Gospel Story Finder

Many letters were received from communities thanking the Church for being part of their Bicentennial celebration. Several were received with almost identical messages of thanks as follows: “We were struggling with our Bicentennial program. We were deadlocked in controversy over allocating our meager financial resources to so many proposed projects. One night as we met in one of our committee meetings trying to get our program moving forward, a representative from your Church called and offered their support. They expressed their love for America and wanted to participate in its 200th birthday celebration. They suggested a program they wanted to sponsor and, much to our surprise, asked for no funding. The spirit of this group was carried forward into our meeting and literally saved our town celebration.” Yes, our message was heard loud and clear, thanks to our Public Communications organization.

I was going on my Silver Duke of Edinburgh’s qualifier in the Brecon Beacons, during yellow thunder and lightning warnings. We were about 5 hours in when we started climbing the peak of Twmpa, one of the Black Mountains. About halfway up I was absolutely shattered and I didn’t think I could get any further. I decided to pray for strength to carry on and reach the top. After I prayed, I felt stronger and could feel God helping me up to the top.
After we reached the top, we continued walking for about 3 hours until we came to the end of the mountain. One of the girls in my group didn’t want to go down the mountain and started crying, which is when the thunder and lightning began. We frantically started getting to lower ground, as we were at the highest point – closest to the lighting. However, we got stuck just off the peak.
We tried to call the leader, but there was no signal. The girls in my group were terrified, and I prayed again that we could get a hold of our leader, and we tried again. He finally answered for just long enough to tell him where we were and where we should go.
After 4 hours, the lightning stopped and we started to go down as it was starting to get dark. However, we took a wrong turn and ended up lost and stuck in a river. We climbed back up with rocks and rain sliding down. We eventually got off the mountain at 9pm, when we were meant to get to camp at 4pm. Our leaders left us on the side of the mountain and didn’t come to look for us and we managed to make it to a minor road. I prayed one more time, absolutely exhausted, and out of nowhere a random lady drove past in a car. She had decided to pick up a chicken at 9pm at night instead of the next morning, and found us wet, cold and upset and drove us to the camp.
I believe in prayer, and the fact that God can help us through any trials we face, both big and small. I am so grateful for the gift of prayer.

Just as God rejoices when we persevere, He is disappointed if we do not recognize that others are trying too. Our dear friend Thoba shared how she learned this lesson from her mother, Julia. Julia and Thoba were among the early black converts in South Africa. After the apartheid regime ended, black and white members of the Church were permitted to attend church together. For many, the equality of interaction between the races was new and challenging. One time, as Julia and Thoba attended church, they felt they were treated less than kindly by some white members. As they left, Thoba complained bitterly to her mother. Julia listened calmly until Thoba had vented her frustration. Then Julia said, “Oh, Thoba, the Church is like a big hospital, and we are all sick in our own way. We come to church to be helped.”

Julia’s comment reflects a valuable insight. We must not only be tolerant while others work on their individual illnesses; we must also be kind, patient, supportive, and understanding. As God encourages us to keep on trying, He expects us to also allow others the space to do the same, at their own pace. The Atonement will come into our lives in even greater measure. We will then recognize that regardless of perceived differences, all of us are in need of the same infinite Atonement.

Every morning my brother and I share the job of emptying the dishwasher. One morning while my brother was busy, I unloaded the entire dishwasher by myself. He was surprised and grateful that I did his job for him. The next morning my brother put away my pile of clean laundry while he was putting his away. I decided to keep the circle of service going and did his dishes job again. We are continuing to serve each other.
Andrew S., age 7, California

On June 29, Brigham learned that three officers from the United States Army were coming to Mosquito Creek. The United States had declared war on Mexico, and President James Polk had authorized the men to recruit a battalion of five hundred Saints for a military campaign to the California coast.

The next day, Brigham discussed the news with Heber Kimball and Willard Richards. Brigham had no quarrel with Mexico, and the idea of helping the United States galled him. But the West could become American territory if the United States won the war, and assisting the army could improve the Saints’ relationship with the nation. More important, the enlisted men’s pay could help the Church fund its westward migration.40

Brigham spoke with the officers as soon as they arrived. He learned that their orders had come after Thomas Kane, a well-connected young man on the East Coast, had heard about the Saints’ plight and introduced Jesse Little to important officials in Washington, DC. After some lobbying, Jesse had met with President Polk and persuaded him to help the Saints move west by enlisting some of them in military service.

