned to St. George and her temple work. On the day that she completed the temple work for the last family name that she had, she went to bed and quietly passed away to go meet Newel and “that God who gave [her] life” (see Jesse Knight Family, 24; Alma 40:11).

A few years later Jesse’s family was afflicted with sickness. His youngest child, about two years old, was the first to become sick. J. William stated that Jennie “was the idol of the whole family” (Jesse Knight Family, 34). When the doctors declared that nothing more could be done to save her, Jesse’s wife insisted that they call the elders to administer to the child. However, Jesse stated: “No, it would be hypocritical, now that the doctors have given her up, for me to resort to such a thing.” “And besides,” he said, “I have no faith in the Church” (in Jesse Knight Family, 34).

Jesse’s wife prevailed, and the elders were called. They administered to the unconscious two-year-old. As soon as they finished, Jennie immediately regained consciousness, sat up, and noticed the flowers in the window. Jesse’s son J. William wrote, “From that very moment, my father’s life was changed” and he “remembered the words of his mother” (Jesse Knight Family, 34). Jesse himself noted:

Soon after the miraculous healing of Jennie, our oldest girl, Minnie, was striken. . . . From the time she was taken ill, Minnie felt that she would not recover. When asked why she felt so, she answered that when Jennie was so bad she had asked God to take her if she would do as well as Jennie; so she counted the days, believing she would live but thirty days from the time she took sick.
Every day she kept the count, and departed as she had said. Her going was peaceful, her breath leaving her as she said the prayer, “Oh God, bless our household.” I remembered now that when she was a baby she had diphtheria, and that then, almost seventeen years ago, I had promised the Lord that if he would spare her life I would not forget Him. I had not kept that promise. How keenly I felt the justice of her being taken from us! I suffered in my feelings. I prayed for forgiveness and help. My prayer was answered and I received a testimony. [Jesse Knight Family, 35–36; original spelling]

“Students, here is the math portion of the test,” Miss Higgins said as she handed out papers. “Remember, you need to fill in the circles on the answer sheet completely. Just do your best, and I’m sure you will do fine.”
Most of my fifth-grade class groaned. We had been taking tests all day, and we were tired. But I wasn’t too worried. I was good at math. I took out my pencil and checked the eraser.
“Now, keep your eyes on your own paper,” Miss Higgins said. “The test will end at 1:30. Ready, begin.”
I began working on the problems carefully and took my time to fill in each circle on the answer sheet. Most of the problems weren’t too hard. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brent scribbling furiously. I laughed to myself. “Slow and steady wins the race,” I thought.
All of a sudden, Miss Higgins’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Time’s up! Pencils down, everybody.”
I looked at my paper in horror. I still had two columns of circles to fill in! “How could this have happened?” I thought. “I usually do so well!”
I looked down at my scratch paper. I had written the next answer, but I hadn’t filled in the circle yet. I glanced around, then carefully filled in the correct circle.
Trying not to think about what I was doing, I continued working on problems and filling in answers. No one was looking at me. I quickly filled in five or six more circles.
“Lauren!” said a loud voice from behind me.
I jumped and whirled around to see Miss Higgins. The class was silent. I wished I could fall into a hole. I felt my eyes filling up with tears. I quickly erased all the answers that I had filled in after the time was up and handed my answer sheet to Miss Higgins. She took it away, and I put my head on my desk and hid my face in my arms.
I had been cheating! An awful blackness filled me up inside. My whole class had seen me, and now my teacher probably wouldn’t trust me ever again. I knew I was supposed to be honest. Instead, I had disappointed my teacher, myself, and, worst of all, Heavenly Father. And I had pushed away my conscience without really thinking about it.
The rest of the day continued as usual—or, at least I think it did. I didn’t answer any questions or talk to my friends. That same heavy, dark feeling stayed with me. I knew I needed to repent.
After class, I gathered all my courage to apologize to Miss Higgins. I could see the disappointment on her face. “I’m sorry,” I said. I couldn’t say anything more. I ran back to my desk, grabbed my backpack, and started to hurry out the door.
“Lauren,” Miss Higgins called.
I stopped, fearing the worst. “Yes?”
“Promise me you will never cheat again.”
“Oh, I promise!” I said. I had already made that promise to myself a hundred times that day.
“Good,” she said. “Thank you.”
The dark feeling began to leave. After class I said a prayer, asking Heavenly Father’s forgiveness and thanking Him for a kind teacher. Peace filled my heart. It felt good to be clean again.

