Gospel Story Finder

Pearl held tightly to the handle of her small suitcase as she and her mother and father walked up the dusty road from the bus stop toward Kibbutz Habbonim. They had arrived in Israel only two days before. Her parents wanted to learn to speak Hebrew and work on a kibbutz.
The sun was beating down on Pearl’s bare head. Her hands and face were wet with perspiration and she wished they could have stayed in Tel Aviv.
“Look, those are banana plants,” her father said, pointing to the tall, large-leafed green plants growing all along the road.
As they walked up over a small hill, the kibbutz lay before them. The tan-colored buildings with red-tiled roofs were clustered close together and surrounded by green fields and orchards.
“We’ll go first to the secretary of the kibbutz and then to the children’s house,” her father said. He lovingly took Pearl’s hand in his and asked. “You’re not afraid to stay there are you?”
Father had explained to her that she would be staying in the children’s house with many other boys and girls while her parents slept and ate somewhere else. She would see them for only two or three hours each afternoon. At other times they would be working on the kibbutz or attending their Hebrew classes while she worked and attended hers. Pearl was still a little apprehensive. “You are nine years old now,” her father continued, “and I think you can learn to live without Mama and me so close.” Then he squeezed her hand and Mama hugged her, worry showing in her eyes.
Later, they went to the children’s house. Cool green vines hung over the front porch, and through the screen Pearl could see small children playing on the floor. The door opened and a tall dark-haired woman smiled down at her.
“So this is Pearl,” she said. “I am Hannah. Say shalom (peace) to your parents for right now and come with me.”
Pearl turned and hugged each of her parents very hard. “We’ll be back this afternoon,” her mother said, smiling encouragingly at their daughter. Then they turned and walked quickly away before Pearl could see the anxiety in their eyes.
Inside, the room was dim and cool. Cribs and small beds lined the walls. Pearl and Hannah stepped around babies and toys as they walked through. Older girls were playing with some of the babies or caring for them.
“This is the room for the very little ones,” Hannah explained. “You will be with children near your own age, of course.”
They entered another room, long and narrow with beds and small chests along the walls. The small windows were open with a light breeze moving the curtains, and the room was bare except for a few pictures above some of the beds.
“Here is your bed,” Hannah said, sitting down on it and motioning for Pearl to sit beside her. Pearl noticed the bed had only one sheet and a woolen blanket folded on top of a thin mattress. “You may put your things in the drawers. Later you will receive clothes from the kibbutz,” Hannah added, and then explained about the bathrooms, the dining hall, the classroom, and some of the rules. Finally she put her hand on Pearl’s arm, and looked at her intently. “Now,” she said, “this is the last time that I will speak to you in English. From now on I will speak only in Hebrew.”
Pearl felt a kind of panic rising within her. “How will I understand you? I don’t know Hebrew at all,” she said.
“You will understand because you will have to understand. You may ask questions in English until you begin to learn Hebrew, but I will answer you in Hebrew.” She smiled at Pearl. “Come,” she said. “I will show you to the classroom for the children your age.”
Hannah pointed it out to her and then left. Pearl was lonely, frightened, and confused. The boys and girls all spoke in Hebrew and sang several Israeli songs, clapping their hands to the rhythms. They paid little attention to Pearl, who longed for the time when she could be with her parents again.
After a meal of simple food in the dining hall where Pearl sat and ate by herself, she was allowed to walk up to the kibbutz store and meet her parents. She hugged them as though they had been apart for a week. Sitting on the cool grass under a large tree, her parents said they felt lost in their Hebrew classes, too, which made Pearl feel a little better. It was wonderful to be with them again.
That night in bed Pearl tried to hold back her tears. Children were sleeping all around her, but she had never felt more alone. Some had said shalom to her and gazed at her briefly, and then resumed laughing and talking with each other. Finally Pearl turned her face into the hard pillow and cried, not caring if the others heard her.
“Baby,” someone said.
“Crybaby! Crybaby!” several others took it up.
They know that much English anyway, Pearl thought bitterly. They are mean and cruel. She stifled her crying, and finally the taunting stopped. Pearl fell into a restless, dream-filled sleep.
For two days Pearl ate and slept and studied and worked by herself. She made no effort to be friendly to the other children, and they ignored her. She felt alive and happy only during the beautiful, quiet time she spent talking with her parents. She had never loved them so much or felt so close to them.
On the third day, as Pearl was making her bed, Hannah came to her, accompanied by a small dark-haired girl.
“Pearl, this is Bella,” Hannah said in Hebrew. “She just arrived from Poland. Perhaps you can be friends.”
Pearl understood the word friends, chaverim. She looked at Bella and wondered if they could be friends. She would not know English, so how could they understand each other? Hannah left and Pearl finished making her bed while Bella silently watched. Then they walked into the dining hall and ate together, but neither made any attempt to speak. After breakfast the girls went to the classroom, but Pearl felt uncomfortable having this strange, quiet girl following her everywhere. During their noon chores she noticed Bella watching, but Pearl tried not to stare back.
The next afternoon after visiting with her parents, Pearl returned slowly and reluctantly to the children’s house. Hannah stood on the porch waiting for her. She put her hand on Pearl’s shoulders. “Pearl,” she said, “I told you before that I would not speak to you in English again, but I am going to do so one more time because I have something to tell you that I want you to understand. Please come with me.”
She took Pearl’s hand as they walked through the kibbutz. The sun was scorching, and Hannah took a small blue cap from her straw bag and put it on Pearl’s head. They walked between the banana plants with their welcome shade and then into a dusty and hot open area. Ahead of them Pearl could see a wall of tall pale green prickly pear cacti.
When they were closer, Hannah motioned for Pearl to sit on a large, smooth rock. She took from her bag an empty tin can, a glove, and a small knife. Pearl watched her curiously. Hannah put on the glove, took the tin can and began knocking green, egg-shaped balls off a nearby cactus. When five or six had fallen to the ground, she rolled them around in the dust with the sole of her sandal, crushing the spines that covered the balls. Then she picked two up in her gloved hand. With the other hand she slit a cross in the skin of the fruit with her knife. She squeezed, and the skin pulled back. She held it out to Pearl, who carefully picked the bright red fruit out of the dusty skin and put it into her mouth. The fruit was incredibly cool and juicy and filled with small seeds that slipped down her throat. Pearl had never tasted anything so delicious, and smiled when Hannah offered her another.
After they had each eaten three, Hannah sat down near her. “In Hebrew, Pearl,” Hannah began, “this cactus is called sabra. You can see that it’s very prickly. The spines protect it so that it can grow large and produce fruit. The fruit is surprisingly sweet and very tender. Didn’t you think so, Pearl?”
“Ken (Yes),” Pearl answered in Hebrew.
“A person who is born in Israel is also called a sabra,” Hannah continued, “and is like this sabra—prickly, sometimes hard on the outside, but inside tender and sweet. You were not born in Israel and neither was I. I came here from England when I was eighteen. I married here, but my husband was killed in the fighting. I was lonely and homesick for the pleasant green of England, but I wanted to serve Israel just as your parents want to, so I stayed here and learned to be a sabra. You must learn this too.
“We live in constant danger from those who would destroy us. We must be strong and ready to fight. You must learn to protect yourself like the sabra so that taunting and ridicule will not reach you because of your prickly spines. But inside you will be tender and sweet, kind and helpful, ready to nourish others. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” Pearl answered. She looked at the cactus in front of her. A small bird had pecked a round hole in it and darted swiftly inside to build a nest, unafraid of the sharp spines.
Hannah prepared a few more of the prickly pears for Pearl before they walked silently back to the children’s house. Hannah smiled at her as they parted inside the door. Pearl felt a glow within, in spite of her feeling of guilt for the way she had treated Bella. She lay on her bed for a while, thinking of the sabra and the things Hannah had told her. As she lay there, two girls her age walked through the room. They looked at Pearl and laughed. “Baby wants her mama and daddy,” one said in English, nudging the other.
Pearl smiled and raised her hand in greeting. “Shalom chaverim,” she said. The girls looked at each other quizzically and smiled. “Shalom,” they replied.
Pearl gathered her paper and pencils for afternoon classes. On her way to the classroom, she looked for Bella and saw her standing in the hallway.
“Come on, let’s go to class,” she invited, taking Bella’s hand and pulling her along. “Let’s say the alphabet in Hebrew,” she said, beginning, “Aleph, Beth, Gimel …”
Bella smiled radiantly and said them with her, and together they walked to class.