Seeing the benefits of the arrangement, Brigham endorsed the orders wholeheartedly. “This is the first offer we have ever had from the government to benefit us,” he declared. “I propose that the five hundred volunteers be mustered, and I will do my best to see all their families brought forward, as far as my influence can be extended, and feed them when I have anything to eat myself.”41

Sister Linda K. Burton told the story of a stake Relief Society president who, working with others, collected quilts for people in need during the 1990s. “She and her daughter drove a truck filled with those quilts from London to Kosovo. On her journey home she received an unmistakable spiritual impression that sank deep into her heart. The impression was this: ‘What you have done is a very good thing. Now go home, walk across the street, and serve your neighbor!’”3

Richard’s life, before joining the Church, was one of welfare checks, food stamps, social worker interviews, public health clinics, and unpaid medical and utility bills. Neither Richard nor his wife knew how to handle even small amounts of money. Richard experienced a marvelous conversion to the Church but came in with many personal deficiencies. He had great difficulty in holding a job. He was referred by his bishop to Deseret Industries for employment. For the first time in his adult life, he began earning a regular paycheck. As Richard worked at Deseret Industries, he began to develop pride in himself. He no longer humped over when he spoke. His wife and children began to develop respect for him as patriarch in the home.
The Deseret Industries rehabilitation coordinator worked closely with Richard as did his bishop. A checking account was established in his name. A workable family budget was outlined and agreed to. Doctor bills that had remained unpaid for over a year were paid. A two-and-a-half-month-old electric bill was paid the day the power was to be shut off. All other bills were slowly brought up to date and handled properly.
Richard’s life was changing. He felt self-worth and direction. Early in July of this year, the general manager of a large laundry-linen business came to the Deseret Industries. He was looking for good employees. Richard was to be given the chance to interview for a job. He expressed great anxiety about the interview. Richard and the Deseret Industries rehabilitation coordinator practiced interviewing over and over. Richard passed the interview and was hired. A new life-style was about to begin.
When Richard left Deseret Industries, a luncheon was held in his honor, during which the following was recorded:
“Brothers and sisters, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I have found a job in the labor market which will pay me more money than I have ever made before. For the first time in my life, I will be able to provide for my family in the way our Heavenly Father wants me to. I am progressing, which is what this life is all about. The bad news, or I should say the sad news, is that I will be leaving all of you. I love you from the bottom of my heart. I am grateful for what Deseret Industries has done for me. I pray that you will all find the happiness I have experienced in working at Deseret Industries. I especially want to thank both Jim Wilson and my bishop who have done so much for me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Richard surpassed his own and his new employer’s expectations. He has recently been promoted and given a handsome increase in salary. A soul, a human life, has been blessed—probably nothing else could have done what a bishop and a Deseret Industries rehabilitation coordinator did.

President Heber J. Grant (1856–1945), seventh President of the Church, told of how President Taylor resolved a quarrel between two friends:
“These men had quarreled over some business affairs, and finally concluded that they would try to get President John Taylor to help them adjust their difficulties. …
“… They … asked [President Taylor] if he would listen to their story and render his decision. President Taylor willingly consented. But he said: ‘Brethren, before I hear your case, I would like very much to sing one of the songs of Zion for you.’
“Now President Taylor was a very capable singer, and interpreted sweetly and with spirit, our sacred hymns. He sang one of our hymns to the two brethren. Seeing its effect, he remarked that he never heard one of the songs of Zion but that he wanted to listen to one more, and so asked them to listen while he sang another. Of course, they consented. They both seemed to enjoy it; and, having sung the second song, he remarked that he had heard there is luck in odd numbers and so with their consent he would sing still another, which he did. Then, in his jocular way, he remarked: ‘Now brethren, I do not want to wear you out, but if you will forgive me, and listen to one more hymn, I promise to stop singing, and will hear your case.’
“The story goes that when President Taylor had finished the fourth song, the brethren were melted to tears, got up, shook hands, and asked President Taylor to excuse them for having called upon him, and for taking up his time. They then departed without his even knowing what their difficulties were.”18

The same difference was true, too, for the group of approximately 110 teenagers from the Augusta Maine Stake, who were at the Washington (D.C.) Temple. They were there to receive baptism for their kindred dead. The youth themselves had prepared the information for the ordinance work.