The wind whirled flakes of fallen snow around the corner of Temple Square. Brother Arnold’s message still stirred in the corners of Faye’s thoughts: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these …” She pulled up the collar of her new, red suede coat, caressing it with her cheek. It didn’t prevent the wind from finding new pathways up the sleeves and under the hem. She shivered and hurried down the sidewalk, hugging the buildings closely to avoid the wind. The fresh odor of pine and spice spilled from the candy and furniture store doorways, blending in the street to form a sea of Christmas smells.
As she breathed in the aromas, she glanced at her watch. 9:25. It was getting late. Shivering again she thrust her hands inside her pockets and balanced her purse against her hip. As she gazed at a glittering array of diamonds in a jewelry store window, she came within inches of crashing into an old man who was huddled against the building. She tripped to avoid a collision and dropped her handbag. As she stooped to retrieve the purse, he stooped with her, grabbing it with bare, crooked fingers. The light from the streetlamp reflected eerily from the old man’s eyes like two flames in the dark. He smiled, and the glow revealed a broken tooth. Faye jerked back and covered her mouth.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Din’t mean ta scar ya so. Wouldja like ta buy a bright Christmas pencil?” he rasped in a scratchy voice, handing her the purse. She fumbled in her pocket and found a quarter she had put there for her little brother, Ronny. “Thank ya,” he said “and Meery Christmas.” He bowed low, extending an imaginary hat with his hand.
She stopped at the corner only a few yards away to await her bus, rested a hand on her pounding chest, and took a deep breath. Squeezing closely to the wall, she found herself engulfed in the shadow of a cafe marquee. Magnetically the old man pulled her eyes back to him. He crouched there in the doorway of the candy store in an oversized, earth-brown coat and scuffed logger boots. A black felt hat was pulled over his ears and held in place with a scarf tied under his chin. He shuffled back and forth against the building holding his metal box filled with pencils. The bare, gnarled hands alternately shifted the box and slipped inside his coat for warmth.
Faye had seen an old man like him many times as a child. He had stopped regularly at their door at Christmas and in the summer, each year appearing more wrinkled and more stooped in the shoulders. Her father dragged out old suits and shoes while her mother prepared sandwiches for him. Faye remembered shivering from fear in the corner behind the great folds of drapes, aghast at his long, spiney whiskers and the layers of flesh that hung loosely about his face.
Faye shivered now in the cold as she watched the people rush past the old man as store closing times approached. Many times his hand reached out, “Wouldja like ta buy …” and fell limply to his side.
A woman approached with her hair wound around her head in a beehive of braids and curls. She paused, and then grasping her bundles tightly, circled around the man huddled in the doorway, and hurried down the street.
The old man shuffled faster as he blew into the empty hand. Two gentlemen with briefcases hurried by. One in a double-breasted tweed coat spoke aloud to the other, gesturing in the air with his hand. “Be realistic, Walt. If I could anticipate a drop in the market,” he reached mechanically into his pocket, “I’d make us all a fast buck.” He flipped a silver coin, which sailed through the air and landed with a clink into the metal box and bounced out onto the ground near the scuffed logger boots. The gentleman’s stride never broke as the old man reached for a pencil and waved it noiselessly in the air. The briefcases shrunk in the distance. The old man turned, mumbling, and spat on the ground. He stared down at the coin for an instant and then stooped and picked it up. He grew smaller as he slumped into the doorway. The metal box scratched the cement as he placed it beside him, and he rubbed his gnarled hands together blowing warm breath into them. Faye looked down at her own gloved hands, straight and soft under the warm pigskin.
Her bus rolled up to the corner, and the doors slid open inviting her to return to the warmth of home. She started toward the bus, paused, and stared back over her shoulder at the old man. Brother Arnold’s voice echoed in her memory with a new clarity, “Inasmuch as ye do it …” She looked down at her watch. There would be another bus. She turned and marched down the street, disappearing into the dime store.
She chose some large leather gloves lined with fur and had them carefully gift wrapped with a gold bow on top.
Reappearing on the street, she couldn’t see the old man. Her eyes widened as they searched the sidewalk and finally caught sight of a dark figure at the crosswalk. She ran.
“Sir! Wait, sir!”
He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes, sir, you. I have something for you,” and she handed him the package. His lips parted as he glanced down at the package and back up at Faye. His shaggy brows knitted together as he gazed at her through moistened eyes. He rummaged in his metal box until he found two bright, gold pencils and handed them to her. They searched each other’s faces as he stretched forth a tremulous hand and lightly touched her arm. For an instant the rough, earth-brown coat rested gently on the soft, red suede. Faye lowered her eyes. She suddenly pulled back her arm, turned and hurried toward the bus stop. She leaned her weight against the wind without shivering.