Richy Judd, who recently returned from serving in the Ohio Cleveland Mission, says one of his most memorable experiences in the temple happened when he was the one baptizing and confirming.
“I went to the temple with the youth one more time before my mission, when I had already received my endowment,” he explains. “I actually got to do the baptizing and confirming, and it just really got me excited to go out there and baptize and confirm people. I wanted to find the families I was supposed to teach and bring into the Church.” And every time he baptized someone on his mission, “I’d remember being at the temple as a teenager,” he adds.
Richy says going to the temple reminded him how important it was to stay worthy. It motivated him to make right choices. When his bishop and stake president interviewed him before ordaining him an elder, Richy could confidently say that he was living all of the standards. “It made the transition a lot easier,” he says.

Let me contrast her painful despair with another family’s hope in Christ during a heartbreaking time.
Twenty-one years ago the newborn son of my nephew Ben Andersen and his wife, Robbie, was life-flighted from their Idaho farming community to Salt Lake City. I arrived at the hospital, and Ben explained the severe, life-threatening complications with their baby’s heart. We placed our hands on Trey’s tiny head. The Lord blessed him with continued life.
Trey had heart surgery the first week of his life, and more surgeries followed. As the years passed, it became apparent that Trey would need a heart transplant. Although his physical activities were limited, his faith expanded. He wrote, “I have never felt sorry for myself because I have always known the importance of having faith in Jesus Christ and a testimony of the plan of salvation.”
Trey kept on his phone this well-known quote from President Nelson: “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”
Trey wrote: “I have always looked forward to serving a full-time mission, but … my doctors won’t let me serve a mission until at least a year after my transplant. … I’ve put my faith in Jesus Christ.”
Trey was excited at being accepted into the accounting major at BYU beginning this semester, but even more excited in late July when he received the very anticipated telephone call to come to the hospital for his heart transplant.
“One year,” Trey said, “and I will be on my mission.”
There were great expectations as he entered the operating room. However, during the surgery there were devastating complications, and Trey never regained consciousness.
His mother, Robbie, said: “Friday had been the most heartbreaking day … just trying to wrap our minds around it. … I had stayed up late just trying to process everything. … But Saturday, I woke up with a feeling of absolute joy. It wasn’t just peace; it wasn’t denial. I felt joy for my son, and I felt joy as his mother. … Ben had gotten up a lot earlier than me, and when we finally got a chance to talk, Ben had awakened with the exact same feeling.”
Ben explained: “Clarity came to my soul as God taught me through His Holy Spirit. I awoke at 4:00 a.m. and was filled with indescribable peace and joy. How is this possible? … The passing of Trey is so very painful, and I miss him so much. But the Lord does not leave us comfortless. … I look forward to a joyful reunion.”
Trey had noted in his journal these words from President Nelson’s general conference talk: “It doesn’t seem possible to feel joy when your child suffers with an incurable illness or when you lose your job or when your spouse betrays you. Yet that is precisely the joy the Savior offers. His joy is constant, assuring us that our ‘afflictions shall be but a small moment’ [Doctrine and Covenants 121:7] and be consecrated to our gain.”