For the teenagers of the Augusta Maine Stake, temple activity took on an added dimension, too. Every April the youth of that stake usually made a trip to the Washington Temple to perform baptisms for the dead. This time, as leaders formulated plans for the April 1988 trip, they urged the young people, with the help of their families, to obtain the information on one or more of their ancestors and prepare the records for the temple work themselves.

The response was heartening. Even though many submitted records too late for normal processing, by the time of the trip, the names of about 150 ancestors had been cleared for ordinance work. Virtually every active teenager in the stake—about 110 youngsters—went this time. About sixty-five of them anticipated being baptized for their ancestors.

The group rode for fourteen hours to reach their destination. They spent the next day performing baptisms for the dead. That evening, in a fireside at the Washington D.C. Stake center, many testified that they finally knew what the Spirit was like because they had felt it in the temple. The trip was especially meaningful for those baptized for deceased family members.

I have also discovered that the Lord is generous and will often guide us in matters for which we have not sought direction. Some time ago one of our children had run for an elected office at the junior high school she attended. It was the day of the election, and I was home, busy with the routine of the day. Suddenly, it came clearly to my mind that our daughter had lost the election and I needed to go early to the school to pick her up. I watched the clock, and when I knew it was time for the election results to be announced, I arrived at the school. As I walked through the front door, all the youth who had participated in the election were seated in the front hall. They were listening to the results before they were announced to the other students. Our daughter was grateful for an early ride home in order to collect her thoughts, emotions, and priorities before meeting her friends the next day. I am grateful that the Lord, who created the universe, will also guide a mother to comfort the heart of a child.

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.”

Richard, 13, loves to get an open shot and seems to have a knack for eluding defenders and being in the right place when a decisive pass is made. Of course, part of the knack comes from practice. Lots of practice.
Go to the elementary school behind his house in Simi Valley, California, and chances are you’ll find Richard playing in a game or dribbling the ball through the grass with his older brother John, 15. That is, unless he’s busy with a Church project. Richard is the deacons quorum president, and his conviction of his calling keeps him constantly on the phone dialing reminders of activities and responsibilities to his friends and fellow priesthood holders. (He’s in the Simi Valley Third Ward, Simi Valley California Stake.) With Church duties, as with sports, Richard knows it’s necessary to spend time to do a good job.
Richard isn’t the only family member involved with soccer. Besides John, Susan, 10, and David, 7, will rush to the fireplace mantel to show their trophies when the sport is mentioned. And when any of the children play in a game, the whole family goes to watch. That means nine passengers in the station wagon, but it also provides a private cheering section on the sidelines.
The Penrods’ interest in soccer is increasingly typical of American families, including those in the Church. Soccer, long a favorite sport throughout the rest of the world, is finally storming into popularity in the U.S., with youth leagues organized in every state. Many stake athletic programs now include ward soccer teams.
Richard’s father, a junior college professor, says, “We were looking for a game we could get the whole family involved in, without risk of a lot of injuries and without having to buy lots of equipment. This seemed ideal.”
Brother Penrod was right. Soccer is a relatively safe sport, with emphasis on ball handling and finesse, not on body contact. A small player can often outmaneuver and outshoot larger opponents. Rules are uncomplicated, and soccer can be played almost anywhere, just by marking boundaries on the ground. Modified versions of the game can even be played indoors.
Out on the field, Richard makes the game look simple. He feints, counterfeints, and passes. He sees an opening and sprints for it, waving his hand to let fellow players know he’s in the clear. On defense he shouts instructions and directs traffic as though he’s been playing all his life—which is just about the truth. His expertise, along with his scholarship in school, have qualified him for two trips abroad with soccer teams—one to Glenrothes, Scotland, another to Den Haag, Holland. While there, Richard lived with families and attended school, as well as playing exhibition soccer.
Of course, there have been embarrassing times, too. Like slipping and falling in the mud, or getting clobbered with a lopsided score, or losing every game during the season when Dad was the head coach. But some of that has to be expected.
How Richard plays in a particular match is determined by two things: which position he’s playing (he plays three), and which team he’s playing for at the time (he plays on four). On the ward team the ages vary significantly. So do the skill levels. But there, playing is mostly for fun. On the all-star team or in league competition, games are closely contested, and each move makes a difference.
Richard and John will talk for hours about their favorite sport. John plays forward, an offensive position that puts him on the front line of attack. Richard usually plays halfback, the midfield position, which challenges him by requiring both offensive and defensive skills. However, Richard has also played forward, as well as fullback (the last defender between the ball and the goalie).
They disagree about which is the ideal position to play. John says forwards have the most enjoyable job on the field because they go where they want. “It’s kind of like playing hide-and-seek with the defense,” he says. But he also notes that forwards often take the blame for missed goals. Richard counters that halfbacks have the fun of playing at both ends of the field, which, though it demands endurance, allows them power to control the tempo of the game.
John says fullbacks get the most rest, that their main task is to steal the ball and relay it to the opposite end of the field. Richard notes, however, that the defense is often outnumbered, and the fullback’s role is vital in preventing goals. Both agree, however, that the goalie may have the roughest assignment. He’s expected to analyze each shot-on-goal correctly and position himself properly to block or deflect it, often diving face down on the turf in the effort.
The two young men also discuss dreams, like playing on a professional or Olympic team, or even more immediate wishes, like attending a soccer clinic at BYU.
At a home evening recently, Richard brought out a scrapbook he keeps; it’s full of his souvenirs. He passed it around the family circle, describing photos he took himself and clippings from newspapers. The rest of the family joined in with other stories, laughter, and warmth. It was clear that they were all involved in learning lessons through their Church activity and through sports. They were learning about brotherhood by working together; they were learning to plan their time to be able to do things they enjoy and still meet school, Church, and household responsibilities; they were learning about family love, caring, and sharing; and they were learning about fixing goals for themselves. It was clear that they’re involved with soccer—and with each other—for more than just the kicks.

