Gospel Story Finder

I have a bad habit. I like to bite my fingernails. My parents are always trying to get me to stop. One Sunday morning my Primary teacher, Sister Langston, asked if I would stay after class. When we were alone, she asked if she could see my fingernails. She had seen me biting them all during her lesson. I was a little embarrassed to show them to her because I had chewed them so badly. After I showed her my nails, I was surprised when she showed me hers. She had the same problem! She told me that she wanted me to stop so that I wouldn’t be biting my nails when I was her age. She told me that if I could overcome the temptation to bite my fingernails, I would become a stronger person. We decided to have a contest to see who could grow her fingernails out first.
I’m glad I have a Primary teacher who cares about me and wants me to overcome bad habits. She has taught me that we are on earth to learn to become better, even when things may be difficult for us. I have also learned that no matter what age Sister Langston and I are, we both have to keep trying to improve so that we can be strong enough to be able to go back to live with our Heavenly Father again.
At first I wanted to win the contest, but I have decided it would be even better if we both win!Taylor Lynne Ottley, age 8Escondido, California

A story is told of a young university student who struggled with a challenging class, so he hired a tutor to help him. Near the end of the course, the professor announced that students could bring to the final exam one piece of paper on which they could place anything they wanted. Some students prepared by making tiny notes with information from lectures and textbooks, readable only by using a magnifying glass. But the young man arrived at the final exam with a blank sheet of paper and a stranger. When the professor questioned him, the young man replied, “You said I could bring one piece of paper with anything on it.” He then placed the paper on the floor next to his desk and said, “I’d like my tutor to stand on my piece of paper.”

When I was a Laurel more than 15 years ago, our stake Young Women president was a real heroine to me and many other girls. Her beautiful, curly brown hair impressed me, but she was also smart and articulate, a spiritual woman, a returned missionary, and a newlywed. She wore nice modest clothes, showing us how attractive we could be without compromising our standards. I remember her personifying every dream I had ever dreamed for my own future.
Once she was the speaker at a fireside for the Young Women. When we entered the chapel, we saw her gorgeous white wedding gown displayed in a prominent place. What can be more exciting than a wedding dress when you’re a dreaming 16-year-old? I imagined a fireside about boys and our bright futures.
But when our Young Women president started speaking, it became clear that this was not her plan. She started talking about chastity and how important it was to keep ourselves morally clean. She stood at the pulpit with notes and a pen and talked emphatically about these crucial matters.
All of a sudden the unthinkable happened. She gestured as she spoke and somehow flipped ink from her fountain pen across the wedding dress. The ink made a big stain on the white fabric. We were devastated.
I don’t remember exactly what she said next. It was something about our being as clean and pure as her white dress and that sexual transgressions, however small they might seem, would stain us just as the ink had stained the dress. I recall never ever wanting to be anything but clean and pure. It was a decision I had already made subconsciously, but now it was unforgettably engraved upon my heart.
After she had made her point about remaining clean or becoming clean, she informed us that the ink was invisible ink from a prank store and that it would disappear in a couple of minutes. She hadn’t tried it before, so we all sat there hoping it would work. It did.
Since that day this object lesson has had a special place in my mind. I want to appear before my Heavenly Father as pure as that white dress.
Anja Klarin, Borås Ward, Göteborg Sweden Stake

For many years we have been conducting a home Relief Society once a week in our small town in Spain. Since the majority who attend are women of other faiths, at first we avoided teaching the doctrinal lessons in the Relief Society manuals. But gradually we began including Spiritual Living lessons.
One morning I prayerfully searched for a topic that would inspire the women. “What should the women hear this week, Father?” I prayed.
Then I came across a lesson on prayer and fasting. I felt inspired that this one should be given, but I also wondered how the idea of fasting would come across to those who were not members of the Church. I decided to follow the inspiration, having learned long ago not to question the promptings of the Spirit.
The class went well, and many mistaken ideas and doubts were cleared up. The women began to understand that fasting, used together with prayer, is a powerful tool anyone can use. As I was leaving, a woman who rarely attended our meetings came up to me and asked, “Can I fast, too?”
“Why of course you can, Manoli,” I replied. “Anyone can fast, Heavenly Father makes no distinctions among his children.”
Manoli was visibly upset as she continued. “You see, my mother has been in a mental hospital for two years. She has become worse lately and doesn’t even recognize me or my sister. We feel so helpless going to see her. It hurts me so much to see her like that.”
I told Manoli I would begin a fast with her. We started with a prayer. As we got up from our knees, I explained that Heavenly Father always answers prayers and fasting, but in his time and in his way.
The next day Manoli’s sister told Manoli that the hospital staff had stopped giving their mother her regular sedatives because her condition had markedly improved. She was free from the agony she had experienced previously and was peacefully lying in bed. She died the following day, but Manoli was comforted by the assurance that her mother was still enjoying peace and freedom from pain.
I learned a great deal from this experience. I know that Heavenly Father had Manoli in mind when he inspired me to give a lesson that prepared two sisters for their mother’s death.