These athletes as well as other missionaries soon learn that some of the fruits of their labors are harvested later by others. Alan Astle, a BYU guard, had one such experience. While tracting in England, he and his companion kept a record of every door they knocked on. “I remember one lady we tried several times was always too busy to talk to us, but I thought she was a good prospect. Right next to her name in our book I wrote ‘good.’ About four months later I got a letter from this lady, thanking me in countless ways for putting that comment next to her name. The new missionaries in the area saw that, went back, and she was baptized. She’s brought about five or six others into the Church so far. I just got a Christmas card from her, and she’s still thanking me for writing ‘good’ next to her name.”

This story took place in England.
Jonah ate his last bite of food and smiled. Dinner was always more fun when the missionaries came over.
“We want to share a message with you about service,” said Sister Kearl. “Why is serving others important?”
“Because it makes Jesus happy!” said Eliza, Jonah’s little sister.
“You’re right! It makes Him very happy. And when we help others, it makes us happy too,” said Sister Christensen. “Do you know anyone who needs help?”
Jonah thought for a minute. “I can’t think of a person, but our garden at school could use some help.”
“Good idea,” said Mum.
Jonah’s school had a garden where they could do outdoor activities. But no one had taken care of the garden for a long time. The bushes were overgrown. There were lots of weeds too.
“We’d love to help you with that!” said Sister Kearl. “Who can we invite to help clean it with us?”
“Our cousins!” said Jacob, Jonah’s brother.
“And our Primary class,” said Jonah.
The next day, Mum talked to someone at the school to get permission. They picked a day to clean the garden. Then Mum helped Jonah and his siblings call their cousins and Primary class.
A few weeks later, Jonah and his family met the missionaries at the school. Their cousins and Primary friends were there too. It was time to get to work!
Jonah put on a pair of big rubber garden gloves. “Look, Mum. My hands are huge!”
Mum laughed. “You can use those huge hands to help trim these bushes.”
She handed Jonah some clippers that looked like giant scissors. Then she helped him cut away the dead branches.
“This is fun,” Jonah said.
While Jonah trimmed, Eliza helped dig around the garden. Jacob helped Daddy build a new bird house. The others pulled weeds and gathered sticks. They put them in big blue plastic bags. Even Jonah’s youngest brother, Ezra, helped by picking up rocks.
Soon the garden was clean. Jonah counted the bags they had filled. “There are 13 bags!” he said. “We cleaned up so much rubbish.”
Sister Christensen smiled. “Now we need everyone’s big muscles to help us carry these to the car.”
Jonah, Jacob, and Eliza each grabbed a bag. Jonah felt happy as he lifted the last one into the car. Helping the missionaries had been fun. He wanted to be a missionary someday too. Until then, there were lots of ways he could serve. He could hardly wait to think of his next project!

Blake McKeown, popularly known as the “rookie,” publicly left his post on Bondi Beach last May as a lifeguard in the Australian reality television show Bondi Rescue to perform another kind of rescue. He accepted a call to serve in the Philippines Baguio Mission. He shared this news and his feelings with colleagues and audiences on the show.
“When I found out I’d be going to the Philippines I was stoked to be going somewhere overseas and different,” he said. “It’s a big step. I will miss the beach for sure, but going on a mission is important to me. It is something I have been working toward all my life.”
On being a lifeguard Elder McKeown says, “There’s nothing I’d rather have done for the past two years than work on the beach—it’s the best job in the world—but for the next two years there’s nothing better I want to do than serve a mission. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is not a religion you can just say you’re part of; it’s a religion you have to live. It’s my life. I would be a very, very different person if it wasn’t for the Church.”

One such time occurred a few years ago in Colombia. A small group of teens were selected by their stake presidents to represent the youth of their country during a brief visit by President Nelson in August of 2019.

The youth received instruction and then waited for the prophet in the green room where a few of us from the media team covering President Nelson’s global ministry were unpacking our equipment. I do not speak Spanish, but as I listened to them talk, I could tell they were worried and anxious and filled with doubt. A colleague told me the youth questioned whether they were worthy to meet with the prophet.

Then, after turning my attention away from them for a few minutes, I looked back and saw them kneeling together and praying. I later learned they were asking for help to be calm and expressing gratitude to the Lord for His Church and His prophet.

At that time in Colombia’s capital city of 7.1 million people, the ratio of members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to the general population was 67 to one. Referencing the daunting statistic, President Nelson promised the youth, “Anything worthwhile in life is difficult to do. But you can do hard things as you link yourself to the Lord.” [21]

My parents were baptized when they were grownups. They loved learning about the prophets and Heavenly Father and then teaching our family.
On Sundays, my father would sit in a comfy chair and put me on his lap. Then we would read Bible stories together.
One day, my father read this story to me. Then he did something I’ll never forget. He traced four letters on my forehead with his finger: T-E-S-T.
“Sharon,” he said, “you will have tests in your life, just like Daniel did. But remember these letters on your forehead. They will remind you to always follow Heavenly Father and not give in to fear.” And they always have.

In Part 1, Sarah Ann describes how her family traveled to the United States from Norway. She hears Mormon missionaries preach and knows what they say is true. Sarah Ann is baptized and promises the Lord that she will always do whatever He asks her to do.