In our afternoon sessions, we had been working on the second movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata. The notes on the page seemed deceptively simple, but it never felt quite right when I played it.
“This time, Maria,” he said, “don’t hang on the notes like you own them. Let them sing through you. Pathetique doesn’t mean ‘pathetic,’ like in English. It means great, powerful emotion. Listen as you play. This second movement is flooded with hope. Remember, you and the piano are the instruments for the master.”
After that speech, what could I do? I thought of the master Beethoven penciling in the notes; then I closed my eyes and began. The feel of this movement had always eluded me. But this time the sounds told my fingers how to play, and the music shimmered in the room forming a momentary blanket against the coldness in other parts of my life. When I finished, I looked at Todd. A tear trickled down his cheeks.
“I can’t tell if that was for the master of the universe or from him, Maria.”
The Master he was talking about wasn’t Beethoven. I remembered Papa’s pain and said, “If you mean God, it was neither.”
“Then you know nothing of gifts,” he said.
“I know there is no God.”
He hesitated before he spoke. “Can I share something?”
“If it’s more of your Mormon religion, I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
I told him about Papa, about his singing, about his pain.
“Perhaps Mormon missionaries can help—him and you,” he said.
“Don’t count on it.”
Sunday evening Todd showed up with two college-age young men. I didn’t think Todd and his friends could help Papa, but after our visit in the music room the day I mastered the Pathetique, I was willing to try. Todd talked that day of what he called eternal things, and although Todd’s words were strange to me, they were full of hope. Even if there was only a slight chance they could help Papa, I wanted to try. I had not told Papa, though. I was afraid he’d say no if I asked.
I let Todd and his friends in, and Papa entered from the kitchen, two drinks already down and another in his hand.
“Papa, this is Todd. I’ve told you about him. He helps me with my music.”
“Ah,” Papa said, crossing the room to shake hands. “You are the boy with fingers of gold, Maria says.”
“She’s kind. But she has gold of her own, Mr. D’Alesso.” Todd stepped back. “Mr. D’Alesso, this is Elder Sals and Elder Warran.”
“What, you have the same funny first name?” Papa asked, grinning.
“No,” Elder Sals smiled. “That’s what missionaries in the Mormon church are called.”
Papa’s lips tightened. “You have a business here? In my home?”
Todd looked at me.
“I forgot to tell you, Papa. I invited them over to talk to us about their church.”
“They go.” Papa turned, and over his shoulder he said, “Now,” and walked back to the kitchen.
I apologized to Todd and the elders, and they left.
Papa came back into the room. I wanted to yell at him for being so rude, but I knew most of it was my fault for not telling him.
“These boys. They fill your head with the funny ideas, and you believe them. Then you find out the truth, and you be bitter. Eh, I know. You listen to your Papa. There is no God. You stay away from that boy and his friends.”
“Okay, Papa. I won’t talk religion with him.”
“No. No more practice with him. He’s bad.”
“No, Papa. I can learn more from Todd in one afternoon than I can from Mrs. Talesworthy in ten years. I won’t quit my lessons.”
“You will stay away,” he shouted. “Final.”
“Please, Papa.”
“Final!” he screamed.
Where my relationship with Papa had been cool and distant before, it now became icy. To disobey Papa was unforgivable, to not work with Todd on my piano, unbearable. In the evenings I went to the library, to a friend’s house, or I occupied myself in my room doing homework or reading.
A few weeks passed, and Pauly came home from college for the weekend. We ate a quiet dinner where Papa asked questions, the same questions Papa always asked—How’s school? You keeping your grades up? You don’t do nothing to let them take your scholarship away? Then later, alone, I told Paul what had happened.