I hope I can also speak with the simple conviction of a child, like the child I heard about just the other day.
A little girl was talking to her elementary school teacher about whales. She had just learned about Jonah and the whale in her Sunday School class. The teacher said it was physically impossible for a whale to swallow a human because even though it was a very large mammal, its throat was very small. The little girl stated that Jonah was swallowed by a whale. Irritated, the teacher reiterated that a whale could not swallow a human; it was physically impossible.
The little girl said, “When I get to heaven I will ask Jonah.”
The teacher asked, “What if Jonah went to hell?”
The little girl replied, “Then you ask him.”

For a long time when I was growing up, I didn’t pray on my own. Then one day I had a problem, and I thought, “I don’t know what to do. I can’t make this choice on my own. But I know Heavenly Father can help me.”
Now praying makes me feel closer to my Heavenly Father. Sometimes I pray just because I want to talk to Him! Even if I don’t have some big question or problem, I want to talk to Heavenly Father. I know He’s not looking down on me and getting mad at me for my mistakes—He’s my Father, and I want to have a relationship with Him like I have with my earthly father.

When a very young child in the home of my youth, I was fearful at night. I traced it back to a vivid dream when two [Native Americans] came into the yard. I ran to the house for protection, and one of them shot an arrow and hit me in the back. Only a dream, but I felt that blow, and I was very much frightened, for in the dream they entered the house and frightened Mother.
I never got over it. Adding to that were the fears of Mother, for when Father was away, Mother would never go to bed without looking under the bed; so burglars were real to me, or wicked men who could come in and try to take advantage of Mother and the young children.
One night I could not sleep. I was only a boy, and I fancied I heard noises around the house. Mother was away in another room. My brother Thomas by my side was sleeping soundly. I could not sleep, and I became terribly fearful, and I decided that I would do as my parents had taught me to do—pray.
I thought I could not pray without getting out of bed and kneeling, and that was a terrible test. But I finally did bring myself to get out of bed and kneel and pray to God to protect Mother and the family. And a voice as clearly to me as mine is to you said, “Don’t be afraid. Nothing will hurt you.” Where it came from, what it was, I am not saying. You may judge. To me it was a direct answer, and there came an assurance that I should never be hurt in bed at night.

You have just been blessed to hear from my wife Cindy, my companion and dearest friend—the love of my life. She is a precious gift to me in every way.

Cindy literally walked into my life when I was a 23-year-old returned missionary and student at BYU–Provo. Toward the end of the fall semester of 1976, I was studying with some friends on the fifth floor of the Harold B. Lee Library when I looked up from my reading material and saw Cindy walk into the room between two friends. She immediately caught my attention, and, after watching her walk to a table across the study hall, I turned to my best friend and said, pointing in Cindy’s direction, “Do you see that girl?”

My friend, looking across a crowded room, was not sure to whom I was pointing. He responded, “What girl?”

I looked back at him, convinced that he was either daft or confused and said, “You don’t see her? Well,” I said, “I am going to ask that girl out for a date.” Suddenly, another thought came to my mind, so I said, “And I think I am going to marry her.”

Immediately, my friends seized on the impetuous boldness of my words and urged me to act. Soon, the boys at my study table were pulling nickels and dimes from their pockets with a few crumpled one-dollar bills and putting bets on the table. I was trapped by my own words.

After a few minutes of mounting pressure, I stood up with the resolve to walk over to Cindy’s table and introduce myself. Taking a deep breath, I started toward her table. But with each step, the beating of my heart quickened and I could feel my face begin to flush. The lyrics from an old Beatles’ song comes to mind: “Well, my heart went boom when I crossed that room.”

I turned away at the last moment and went into the men’s room where I doused myself with cold water and recommitted to my plan. Perhaps by divine design, when I emerged from the men’s room, I saw to my complete surprise that Cindy had gotten up from her table and was standing at a large dictionary, perched on a stand in front of her.

I won’t take the time today to describe the awkward details of that first introduction, but it did yield results. We had our first date a day or two after Christmas 1976; got engaged in September 1977; and were married in the Provo temple on February 3, 1978.