Chardon Point, Iowa, 1849
Sarah Ann was too weak to open her eyes, but as she listened to the crickets chirping nearby she remembered where she was—in a covered wagon camped near a creek in Iowa. Despite painful muscle cramps, Sarah Ann smiled softly, grateful to still be alive.
The crickets were interrupted by the sound of two people talking quietly outside the wagon. Sarah Ann tried to hear what was being said.
“How is she today, Anna?” asked a man with a Norwegian accent.
“I am afraid she isn’t doing well,” Anna said. “Nothing is working. She has a very bad case of cholera.”
Sarah Ann recognized their voices. The man was Canute Peterson. Sarah Ann had known him since she was a young girl. When Canute’s parents died, Mother had welcomed him into their home as though he had been part of the family. The woman, Anna, was Sarah Ann’s nurse.
“I wish that something could be done,” Canute said.
“I do too. Sarah Ann is such a wonderful young woman.”
Sarah Ann let out a cry. The pain was almost more than she could bear. Sarah Ann thought about the events that had led her to where she was now. When she was baptized, she had promised the Lord to do whatever He asked her to do. A short time after that, the prophet Brigham Young told the Saints to gather in the West. Sarah Ann packed a few belongings and joined a wagon team of other Saints. They had traveled 200 miles (322 km) when Sarah Ann became sick with cholera.
A tear rolled down Sarah Ann’s cheek. “I want to live to see the place that the Lord has prepared for the Saints,” she thought.
Meanwhile, Canute walked along the edge of a nearby creek in the woods. As he walked, he felt a gentle prompting from the Holy Ghost to pray for Sarah Ann. He knelt down and prayed that Sarah Ann’s pain would lessen. As he prayed, Canute felt the Spirit tell him what he should do.
“I know that if I give Sarah Ann a priesthood blessing, she will be healed,” he thought.
As Canute returned to the wagon, he could hear Sarah Ann groaning. Anna and the other nurses filled the wagon, making it difficult for him to get close.
Putting all of his faith in the Lord, Canute went to the side of the wagon, put his hands under the wagon cover, laid them on Sarah Ann’s head, and gave her a blessing.
As soon as Sarah Ann felt the hands on her head, she knew whose hands they were even though she couldn’t see Canute.
When the blessing ended, Sarah Ann’s pain immediately stopped.
“I am healed!” Sarah Ann exclaimed.
“You are not in any pain?” Canute asked.
“None at all. It’s a miracle! Thank you for giving me a blessing, Canute. I know that God has healed me through the priesthood power you hold.”
Within an hour, Sarah Ann was up and trying to help others who were sick.
The wagon company was soon able to continue the journey. Sarah Ann felt closer to Canute than she ever had before. As they traveled, the two of them spent a lot of time together. They soon began to fall in love.