Katharine was so absorbed in looking out the window that she did not know anyone was in the large bare room watching her. Her face was sharp and pinched. Her arms and legs were so thin that they looked like pipestems. Her hair was jet black, and she didn’t know how to comb it.
Deep in the shadow of the room Elizabeth Blackwell stood and wondered about adopting this girl. Of the four hundred children in the orphanage she seemed almost the least desirable. Yet in Elizabeth’s many visits the child had been like a magnet, capturing her interest and her heart.
Elizabeth was lonely. Years of determination and work and study had brought fulfillment of her great desire to be a doctor. She was the first woman in America to graduate from a medical school, and she was beloved by the people of her hospital and by those whom she helped at the clinic. Her hours were filled with the needs of children and their mothers as she blazed a pioneer trial of service.
Watching the girl at the window, Elizabeth thought of the student friend she had known in Paris and of the life she might have been sharing with him. She had chosen to be a doctor, however, so that she might be of service to mothers and their children who needed her help. The time was 1850, and the place was New York City.
The matron at the orphanage knew very little about the girl at the window. Her age might be seven or eight; she was Irish and had no family or friends. She answered to the name of Katharine. That was all.
“Why do you seem so interested in her?” the matron asked Dr. Blackwell. “She is so weak and spindly-looking. She will not be of much help to you. I thought you were looking for a strong, intelligent child you could train to be a helper.”
“I thought so too,” was Elizabeth’s sober reply. “But this child needs me more than any of the others.”
So Elizabeth filled out the papers, picked up the small bag containing all of Katharine’s belongings, and walked over to the child, who was still watching the beautiful sunset through the dingy window.
She took one of Katharine’s small hands in hers and asked, “Would you like to go home with me, dear?”
The eyes lifted to her were bright and clear. After a moment Katharine said, “Oh, yes, but could we please wait until the colors fade?”
Elizabeth dropped to her knees before the window, and together the woman and child watched until the bright sunset colors had faded to a pale yellow glow. The oneness shared in that moment was to last for half a century.
That night as Elizabeth carried her up to bed, Katharine knew a great contentment. As she snuggled down in the warm covers of her new bed in her new home, Katharine knew and returned a great love.

The houselights fall; the last few coughs and whispers fade; and a girl comes on stage. Under a soft spotlight her face is beautiful, its innocence incongruous in the gaudy, western saloon. As she feels her way from table to table, her eyes wandering blankly across the painted bar and rows of painted bottles on the canvas backdrop, the audience realizes that she is blind.
“Is there no one here?” she asks timidly, to be answered only by silence. “Will no one help me?” she says a little louder, her voice quavering on the edge of a sob. There is no reply from the empty saloon. She sits down unsteadily in a chair, her face inexpressibly weary, her shoulders drooping. “Will no one help me?” she whispers hopelessly. Her vacant eyes pass once over the audience as if yearning to penetrate the darkness, and then with a small sigh she bows her head and seems to give up.
Suddenly, a few rows back, a man springs to his feet. He struggles free from the row of knees and backrests and is quickly on the stage. Drawing up a chair to face the actress, he takes her two small, trembling hands in his two large, strong ones. “I’ll help you, dear,” he says softly.
His words produce instant pandemonium. The audience surges to its feet, sending wave after wave of cheers and applause crashing against the tiny stage, and for several long minutes the melodrama waits; the stage crew waits; the actors backstage awaiting their cues wait; the whole little theater world waits while men and women and children are happy out loud.
It wasn’t exactly a theatrical triumph; there was no such line in the script; the man wasn’t a cast member; no one was more surprised than the “blind girl” at the unexpected offer of assistance. The incident, which really happened, wasn’t so much theater as it was a peculiar form of magic, and it took place, as that sort of magic often does, at a little theater in West Yellowstone, Montana, known as the Playmill.