I look back now after 43 years, five children, 18 grandchildren, and a lifetime of precious, shared experiences, and I realize that Cindy has been a gift from heaven to me, to our children, and to our growing posterity. She has also made a gift of herself to all of us and those around her by her devotion to God and His kingdom, and her selflessness in serving others. We look forward to sharing the next life and enjoying the felicity of God’s promises forever.

I lived in Salt Lake City for nine years, and all my friends were members of the Church. I got the idea that just about everybody was a Mormon. I was always taught to choose good Mormons for my friends, and finding them was never a problem. But then my family moved to Virginia and things really changed.
Our first Sunday there I found there weren’t any fellows my age in my ward. That whole summer I shot baskets out on my driveway by myself. Finally at the end of the summer, two new boys moved into the ward, and we became good friends.
In September I really felt alone when I found out I was the only Mormon in the freshman class in high school. My two Church friends went to a different school, but almost every day after school we would get together. If it hadn’t been for them, I would have been really lonely.
At first I didn’t try to make friends at school because I was uncomfortable around nonmembers. They had different habits and beliefs. But when I became involved in sports, I began to make friends at school. Soon everyone knew I was a Latter-day Saint. My nickname came to be “Mormon.” Everywhere I went someone would say “Hey, Mormon!” or “How’s it going, Mormon?” Soon I became very used to the fact that to my school friends I was “The Mormon.” I was proud of the fact that I was a Latter-day Saint, so my nickname didn’t bother me at all.
Because everyone knew I was a member of the Church, I had a great responsibility to set the right kind of example. It wasn’t always easy to do this. I was on the varsity football and track teams. If you have ever been in a locker room, you know what kind of bad language and shenanigans often go on. I always watched myself to see that I never took part in anything I knew was wrong.
Soon everyone came to know I didn’t smoke, drink, tell dirty jokes, or swear. After I began dating some of the girls at school, they all soon learned that I tried to carry my Church training into every facet of my life.
Still most of the activities I participated in were with my Church friends. I didn’t hang around with school crowds too much except in classes and practices because their morals were different from mine. When I did go out with them, I found they got most of their excitement from smoking, drinking, and being immoral, so I stayed around my Church friends.
One day one of my closest school friends came up to me and said, “Dayle, you’re one of my best friends, but what do you ever do for excitement?” That statement really made me think. It helped me realize that even though I was trying to live God’s commandments, I wasn’t setting a good example because I never showed my nonmember friends how much joy you can have from living the commandments. To my school friends it seemed like I had a boring life because they had never seen me having fun.
After thinking about this for awhile, I set myself a new challenge. I was going to show my school friends there were more fun ways than theirs of having a good time. I wanted to show them it wasn’t really necessary to smoke, drink, tell dirty jokes, or swear to have a great time.
I started by inviting everyone to go swimming after track practice one night. We all had fun cliff diving, swimming, and rope swinging. Later I had a few get-togethers—without liquor—at my house after some of our football games. I invited some of the kids to the Church dances. Now and then I went on double dates with some of them and had really good times. I tried to set an example by being with them and showing them how I enjoy life.
After awhile I got very close to some of the kids at school. They were really great friends. They respected me for my beliefs, and I didn’t ever look down on them for what they did. A couple of them even made up a song during my senior year. Whenever I walked into the locker room, they would bunch together and pretend they were the Tabernacle Choir. Half of them would stand in a row on the locker room bench and the other half would make a row on the floor. The leader would hum to get them in tune and then, directing with his hands, would say, “Ready, begin.” They would sing a song that went like this:
We are Mormons, Woo-Woo-oo, We are Mormons, Woo-Woo-oo.
We do not smoke; we do not drink;
We do not swear; we do not cheat;
We do not lie; we don’t even play with women.
We are Mormons, Woo-Woo-oo, Woo-Woo-oo.
After each performance I would just turn red and laugh with them. That tune really helped me remember who I was.
At the end of the season, one of my friends who had made up the song told me that he respected me for living my religion, and he wished he was that strong. It made me feel great to hear him say that. I told him it wasn’t a matter of strength; it was more a matter of getting into certain habits and resisting temptation.
I never converted any of my friends, but I showed them that you really can be happy living God’s commandments. Maybe someday the missionaries will come to their doors and reach them. I hope they remember the fun and active lifestyle that is possible through living a clean life.