It must be close to freezing this morning. David can tell, even though the apartment is still draped in shadow, and he is still lying in a tangle of bedding on the sofa that passes for his bed. It must be 20 degrees outside, David is thinking. He can imagine flowers of ice spreading on the window panes. His mother snuffles and shifts in her sleep. She is nearly always cold, so yesterday David helped her shove her bed closer to the radiator, beneath the window at the front of the studio apartment that the two of them share. It is already late January, but today is the first day it has dipped below freezing. It’s an unusual winter for New York City.
“Morning, Lobo,” David whispers to the warm nose nuzzling his neck. “You ready for your walk?” He scratches his Siberian husky under his chin, then slides out of bed and kneels in his sweat pants at the side of the sofa. While Lobo paces the floor, his toenails clicking on the hardwood, David says his prayers. He prays silently, so as not to disturb his mother, and he prays for what he has been praying for ever since he joined the Church over a year ago. The words are familiar by now. They tumble together in his head like a well-rehearsed hymn.
“Please,” he murmurs into his pillow, “please, let me be able to go.”
It can’t hurt, David figures, to ask for something he doesn’t need for five more years. This ought to give Heavenly Father enough time to work something out.
“David?” his mother’s voice is barely a rasp.
“I’m here, Mom.”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking the dog out in a minute. Why? You need something? Some breakfast, maybe? I could make oatmeal—oatmeal with butter and brown sugar.”
His mother’s eyelids are swollen. She rubs her palm over her forehead and clutches her quilt tighter. “No, baby,” she whispers. “No, that’s all right. You go on.” She waves him away with a flick of her fingers.
On regular mornings, David walks his dog Lobo all the way to Riverside Park. But this is not a regular morning. This is Sunday, and it is not even a regular Sunday because David still has some finishing touches to do on the talk Bishop Wendall asked him to give in sacrament meeting today. Light is just beginning to creep over the horizon, but cars and people are already bustling along the streets. Steam boils from manhole covers as David makes his way up the street, sidestepping the potholes that yawn in the sidewalk. He waves to old Mr. Gerard, who is busy stocking Snickers bars in his newsstand on the corner.
“Whoa, boy,” David says to his dog, which is straining at his leash, wanting to go all the way to the park. David feels bad he has to pull him back. Finally, though, Lobo seems to catch on that they are only walking around the block this morning. Lobo stops and David carefully attends to his needs.
Mr. Gerard is watching. “You know,” he calls from his newsstand, “it’s refreshing to see a young man clean up after himself.” He hobbles over and slips a Snickers bar into David’s hand, grinning his gap-toothed grin at him.
David shrugs. “Thanks, Mr. Gerard, but it’s no big deal. It’s the law.”
Mr. Gerard lets out a half snort, half laugh. “Maybe you haven’t noticed,” he says, shaking his knobby finger at the cement walls surrounding them, “but a lot of people around here don’t care about the law.” The walls are smeared with paint, red and blue and green, pictures and words with sharp angles.
“Seems like a good boy is harder to find than a three-headed rooster these days.” Mr. Gerard chuckles to himself.
David nods, then clears his throat and says, “I’m a Latter-day Saint, you know.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Gerard is shuffling away. “Good for you,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ve seen those Mormon missionaries riding around here on their bikes. They look like good boys, those missionaries. You going to do that someday?”
“I hope so,” David says, but Mr. Gerard is now handing his first customer a newspaper and doesn’t hear. “I hope so,” David says again.
Back at the apartment David shakes dry food into his dog’s bowl and fills the water dish. He sprinkles plant food on the potted geraniums growing on the window sill. He toasts two pieces of bread and pours a glass of milk. Then he puts on his dress shirt. It is short-sleeved, and David knows he looks funny wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt in the dead of winter, but it’s his only one.
After he’s dressed, David goes around the apartment picking up empty liquor bottles and stuffing them into a trash bag so he can dump them down the chute in the hallway. Before he goes, he places the plate of toast and the milk next to his mother’s bed. “I’ll be back by lunchtime,” David says to the dog, who whines and rubs against his legs. Then he scoots out the open door but pauses when his mother starts making small hiccuping noises. He waits until she rolls onto her side, then pulls the door closed gently behind him.
Lobo is the reason David started going to church in the first place. He was out one morning when some boys from the neighborhood ran up and asked if they could pet his dog. They were three brothers, all younger than David, and they weren’t allowed to have a dog themselves. So David let them pet his dog. After that, the boys started coming around all the time to see Lobo, and eventually they told him they were LDS. Did David want to come to church with them some time?
That’s how it happened. The rest was simple. David prayed about it, and he gained a testimony of the gospel. Unfortunately, those three boys moved away.
Now David goes to church by himself. He takes the 7:45 one train to Lincoln Center, then walks across the street, skirting the construction at the corner of 65th and Columbus. It’s the seven-story building with the gold lettering above the door that says “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” “Visitors Welcome” is the sign on the corner, but David is not a visitor.
Two missionaries are relaxing in overstuffed armchairs when David pushes open the lobby doors. One, Elder Hindmarsh, is from Florida, and Elder Simmons is from California. Even though they are indoors now, they still have their trench coats buttoned up and their scarves wound tightly around their necks. They glance up from their worn copies of the Book of Mormon. “Hey, man,” Elder Hindmarsh says. He stands to slap David on the shoulder. “We heard you got roped into speaking today. Good luck.”
“Yeah,” Elder Simmons says. “Don’t choke.” He grabs his own throat with both hands and pretends that he can’t breathe.
“Cut it out,” David says, but he’s laughing. He fingers the two sheets of notebook paper that are folded neatly in his jacket. Please help me not to trip over my words, he pleads silently.
“Seriously, though, good luck,” Elder Hindmarsh says. He squeezes David’s arm for reassurance.
David steps into the elevator at the far end of the lobby and punches the button for level four. Level two is the Family History Library, and level three is the Relief Society room and the cultural hall and some classrooms. Level four is the chapel.
“Well, good morning,” Bishop Wendall greets as he puts his arm around David when he enters the chapel. “Nervous?” he asks. The chapel is nearly empty because David has arrived 45 minutes early to help prepare the sacrament.
David gives the “just a little bit” sign with his thumb and forefinger, and the bishop smiles and pats him on the back. Bishop Wendall says he will do fine, just fine.
After the sacrament is passed, and the bishop excuses the Aaronic Priesthood members to sit with their families, David slides into a seat next to Sister Greene on the stand. Sister Greene used to be a school teacher before she retired. She wears glasses and bright scarves with tropical birds printed on them, and she paints pictures in the air when she talks. David likes Sister Greene. She is one of the first people he ever heard speak in sacrament meeting after he was baptized. She talked about what it means to make a leap of faith.
David looks down and sees Sister Logan smiling up at him from where she’s sitting with her husband and two children. She wants to take David in as a foster child. “You’re only 14,” she told him the other day when he dropped in after school for some snickerdoodles and a glass of milk. David has stayed with Sister Logan and her family off and on for days at a time, when his mother has had to go to the hospital for treatment for her depression. Even when he’s not crashing on the Logans’ sofa, David likes to drop in every now and again.
But the other day, while he was munching his snickerdoodle and sipping his milk, Sister Logan had stood over him, her face a tight mask of concern. She had jiggled her baby on her hip and she said, “That neighborhood of yours …”
She had let her voice trail off, but David knew what she was thinking. She was scared David would never have a chance.
What Sister Logan doesn’t know is how very much David would like to be her foster son. He can picture himself tromping home from school in the afternoon and pushing open the slick glass doors of her building’s lobby. He’d stop and visit with the doorman for a while, then zip up to the 12th floor, where he’d sit at the spotless Formica table in Brother and Sister Logan’s white kitchen. He’d work on his math problems until it was time to help with dinner.
But this, David knows, is only a dream. It is like the dream he used to have about his father coming back to live with him and his mom. It is like the dream that one morning he will wake up and his mother will have stopped drinking. She will be standing in the kitchen, whipping up a batch of blueberry waffles and telling him it’s time to get ready for school. It is only a dream.
David returns Sister Logan’s smile.
Five years, David is thinking while the bishop announces who today’s youth speaker will be. A lot can change in five years. But, then again, a lot can stay the same. Before he knows it, it is time for him to speak. Sister Greene pats him on the knee as he stands up. A leap of faith, Sister Greene said in her last sacrament talk, is when the Lord asks you to walk to the edge of the light and step into the darkness, trusting that He will guide your steps.
While David walks to the microphone, he slips his talk out of his pocket. He spreads the wrinkled sheets of paper on the pulpit and stares at them. His own words, scrawled in a blue ballpoint pen, stare back at him. Please, David prays silently, I’m afraid I’ll never have a chance.
But then he looks out at the hodgepodge of faces in the audience. Dark and light, wrinkled and rosy. Pairs of eyes gaze back at him, young eyes and tired eyes and eyes with crow’s feet. Familiar eyes. You can do it, these eyes say. You can do anything. We’ll help you.
So David clears his throat. He grips the sides of the podium, and he opens his mouth. “I’d like to speak to you today,” he begins, “about what I am doing now to prepare to serve a mission.”