I enjoyed the article about tree houses in the August New Era. I am enclosing a picture of a different type of tree house. Instead of being built in a tree, it is built out of trees. My companion and I were tracting one day when we came across it. Everything in it except the nails and bolts that hold it together is made out of bamboo, logs, branches, vines, plants, etc. The owner has been planning and collecting materials for this five-level home for 20 years and building it for four. He’s still only about 40 percent finished. Soon it will have a water buffalo-powered elevator. Even the beds, hammocks, and chairs are made from logs and vines. The owner considers it his work of art, his masterpiece. It really is a birdhouse, too, because in addition to five or so monkeys, it houses three eagles and seven hawks (not to mention the fish).
You’ve really got to see it to capture the real magnificence of it, and the most amazing thing of all is that it stands in the very heart of Manila.
Elder Stacy RencherPhilippines Manila Mission

The farm is busy today! Liam uses his hands to give the rabbits their food. He feels their soft fur with his fingers. Then Liam’s eyes spot some tools that need to be put away. He makes sure the shovel and hammer go in their right places in the barn. Liam hears Mom calling! His ears listen. Mom is going to make breakfast. She asks Liam to crack eggs into a bowl. Liam is glad he can use his hands, eyes, and ears to help!

Let me urge you to be mature and honest in your judgment of yourself. You might, of necessity, be making comparisons. Our little brown-eyed boy came home one day from kindergarten a year or two ago, and he was chuckling, all amused. I asked him what was so amusing.

He said, “Nuffin’.”

I said, “What is so funny?”

“Nuffin’.”

And then he chuckled the more, so I pressed him a little bit and said, “Well, what is so funny?”

He said, “Oh, deys a tid over in tindadarten what tain’t tok plain.”

I suggest that our grown-up judgments of one another, and maybe our judgments of ourselves, are about that mature.

At age 54, before he was called as a General Authority, President Russell M. Nelson attended a meeting in which President Spencer W. Kimball challenged attendees to “be of service to the Chinese” and “learn their language.”
Although he was a busy heart surgeon at the time, President Nelson took this counsel to heart. He found a tutor to help him learn the Mandarin language.
It wasn’t long before President Nelson found himself sitting next to a distinguished Chinese surgeon, Dr. Wu Yingkai, at a medical convention. Because of his Chinese language studies, President Nelson was able to have a conversation with Dr. Wu. From there, the two doctors formed a lasting friendship and even visited each other’s countries.
President Nelson’s goal to learn Mandarin led to positive exchanges with China, as President Kimball had hoped for. After he was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, President Nelson even performed his last heart surgery on China’s most famous opera singer by special request.

I looked at them as they finished their story; their faces shone with happiness. In what I thought would be a closing question, I asked in halting Spanish what they were now doing in the Church. Among them were a bishop, a Sunday School superintendent, another bishop, an executive secretary, and a mission presidency counselor.
I turned to the father, Manuel, and asked what he was doing. He replied that he was serving as a counselor in a bishopric. I was ready to finish with one last item when one of the brothers added that the bishop to whom their father was serving as a counselor was one of their brothers.
Then came one of the choice moments of my interviewing life. Turning to the bishop son, Víctor, I asked, “How does it feel to have your father as your counselor?”
With poignancy, he gently answered, “I have great love for my father. He has always counseled me well in my life. He has been an example to me. He has been my inspiration. When I have had difficulties in my life he has helped me. Who else could I ask to counsel me but my father?”
Tears began to well up in my eyes, and I slowly turned to Manuel: “How do you feel about serving your son as a counselor?”
In the great dignity natural to the Spanish tongue, Manuel Cerda softly, slowly, and in an emotionally quivering voice said, “I have great love for my sons. It is an honor to counsel them. It is an honor to advise others to listen to them. I believe I feel something like God the Father felt when he said, ‘This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased. Hear ye him.’ (Matt. 17:5.) I understand well love between father and son.”
I turned and went around the circle again. “What,” I asked, “brought about this family love?”
The father, Manuel Cerda summed up the answers of the others—“It was the gospel that changed our home. It taught us to see each other as eternal friends. It has taught me affection and love. It has taught me to esteem my children. We fight against anything that seeks to divide us, that affects our esteem for each other. The truth has changed our lives.”

I would like to testify to you that the greatest happiness that has come into our lives has been when we have been living the gospel and serving the Master, and I have to tell you just a little story.