Jared walked home from church in the hot sunshine with Mom and Dad. He thought about his Primary lesson. Since he couldn’t hear very well, Jared had to pay close attention to the pictures his teacher showed and the words she wrote on the board.
That day they had learned that Jesus asked the disciples to be missionaries. Jared wondered what he could do to share the gospel, like Jesus asked. He knew he couldn’t serve a mission yet. Then he had a great idea. Maybe he could start saving money for it!
When he got home, Jared ran right past Umber, his pet goat, and into the house. He got a big plastic jar and carefully cut a hole in the top. He wrote “Mission Fund” on the side. Then he went to his room and got his money from under his bed. One by one he dropped in each coin. But all his coins barely covered the bottom of the jar. How could he earn more money?
Jared thought and thought. He looked out the window at the bright sun. It was so hot in the Philippines. Jared and his friends ate coconut ice candy almost every afternoon after school. “That’s it!” he thought. Maybe he could make ice candy and sell it to other people who wanted to cool down.
Jared ran to find Mom. “Can you show me how to make ice candy?” Jared signed. They used sign language, a language where you talk with your hands. Mom smiled and nodded.
The next day, Jared and Mom walked to the big outdoor market and bought all the supplies. When they got home, Jared took out a big bowl and mixed coconut milk, condensed milk, vanilla, and shredded coconut. Mom and Jared used a funnel to pour the mix into small bags. They put all the bags in the freezer. “Great job!” Mom signed.
The ice candy took a long time to freeze. But the next day after school, it was finally ready! Jared climbed on a chair and got the white cooler off the top of the fridge. He put some towels in the bottom of the cooler and layered the ice candy on top. He couldn’t wait to sell it.
Jared ran outside into the dusty street. His friends were playing with homemade kites and throwing their flip-flops at a tin can to knock it over.
At the side of the road, he set up a table with a big sign that said, “Ice Candy, 5 pesos.” His friend Jhonell ran over and pointed at the cooler. He gave Jared a five-peso coin, and Jared gave him some ice candy. They high-fived.
Soon more of Jared’s friends came to buy ice candy too. A few hours later when Mom called Jared for dinner, there were only a few ice candies left.
Jared picked up the almost-empty cooler and the coins. In one of his pockets, he put some of the coins for his tithing. He put the rest of the coins into his other pocket. He couldn’t wait to see his mission-fund bank fill up.
At home he dropped his mission-fund coins onto the pile at the bottom of the jar. There was still so much more space! But Jared felt warm inside as he thought about serving a mission someday. He decided that he would sell ice candy every day until his jar was full. It felt so good to earn money so he could be a missionary as Jesus asked him to do.

In my pre-wheelchair stage of life, I loved seeing a clipboard come around in Relief Society. I often signed up to give service. It was a way to show my willingness “to bear one another’s burdens” (Mosiah 18:8).
It wasn’t the clipboard’s fault I couldn’t sign up anymore. In fact, I couldn’t sign my name at all. Because of my disability, I couldn’t even hold the clipboard. No one expected me to sign it. But, oh, how I wanted to! Service encircles us with God’s love and connects us to others. I desperately needed that feeling of connection myself.
Because I needed people to help care for me, my service didn’t seem worth the effort it would require of others to help me. That clipboard became a reminder of what I could no longer do—at least until my ministering sister saw my longing.
She asked me what I would like to do to serve, not just what I needed done for me. Then she signed my name on the clipboard. She came to my home and helped me make the meals I’d volunteered to prepare for others. She never suggested that I was in need of so much help myself that I shouldn’t be trying to help others. She was happy to spend time with me.
In the end, I realized my efforts were worth it. With my ministering sister’s help, I was able to do something. Whether or not that something meant anything to anyone else, it made a difference to me. Though it didn’t directly benefit my family or heal my body, it helped heal my heart.
EmRee Pugmire
Utah, USA

To the west of our home was our garden plot, and I rode the horse, while Father plowed the ground. Part of the garden was in potatoes and the new rich soil brought forth bounteously. One day, Pa said to Alice and me, “There are many more potatoes than we can use. If you would like to sell some, you may do so.” Accordingly, I dug the potatoes with our digging fork and Alice cleaned the dirt from them. We put them in a box in my little red wagon and hauled them down to the Brinkerhoff Hotel.
Sister Brinkerhoff was a very pleasant person, but we were still a bit frightened at first trying to sell our potatoes. She readily purchased our whole box. I believe we received two dollars for the entire lot.
As we showed the money to Pa, he asked, “What are you going to do with it?” We indicated we would divide it before buying some ice cream, popcorn, and candy. Then he questioned, “What about your tithing?” We had earned so little money that we had quite forgotten our lesson with eggs, but he outlined it for us again. Afterward, we went through the orchard and climbed through a hole in our wire fence to take our ten cents each to the bishop, and he gave us a receipt for our tithing.