One of the most spiritual experiences to come out of our mission occurred near the European supreme headquarters of the Allied powers, located in Belgium, during 1968. One evening one of our expectant American sisters became desperately ill and had to be rushed by an ambulance to a military hospital. Upon arriving, she was given diagnostic and x-ray examinations revealing a very serious obstruction that would have to be removed by surgery. Following the priesthood administration by her husband and another member of the branch presidency, she underwent the operation—only to have the same doctor who had examined her moments before find that there was no obstruction, in fact nothing wrong whatever.
While in the hospital convalescing for a few days she studied the scriptures and some other commentaries, and this attracted the attention of a medical orderly who was there on assignment as an American serviceman—a former alcoholic, incidentally. He wondered what this book with the strange title really meant. One week later he attended a Church activity with the husband of the woman in the hospital and committed himself to study the gospel. He and his family quickly went through the Book of Mormon and the discussions with the missionaries and were baptized into the Church. He has since read the standard works many times as well as all of the commentaries that he has been able to secure; and, in addition, he has been responsible for bringing many people into the church of Christ.

My mother, Winifred Johnson, was a wonderful example to me of sharing the Lord’s love with the people around her. Ten years before she died, she had a severe heart attack. Thankfully, she survived, but the attack left her heart seriously damaged, and she was never able to physically do the things she could before the heart attack. Because of these physical limitations she was never able to travel or do many of the things you and I would consider “fun.” She spent the last few years of her life at home welcoming visits from her children, grandchildren, and neighbors. When we would visit, she would listen to us, play games with us, read to her grandchildren, and make each of us feel like we were the most important person in the world. Near the end of her life, one of my sisters asked her, “Mom, what has been your favorite time of life?” She answered simply, “These past few years.” At first, this answer surprised me. How could she enjoy those years without physical mobility or what we would consider recreation or fun? But now I realize hers was a life filled with family, a life filled with joy. She ended her life filling all our lives with the love of Christ.

When Nuria and I were being taught by full-time missionaries in 1982, we were invited to visit the local ward meetinghouse and to attend the Church meetings there. As we arrived on a beautiful Sunday morning, the first two members that we met at Church were two sisters from our Caribbean island of Puerto Rico. That was a pleasant surprise! We then entered the sacrament hall and beheld families talking reverently to each other, as the sacrament meeting was about to begin. There was great love and friendship in evidence among them.
The missionaries then pointed out the bishop in the stand talking with one of his counselors. I knew the bishop, though not as the local leader of the Church, but as a faculty professor of mine, whom I respected as a great physician and individual. Nuria and I loved the service. From that very first day, except for illness, we have always attended Sunday meetings. I had received a spiritual confirmation in my heart that this Church was true and that the will of our Lord Jesus Christ was for us to remain. Shortly thereafter, we were baptized together and began attending sacrament meetings as members of the Lord’s restored Church.

Maybe you have felt similar as your efforts at sharing the gospel have seemed to come to naught. Ross Pooley of the Bridlington Ward felt so as he came to the end of his two-year mission to Scotland. Speaking to his Mission President he said, “I was very emotional and expressed my love for my mission, but also some feeling of regret in failing to baptise during my two years of service.”

Fast forward forty years and the picture looks very different. Thinking about a family he taught while on his mission, but who never committed to baptism, he decided to look them up. Deeply religious and long-time investigators of the Church, they started to attend Latter-day Saint meetings in 1999 while living in Independence, Missouri and twenty years later were baptised.
While serving in Dundee, Ross and his companion reactivated a young man and his mother. “I didn’t realise the impact until ten years after my mission when I met him at a reunion of all British missionaries. He had served a mission in America and baptised twenty-four people, was married with children and working at the Church offices in Frankfurt.”
Another great man that Ross worked with sadly stopped attending church many years later and was excommunicated. “On trying to keep up with people from those days, I found out from members that he had returned and through communication with him, I was able to be with him in the Preston Temple on the day his endowment was restored for him.”
Shortly after returning from his mission Ross went to work for a packaging and printing company in West London. During break times the men would meet in a smoke-filled room to play darts. Ross chose to stay at his workstation and read the Book of Mormon. One of the female packers asked him why he didn’t join the others and Ross took the opportunity to tell her about the word of wisdom and shared gospel principles with her. Not long after that conversation he changed jobs.
A couple of years later, while serving as a bishop, he received information about a new family moving into his ward. He felt he knew the name and to his delight found it to be that of the lady with whom he’d had the gospel discussion. Along with her husband and son she had joined the Church not long after her breaktime discussion with Ross.
Years later in York, whilst serving as a home teacher with his son, they were assigned to a less active family who would not let them into their home. On birthdays and at Christmas they would leave gifts and cards hoping for an opportunity to teach in their home. One day, as they went out to visit others, they felt prompted to try once more. As they knocked on the door, their son informed them that the family were all at the hospital where their daughter was giving birth. Quickly buying flowers and a card they headed to the hospital to offer any support or help they could give the family. Because of this they were able to minister to the family who gradually returned to activity.
Ross said, “As I reflect on the many experiences I have had in sharing the gospel, I wonder what effect it has had on those people. There may be in our lives hearts that have been changed without us even knowing. Each of us is placed with opportunities to further His plan. There is no accident as to where we live and who we meet. We are all involved in Heavenly Father’s plan and should take every opportunity to share the gospel at all times and in all places. He will make the changes in the lives of His children at the best time for their progress, whether it be in this life or in the spirit world.”
Samuel Smith felt he had been a failure, but the one Book of Mormon he managed to give away made its way into the hands of Brigham Young, who passed it to Heber C Kimball. We too can see amazing results if we but try.