A few years ago, roughly twenty-five, I was starting a new business. I was having difficulty in getting it into black figures. I don’t like to operate in the red, and I went to my Heavenly Father on bended knees and made a covenant with him that if he would bless me with inspiration and guidance to make that business successful, I would serve him and I would be liberal with my time and means for the upbuilding of the kingdom.

The Lord did bless us abundantly, and I now pledge to President Lee, President Tanner, President Romney, and all these Brethren that I shall put forth my best efforts to fulfill this new assignment. I love the Lord, and I want to serve him.

In my 18th year of life, I was approaching the time that young men in the Church are expected to serve full-time missions. I had grown up in an active LDS family, and I had heard the President of the Church, then Spencer W. Kimball, declare that every young man should serve a mission. Yet, as the time of my serving a mission approached, I was uncertain whether I should serve. I simply could not say for myself that the Church was true, and if I could not say it for myself, I did not feel I should say it to others.

One evening, I was sitting in my bedroom pondering my circumstances. I had recently finished reading the Book of Mormon for the first time, but doing so had not caused me to feel any differently about the Church. As I sat pondering in my bedroom my desire to know whether the Church was true, a thought came to me: "Read the Joseph Smith story."

Responding to the thought, I opened the Joseph Smith story and read it earnestly for the first time. I read of a young man, not much different from me in age, who found himself in a state of confusion on the subject of religion. He described a "war of words and tumult of opinions" among the religionists of his day, which left him uncertain on which of all the parties was right. "What is to be done?" I read him asking himself. "Who of all these parties are right; or, are they all wrong together? If any one of them be right, which is it, and how shall I know it?." As I read Joseph's description of his circumstances, I felt that Joseph's story was my story. I too was confused and uncertain on the subject of religion, and how to act I did not know.

I continued to read that Joseph came upon a verse in the Bible inviting him to pray. "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally ... and it shall be given him." I read how Joseph said that this verse penetrated his heart with great force, and finally moved him to do as directed, that is ask God. I read how Joseph retired to a quiet wood near his home, knelt down, and offered up the desires of his heart to God. And I read how in response, God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, appeared to Joseph and answered his heart-felt prayer.

After reading Joseph's account, I knew that I needed to do the same thing that Joseph had done. I needed to pray. I did not have a quiet wood to go to. I had only the quiet of my bedroom. I therefore closed the door, knelt at my bedside, and began to offer up the desires of my heart to God, not knowing what the outcome might be. I had prayed before, but not like this. As Joseph had described his prayer in the Sacred Grove, this was my first vocal prayer on a subject of intense and personal interest to me. On this occasion, my prayer went something like this: "Heavenly Father, if you are really there, and if Jesus is really your Son and the Savior of the world, and if Joseph Smith really saw the two of you, would you please, please tell me?"

Almost immediately, I had a feeling come over me that was unlike anything I had ever experienced in my life up to that point. It was a feeling of love that entered into my heart and consumed my entire being. With it came an assurance to my mind that infused my whole being with a profound peace. So overwhelmed was I that I began to weep -- not out of fear, but out of joy. In this moment, the intense feelings of love and peace that were filling my soul delivered to me knowledge and intelligence that are more deep and enduring than can be obtained through the physical senses alone. Without seeing, touching, or hearing, I knew that there is a God in heaven, that He is my Father, that Jesus Christ is His Son and the Savior of mankind, and that Joseph Smith saw them both, just as he reported.

As the intensity of this experience abated, I wiped the tears from my eyes, and sat myself on my bed to reflect on what had happened. God the Father had answered my prayer. He loved me. I now had a witness from Him regarding fundamental truth claims of the Church. I felt such profound gratitude for having this witness, and I felt a great responsibility to act on that witness. Thereafter, I served a full-time mission. I married in the temple. And I have tried to remain true to this witness from that moment to the present hour.

Transfusion number two is entitled “Integrity.” Its donor is the little Indian patriot Mohandas Gandhi, who won the independence of India from England. When Gandhi was very young, he took a pledge to his mother that he would remain a vegetarian throughout his life. Many years after Gandhi’s mother had died, Gandhi became very ill, and the doctors tried to persuade him that if he would drink a little beef broth it might save his life. But Gandhi said, “Even for life itself, we may not do certain things. There is only one course open to me, to die, but never to break my pledge.” Now just think for a minute what kind of a world this would be if each one of us could manifest that kind of integrity before his family and among his friends and before the world generally.