Now it was Michael who reached out and pointed to a square. This one was solid white.

“What about this one, Grandma?” he asked. “What’s the story behind it?”

“That,” she said, noticing that Jesse had fallen asleep in her arms, “is a piece of cloth from my grandmother’s wedding veil.

“My grandmother Nellie was the daughter of a farmer. Money was scarce for farmers in those days, and things like fancy wedding dresses were for the rich. But when Nellie became engaged to her beau of three years, she was determined to have a white lace dress.

“Not far from their farm lived an Italian woman who made the most beautiful lace that Nellie had ever seen. Now, because lace-making is a time-consuming and delicate work, it is quite expensive. When Nellie learned the cost of making an entire dress of lace, it seemed that she would have to give up her heart’s desire. Even though she had scrimped and saved for three years, the amount that she had was not nearly enough for the dress. In fact, it wasn’t even enough for the veil!

“Nellie was heartbroken. She lay in her room and cried for hours. Finally facing reality, she dried her eyes and went to talk to her mother. Together, she knew, they could make a pretty dress for her wedding day.

“With the money that she had saved, Nellie bought the material for her dress and some fancy beads to sew onto it. When it was finished, she was pleased. It was pretty and fit well.

“But as it turned out, Nellie was in for a surprise. Her mother, knowing how badly her daughter wanted a lace wedding dress, had been secretly learning to make lace. The Italian woman was her teacher.

“It had taken her over two years to learn the art of lace-making well enough to begin work on the dress. She worked late each night after her family had gone to bed and was still up before them each morning to prepare breakfast. She worked each chance she got, but, because it was such painstaking and delicate work, she had only been able to complete the veil before the wedding.

“Nellie was so touched by her mother’s sacrifice that she saved the veil for over sixty years. When she was very old, she cut a square of lace and sewed it onto a piece of material she had saved from her wedding dress, and added it to the Story Quilt.”

“So the story of her mother’s sacrifice will always be remembered by our family.” Jenna pointed out.

“That’s right,” Grandma told him. “And over the years I added many pieces of cloth to this quilt before I finished it.”

A true story from the USA.
“Let’s go!” shouted Lauren as she passed the driveway.
Marcie put on her helmet. “I’m coming!”
Marcie pedaled her bike down the sidewalk toward her friends. She loved to play all kinds of games with Lauren and Cassidy. But most of all, she loved riding her bike with them.
As the girls biked down the sidewalk, the neighbor’s dog, Rocket, started following them.
“Oh no,” Cassidy said. “We need to take him back home!”
But the dog didn’t want to go home. They called for him to stop, but Rocket just kept going. No matter what they did, he ran around and wagged his tail. He was having fun!
As the girls followed Rocket, Marcie realized that the houses looked less and less familiar. She was getting farther and farther from her street. Marcie didn’t know anyone who lived in these houses!
Where are we going? Marcie thought. Will I be able to find my way back?
Marcie tried not to worry and kept biking. But the feeling came back. Something was telling her that she should go home.
Marcie stopped her bike on the sidewalk. She said in a loud voice, “Maybe we should go back now!”
“We need to get Rocket home!” said Cassidy. She and Lauren kept biking after the dog.
Marcie still felt strange. Why was she feeling so worried? Did her friends feel it too?
Maybe this feeling is just for me, Marcie thought. Was it from the Holy Ghost? She had been baptized and confirmed a few months ago, and Mom and Dad had taught her about listening to the Holy Ghost. They said He would speak to her with feelings in her heart or thoughts in her mind. She knew He would guide her if she listened.
She felt the feeling again. This time it was stronger. Don’t follow that dog.s
“I’m going back,” Marcie called to her friends.
“OK!” Lauren said.
Marcie turned around and rode back the way she came. When she got home, she left her bike on the lawn and went inside. Mom was busy in the kitchen.
“Hi, Mom,” Marcie said. “I came home. I felt worried inside.”
Mom stopped. “What happened?”
“I felt a warning feeling while I was riding my bike with my friends. So I came home,” Marcie said. “I think it was the Holy Ghost.”
Mom gave her a hug. “I’m glad you listened to that feeling.”
Marcie felt good inside. “Me too.”