The only time I remember having my honor questioned was during an examination in high school. I believe the examination was in economics. The teacher had a habit of standing at the back of the room watching the students during examinations. I was writing vigorously when the lead of my pencil broke. I asked my neighbor across the aisle to let me borrow his pocketknife. As he handed me the knife, the teacher came down the aisle and said, “Hand in your paper, and you’ll not be permitted to play in the basketball game tonight.” I was a forward on the team. I explained that I was asking for his knife so I could sharpen my pencil, but no explanation would satisfy him.
I went home after school by horseback rather discouraged that evening and told my father what had happened. He felt sure I was honest. I knew I was.
I was out milking the cows when a telephone call came from the coach saying that I should come over to the gymnasium that evening, that the teacher would see me and he hoped I would have an opportunity to play. I was reluctant to go, but with father’s encouragement, I went to the gym and met the teacher. He asked me if I would confess my dishonesty, to which I replied, “I have not been dishonest. There is nothing to confess.” He did reluctantly permit me to play. I went into the game with very little spirit and we lost. Though I bear no ill will toward my teacher (he was only doing what he thought was right), I did learn from the incident how important it was that I keep my name and my father’s name above reproach. I have tried to do that all my life.

Since I joined the Church in 1994, many Church members have had an impact for good in my life. However, the positive influence of the prophet, President Gordon Bitner Hinckley, cannot be overemphasized.
I may not have met him physically, but spiritually I feel I have. Whenever I read his inspired messages, I imagine him talking to me one-to-one with his hand on my shoulder. A First Presidency Message entitled “Life’s Obligations” (see Liahona, May 1999, 2) helped me understand that although income is important, I do not need to be a multimillionaire to be happy. This message has brought me inner peace and satisfaction.
Encouraged also by the prophet’s counsel in that same message not to waste the great days of preparation for my future work, I decided to enroll in a computer engineering training college for one year. I was undertaking my one year of National Youth Service and resolved to use my time judiciously. At the end of the program, I knew how to repair and install computer systems. Now my first successful appointment after my year of National Youth Service is based on my added knowledge of computer systems.
I am closer to my friends and relatives than ever before. They understand and respect my standards now—simply because I’ve been living the counsel of the prophet. What a positive influence he has on me! How grateful I am to be under the guidance of a living prophet.

Until I was married, I had never heard of Mormons. My grandmother was concerned with my religious upbringing, so she used to read the Bible to me. I grew up as a member of a Protestant church. However, I always thought that the minister did not explain things about Heavenly Father very well.
My father thought that I should make up my own mind and choose my own religion. As I became older, I searched a lot to find the true church. My sister was in the Catholic church and wanted me to join it, but I didn’t understand their beliefs. The same thing happened when I was eighteen years old and learned about the Christian Science church—I didn’t understand their beliefs either.
I always had certain questions that no one could answer, such as: “Where was I before I was born?” and “What is the meaning of life?” Since joining the Church, I’ve learned about the plan of salvation, which answered all my questions.

Another common experience with light helps us learn an additional truth about the “line upon line, precept upon precept” pattern of revelation. Sometimes the sun rises on a morning that is cloudy or foggy. Because of the overcast conditions, perceiving the light is more difficult, and identifying the precise moment when the sun rises over the horizon is not possible. But on such a morning we nonetheless have sufficient light to recognize a new day and to conduct our affairs.
In a similar way, we many times receive revelation without recognizing precisely how or when we are receiving revelation. An important episode from Church history illustrates this principle.
In the spring of 1829, Oliver Cowdery was a schoolteacher in Palmyra, New York. As he learned about Joseph Smith and the work of translating the Book of Mormon, Oliver felt impressed to offer his assistance to the young prophet. Consequently, he traveled to Harmony, Pennsylvania, and became Joseph’s scribe. The timing of his arrival and the help he provided were vital to the coming forth of the Book of Mormon.
The Savior subsequently revealed to Oliver that as often as he had prayed for guidance, he had received direction from the Spirit of the Lord. “If it had not been so,” the Lord declared, “thou wouldst not have come to the place where thou art at this time. Behold, thou knowest that thou hast inquired of me and I did enlighten thy mind; and now I tell thee these things that thou mayest know that thou hast been enlightened by the Spirit of truth” (D&C 6:14–15).
Thus, Oliver received a revelation through the Prophet Joseph Smith informing him that he had been receiving revelation. Apparently Oliver had not recognized how and when he had been receiving direction from God and needed this instruction to increase his understanding about the spirit of revelation. In essence, Oliver had been walking in the light as the sun was rising on a cloudy morning.
In many of the uncertainties and challenges we encounter in our lives, God requires us to do our best, to act and not be acted upon (see 2 Nephi 2:26), and to trust in Him. We may not see angels, hear heavenly voices, or receive overwhelming spiritual impressions. We frequently may press forward hoping and praying—but without absolute assurance—that we are acting in accordance with God’s will. But as we honor our covenants and keep the commandments, as we strive ever more consistently to do good and to become better, we can walk with the confidence that God will guide our steps. And we can speak with the assurance that God will inspire our utterances. This is in part the meaning of the scripture that declares, “Then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God” (D&C 121:45).
As you appropriately seek for and apply unto the spirit of revelation, I promise you will “walk in the light of the Lord” (Isaiah 2:5; 2 Nephi 12:5). Sometimes the spirit of revelation will operate immediately and intensely, other times subtly and gradually, and often so delicately you may not even consciously recognize it. But regardless of the pattern whereby this blessing is received, the light it provides will illuminate and enlarge your soul, enlighten your understanding (see Alma 5:7; 32:28), and direct and protect you and your family.
I declare my apostolic witness that the Father and the Son live. The spirit of revelation is real—and can and does function in our individual lives and in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I testify of these truths in the sacred name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