When I was a young child, my father was not a member of the Church and my mother had become less active. We lived in Washington, D.C., and my mother’s parents lived 2,500 miles (4,000 km) away in the state of Washington. Some months after my eighth birthday, Grandmother Whittle came across the country to visit us. Grandmother was concerned that neither I nor my older brother had been baptized. I don’t know what she said to my parents about this, but I do know that one morning she took my brother and me to the park and shared with us her feelings about the importance of being baptized and attending Church meetings regularly. I don’t remember the specifics of what she said, but her words stirred something in my heart, and soon my brother and I were baptized.
Grandmother continued to support us. I remember that anytime my brother or I was assigned to give a talk in church, we would call her on the telephone for some suggestions. Within a few days a handwritten talk would arrive by mail. After some time her suggestions changed to an outline requiring more effort on our part.
Grandmother used just the right amount of courage and respect to help our father recognize the importance of his driving us to the church for our meetings. In every appropriate way, she helped us to feel a need for the gospel in our lives.
Most importantly, we knew Grandmother loved us and that she loved the gospel. She was a marvelous example! How grateful I am for the testimony she shared with me when I was very young. Her influence changed the direction of my life for eternal good.
Both Grandmother Whittle and Jeanene loved me enough to share their conviction that the ordinances of the gospel and serving Father in Heaven would bless my life. Neither of them coerced me or made me feel bad about the person I was. They simply loved me and loved Father in Heaven. Both knew He could do more with my life than I could on my own. Each courageously helped me in loving ways to find the path of greatest happiness.

When I was 14 years old, my sisters and I were the only members of the Church to attend our school in England. People began to discover that I was a Mormon, and it was not uncommon to have jokes or weird looks directed at me. While I did get questions, they were limited to rumor and gossip, and I soon grew tired of the negative attention. A lot of students simply avoided me. One girl in particular seemed quite wary of me. One day I bumped into her in the hall and felt that I should talk to her, but she would not talk, and without saying anything, she rushed away. This gave me the false resolve that church and school were two different worlds and should never meet.
A year later an American family moved into my ward, and their children attended my school. One of them, Annie, was in my year and soon became quite popular. I started seeing students from my school appearing at ward youth activities. One evening at a joint Young Men and Young Women activity, I saw the girl who had always avoided me. She was a friend of Annie’s, and she sheepishly came over to me. It turned out the reason she had avoided me was she had been told some outrageous stories about the Church, so she was afraid of talking to me. She ended up coming to seminary and taking the missionary discussions.
I realised that I had been wrong in keeping my two lives separate. Annie was the example that made me understand that I had missed so many opportunities for missionary work. I felt ashamed. If I had been more diligent, maybe I could have been a better example to those who might have been looking for the truth only the Church could provide.

A historic example of commitment to be strong and immovable for all ages was portrayed by a British Olympian who competed in the 1924 Olympics in Paris, France.

Eric Liddell was the son of a Scottish missionary to China and a devoutly religious man. He infuriated the British leadership of the Olympics by refusing, even under enormous pressure, to run in a preliminary 100-meter race held on Sunday. Ultimately he was victorious in the 400-meter race. Liddell’s example of refusing to run on Sunday was particularly inspiring.

Depictions and memorials in his honor have referred to the inspirational words from Isaiah, “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”

When 21-year-old Eric Ayala of Techiman, Ghana, was 3, he and his mother were at a street-side market when a car veered out of control and struck them.

“It hit my mother first and broke her leg,” Eric says. “Then it dragged me a long way before my body rolled into the gutter. I was pronounced dead and taken to a mortuary. The mortician was preparing my body when he discovered I was still alive. I was rushed to a hospital.”

Now paraplegic, Eric faced challenge after challenge as he grew up without the use of his legs. He eventually obtained leg braces that allowed him to stand, but he soon outgrew them and couldn’t afford replacements. He was given a small wheelchair, but outgrew that too. His legs withered, sometimes shaking with spasms, and his feet became deformed.

In Ghana, those with disabilities are often considered a burden. Eric’s family had little money, not enough to pay for medical treatment. When Eric was about 10, he developed pressure sores caused by lack of movement and by sitting on wood and concrete. The sores festered, oozing constantly, and they smelled terrible.

As a result, Eric lived outside, on a bench in an open-air shed. His mother, Lucy, and his sisters brought him food, washed his clothes, and helped him bathe. Eric was often drenched by rain and shivered from cold in the night. He learned to love morning sunshine because it brought warmth. Too poor to go to school and unable to work, he spent years in that shed, occasionally venturing into the neighborhood on his wheelchair.

Rather than becoming resentful, “I started to love and believe in God,” Eric says. “Nobody taught me about Him, but I could see His creations, and I could see the good and bad in people. Sometimes it is hard to believe in Him when life is hard. But then I would see something good come into my life, and I would say, ‘See, God is here, and it is wonderful.’”

Eric had not been formally taught how to pray, but he began calling upon God. He received answers—when he was sick, an unanticipated opportunity to see a doctor; when he asked for relief from his sores, they went away; when he outgrew his small wheelchair, a kind stranger brought him a larger one. “God did many good things in my life,” he says.

Still, sometimes Eric would get discouraged. He found himself crying when he was in pain and hungry. “I decided if I was going to be happy, it was up to me,” he recalls. “I forced myself to smile. If I didn’t, I was afraid I would turn to something bad.” In particular, he saw friends using alcohol and drugs, and, “my heart told me that was wrong.”

Then, in what seemed a miracle, at age 14, Eric was accepted for school. His mother, by cooking for others, had scraped together enough money to buy him a uniform and pay for books and tuition. At school, “I couldn’t go out and exercise with the others,” he explains, “so I stayed inside and studied all the time.” He amazed his headmaster by receiving top scores in math, reading, and writing.

A nun from the hospital donated a new tricycle that Eric could pedal with his hands, making it easier for him to go to school. But as Eric went back and forth, pressure sores opened again. Infection returned, along with the putrid smell as the wounds leaked. Students complained about flies constantly buzzing around Eric. He was 17 when the headmaster told him to go home and get well, or he could not return to school.

Eric’s father had a tiny farm out in the country. He had taken the family to work on the farm, but Eric remained at home in his shed, alone. Meanwhile, his sores enlarged to huge wounds and infection entered into his bones, a life-threatening condition called osteomyelitis.

When he was 18, Eric saw his friend Emmanuel Ofosu-hene speaking English with an obruni (white man). The obruni was a Mormon missionary, Elder Old. “I only spoke Twi, but Emmanuel interpreted for me: ‘I am so sick I think I will die. Can you help me know what to do so I can go to heaven?’

“Elder Old and his African companion sat with me and taught me. For some reason, they started with the Word of Wisdom. I knew they were speaking the truth because I already knew coffee and tobacco were bad.” They also gave Eric a brochure about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and invited him to church.

“When I went, I saw this Church was different,” he says. “It was reverent.” Even though it took him an hour to push himself to church in his wheelchair, Eric loved the meetings. “I wanted to go up front and be with people,” he says. “But I stayed at the back because I knew I smelled bad.”

Eric told the missionaries, “What I am learning is true.” He also told them he wanted to be baptized, but doctors had warned him not to get his wounds wet. “I will rely on God to provide answers,” he said. He attended church for about a year and then became too ill and weak to wheel himself there.

Eric’s mother, Lucy, met the missionaries, studied the gospel, and was baptized in 2015. But because her broken leg had never been properly set, it was painful for her to walk. Attending meetings was a challenge for her, as well.

Eventually, Eric was taken to the hospital again. In Ghana, patients have to provide their own water, food, bedding, medicine, and bandages. If they have no money, they are not treated. Eric’s mother and sisters did what they could. Eric received food and medical attention infrequently, so he grew weaker.

Then Eric received some unexpected visitors. Missionaries, Sister Peprah and Sister Nafuna, had seen his photograph at the church and came to see him in the hospital and brought him food. It had been a year since he had been to church, but he told them he still wanted to be baptized.

A few days later, Eric’s sister visited him and found him very ill. She ran home and told their mother. Though their mother had suffered permanent leg damage in the accident with Eric, she walked to the hospital, wincing with every step. “You must come home,” she told Eric. “If you’re going to die, I at least want you near.”

The next morning, the sister missionaries came to the house. “You weren’t at the hospital,” Sister Peprah said. “So we came here.” With them were Elder and Sister Wood, senior missionaries from New Zealand. They took inventory of needs and promised to return.

A few days later, Eric’s father took the family back to the farm—except Eric, who found himself alone again and without food or water. When Elder and Sister Wood returned and discovered Eric alone and hungry, they brought him food and water. They returned the next day and noticed fluid running down his leg and found a huge open ulcer on his thigh. They immediately took Eric back to the hospital.

The Woods learned of a medical humanitarian team from the United States that would be coming to Ghana. The team would perform surgery for Eric without cost. The surgeon treated the ulcer on Eric’s leg. But when he saw the severity of Eric’s wounds, as well as the osteomyelitis, he determined he could not do all the necessary procedures in Ghana. Based on his recommendation, the humanitarian organization initiated a process that would eventually bring Eric to the United States to receive additional treatment and permanently close his wounds. In addition, a shelter in Winneba, Ghana, run by members of the Church, agreed to have Eric live there when he returned so that he could attend school and complete his education.