After the closing prayer, I carefully watched Sister Forester, the Primary president. Because I’m deaf, she always smiles and nods at me when it is time for my Merrie Miss class to leave Primary. Her lips shape the words, “You may leave now.”
But Sister Forester’s mouth formed different words this time. “Melissa, please stay after Primary.”
I watched the other girls move by in their pastel and print dresses. Why was I supposed to stay? I hadn’t done anything wrong. Or had I?
I usually have to read the lips of people at church, but Sister Forester knows sign language. She told me once that her sister was deaf. Now she beckoned me to meet her on the Primary stand. I sat down beside her. The scent of her perfume tickled my nose. Then she moved her lips. “Would you sing for our special Father’s Day program next month?”
Something in my stomach turned to a hard lump, and I felt the blood rush to my face. Was Sister Forester making fun of me? She knew that I couldn’t sing. Even when I tried talking, other children sometimes made fun of the sounds that came from my throat.
Every Sunday I ached inside when all the other children sang and I had to sit there on the hard metal chairs in silence. I learned the words, and tried to imagine what music was. But I knew that as long as I lived, I would never sing a word. There was no music for a deaf person.
But looking into Sister Forester’s eyes now, I saw only kindness. I knew she wasn’t joking. Quickly I signed, “I can’t sing. I’m deaf.”
Sister Forester reached out her hand. I felt the back of her fingers touch my cheek. Then her mouth formed the words, “I don’t want you to sing with your voice. I want you to sing with your hands. Would you sign the words to the first verse of ‘I Believe in Christ’ while the other children sing them?”
The knot in my stomach tightened. I knew she was trying to be kind, trying to find something for me to do, but it would be so hard. How would I know how fast to move my arms, when to start, when to stop? I asked Sister Forester, and she said that she would give me special signals.
I told her I would think about it and talk to my parents.
Sister Forester smiled, then signed, “Could you talk to Heavenly Father, too, since it’s His Son you will be singing about?” Then her lips moved again. “If He doesn’t want you to do it, that’s OK.”
I felt relieved. Sister Forester wouldn’t force me, and I knew my parents would let me choose. I promised that I would pray about it. I thought that Heavenly Father wouldn’t want me to look silly in church, either.
But when I asked Heavenly Father, His Spirit came through the silence and warmed my heart, and I knew that I should do it.
“But I’m scared,” I told Him. “What if everyone laughs at my funny signs?” Then I cried.
I practiced hard for the next month. One day each week I went to Sister Forester’s house. She had been a dancer, and she taught me to move my arms and hands in slow, soft motions as I signed the words. She said that the movements were like music and that with practice I could turn my signs into a gorgeous melody. Her words were kind, but I wasn’t sure.
When I woke up the morning of the program, I wanted to be sick. I lay in bed and buried my face in my pillow. I thought about how silly I would look as I waved my arms around. To people who didn’t understand sign language, I would look like an octopus.
Dad must have guessed that I was having trouble. He came in my room and sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes smiled kindly. “Are you afraid?” he asked.
I nodded.
He held out his arms. I rolled over and sat up. Dad’s arms wrapped around me. Then gently he pushed me back so that I could see his face. “Sister Forester told me that you remind her of an angel when you sing ‘I Believe in Christ’ your way. She believes that the ward members will enjoy your song very much.”
Dad’s words didn’t seem to help, but having him close to me did. His lips moved again. “If you become frightened, just remember Whom you are singing about.”
Even you don’t understand, Dad, I thought. Moving your hands isn’t singing at all.
An hour later I was standing at the podium in front of a microphone I wouldn’t use. My mouth was dry. The ward members filled the chapel, and the clock on the back wall seemed to have stopped. Sister Forester was signaling that it was nearly time for me to start.
I lifted my arms. They felt like wriggly worms that didn’t want to obey my head. My heart pounded, and I wasn’t sure that I could remember all the movements Sister Forester had taught me. The atmosphere around me seemed thicker than usual. Why couldn’t I hear? Why couldn’t I sing like other children?
Sister Forester gave me the signal, and I began moving my arms and hands to her rhythm. “I believe in Christ …”
I saw Sister Forester smile, and Dad’s words came to me: “Remember Whom you are singing about.” A warmth came into my heart. I pushed the fear away and sang the only way I knew how.
Sister Forester and I worked together, just as we had practiced. My hands moved effortlessly as I signed the words. But I wasn’t performing. I was bearing my testimony through song. Finally I signed the last words: “Good works were His; His name be praised.”
Finished, I looked down from the stand. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be on me. I saw tears on the cheeks of gray-haired Brother Hansen. Sister Frankel was dabbing her eyes under her glasses with a handkerchief. Sister Forester smiled like she does in Sharing Time when she’s trying not to cry. Even Mom and Dad were wiping tears off their smiling faces.
Then I knew why Sister Forester and Heavenly Father had asked me to do this. It was to teach me that songs about the Savior come from the heart, not the lips or the hands. Now I know that He hears the songs of all the silent children in the world. He always has. He always will.

Morningsides were our seminary’s version of firesides. They were really early in the morning, but I was always glad I went.
At one of those early morning meetings, the speaker gave each of us a penny as we entered the chapel. We held the pennies throughout his talk, and at the end he challenged us to put our pennies in our shoes. His suggestion, at first, sounded like one of those things people do for good luck, like keeping a rabbit’s foot in your pocket. But then he explained his strange request.
The speaker asked us to pray every time we felt the pennies in our shoes. It didn’t sound too hard, but when I got up I realized that a penny in your shoe is only slightly less annoying than a rock in your shoe. Still, I decided to take the challenge.
During the day at school, the penny would slide around as I walked. And when I felt it, I remembered to offer a silent prayer. I forgot about the challenge after I took my shoes off until I wore those shoes again later in the week. I didn’t take the penny out but decided to pray again throughout that day. My day went so well I decided to put a penny in every pair of shoes I owned.
Those pennies changed me. Their effect was much better than good luck. They taught me how to pray and communicate with my Heavenly Father. Now I know how it feels to pray without ceasing and to always have a prayer in my heart (see Alma 34:27; 3 Ne. 19:24, 30).
I don’t keep pennies in my shoes anymore. After a few months, I didn’t need the reminder to thank Heavenly Father for my many blessings or to ask for His help when I needed it. I feel like I know Him better now, and I know He is always there to listen to and answer my prayers.