While in Utah for surgery, Eric visits the reflecting pool near the Salt Lake Temple. Eric says he loves the feeling of peace he finds at the Salt Lake Temple.

Elder Wood, an engineer by profession, rebuilt Eric’s hand-pedal tricycle. He performed a similar overhaul on his wheelchair. He also counseled with President Cosgrave of the Ghana Kumasi Mission, a medical doctor. They felt Eric could be baptized if proper precautions were taken.

Eric shows his tricycle to his mother and siblings after senior missionaries repaired it.

“Elder Wood wrapped my body in plastic, with tape around the plastic,” Eric explains. “Then he carried me into a font filled with water treated with disinfectant. I was baptized on June 26, 2016.” Eric had relied on the Lord, and the Lord had provided a way.

Today, Eric is studying to become a computer technician. But also feels he can influence others through music—he likes to rap in Twi. His upbeat message talks about how God rescued him. One of his favorite scriptures says, “Look to God and live” (Alma 37:47). And he still says, “I see God in everything.”

He adds, “I don’t want anyone to think the way Heavenly Father has blessed me is identical to how He will bless them. But He will bless those who trust Him. When you have to deal with hard things, pray and trust God.”

Eric looks forward to a bright future. He’s studying to be a computer technician and also feels he can inspire others with music.

When I started reading “When Thou Art Converted” in the March New Era, it sounded strangely familiar. I suddenly realized that the author was the same Elder Young who taught me the discussions while I worked for the Forest Service last summer in Swan Valley, Idaho.
My job and the Teton Dam disaster made for a really interesting summer, but the sincerity and care with which Elder Young taught me left the most memorable and cherished impression. He ended his mission before I finished the discussions, so I never really had the chance to thank him for the wonderful way he helped change my life and open up new horizons. I only wish he could have been there for my early-morning baptism in the Snake River so he could have witnessed one of the happiest fruits of his labors.
Carol KounanisWest Lafayette, Indiana

My phone rang one afternoon many years ago. The young man on the other end of the line said frantically that he needed to see me. I told him that I was involved with appointments for the remainder of the day and asked if he could come tomorrow. He stated that he had to see me at once. I told him to come and asked my secretary to change the other appointments. In a few minutes he walked in, a boy with a hunted and haunted look. His hair was long, his appearance miserable. I invited him to sit and to talk openly and frankly. I assured him of my interest in his problem and of my desire to help him.

He unraveled a story distressing and miserable. He was in serious trouble. He had broken the law, he had been unclean, he had blighted his life. Now in his extremity there had come a realization of the terrible plight in which he found himself. He needed help beyond his own strength, and he pleaded for it. I asked him if his father knew of his difficulties. He replied by saying that he could not talk with his father, that his father hated him.

I happened to know his father, and I knew that his father did not hate him. He loved him and mourned and grieved for him, but that father had an uncontrolled temper. Whenever he disciplined his children, he lost control and destroyed both them and himself.

As I looked across the desk at that trembling, broken young man, estranged from a father he considered his enemy, I thought of the great words of revealed truth given through the Prophet Joseph Smith. They set forth in essence the governing spirit of the priesthood, and I believe they apply to the government of our homes.

“No power or influence can or ought to be maintained … , only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned;
“By kindness, and pure knowledge, which shall greatly enlarge the soul without hypocrisy, and without guile” (D&C 121:41–42).
I believe those marvelous and simple words set forth the spirit in which we should stand as parents. Do they mean that we should not exercise appropriate but sensitive discipline, that we should not wisely reprove? Note these further words:
“Reproving betimes with sharpness, [When? While angry or in a fit of temper? No.] when moved upon by the Holy Ghost; [Does the Holy Ghost attend contentious reprovings? No.] and then showing forth afterwards an increase of love toward him whom thou hast reproved, lest he esteem thee to be thine enemy;
“That he may know that thy faithfulness is stronger than the cords of death” (D&C 121:43–44).
This, my brethren and sisters who stand at the head of families, is the key to government in the home directed by the Holy Spirit. I commend those words to every parent and do not hesitate to promise that if you will govern your families in the spirit of those words, which have come from the Lord, you will have cause to rejoice, as will those for whom you are responsible.
These inspired words are the spiritual sinews of the gospel and become the fiber of our faith. God help us to cultivate them in every activity in the Church and in every association in our homes.