“Papa chooses to pine away his life,” Paul said. “We buried our mother; he buried his joy. Do what you have to do to live your life, Maria.”
Monday, as we walked together between classes, I told Todd I was ready to start piano lessons again.
“Did your father say it’s okay?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter what my father says. It’s my life.”
“You should obey your father.”
“Then I’m destined to take lessons from Mrs. Talesworthy for the rest of my life.”
“There are worse things.”
“Yeah,” I smiled, “like watching you sight-read Chopin without even one mistake.”
“Oh, there are mistakes. You just don’t hear them, yet. But your ear’s improving. Look, there has to be a way to reach your father. I feel responsible for bringing up the idea of talking religion to him in the first place. Maybe I should visit him, apologize, tell him I won’t discuss religion with you, and ask him to let us work together again.”
“No. That’s hopeless, and maybe unwise—especially if you came when he was drinking.”
“Is he mean then?”
“No, not really. Just more stubborn.”
Todd seemed stumped. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “If it’s supposed to work out, it will.”
I stopped walking and grabbed his arm. “People can’t just hope things will work out. They have to do something, Todd.”
Todd turned to face me. “So, what are you going to do?”
“Men!” I said and whacked him on the shoulder.
We both laughed, but I knew he was right about obeying Papa.
The warning bell rang, and Todd started to walk away, then turned around. “You might pray,” he grinned, and was off.
The thought that I could pray had never occurred to me. I’d only seen it done by preachers on TV, or in the movies. I had to do something, though. I thought about Todd’s suggestion the rest of the day and decided I would try it.
That night I poured out my heart at my bedside and after a half-hour climbed in bed. There was no flash of light, no inspiration, no singing angels, nothing. But the melody of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata playing in my mind and an understanding that I must do something.
I stared at the dark ceiling and made a mental list of my options. I could try to persuade Papa to see a doctor. That hadn’t worked before; perhaps, though, it was worth another try. I could leave things as they were and hope that in time he’d heal. But Papa was growing more sullen each week. I could talk to Uncle Ricard and ask him for help. But he was a thousand miles away. I could let Todd talk to Papa, but that hadn’t gone over too well before. I had tried to bring Todd’s name up on two occasions since the missionaries’ visit, and Papa got angry. I told him I wanted to know more about what Todd believed, and he didn’t like that.
Of course I could confront Papa and insist that we either work together or threaten to move out. Chances were, though, I’d end up on the street. And if he threw me out, I didn’t know what would happen to him or me. What I really wanted to do was take responsibility for my own life, let Papa do with his what he would, and secretly start lessons with Todd again.
But that’s not what I did.
It was after dinner the next evening. We had eaten and cleaned up, mostly in silence. When we were through, Papa headed for the bottle of scotch and the TV.
“Papa?” I said.
“What?”
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” His eyes grew darker.
Oh, how I longed to see the brightness in them again. Why did Mama have to go? “Papa, I’m dying.”
“What? You make a joke?” His eyes widened.
“I don’t have a disease or anything, but I’m dying. My music is dying, and so are you.”
“Look. I don’t need you to tell me what I am doing.”
“Papa, I remember one spring afternoon when we were barbecuing and Pauly asked you to sing. You opened your mouth, and the notes came out like the Creator himself had touched your voice. And the world stopped to listen. I asked you that day if you had always sung. Do you remember what you said?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. It matters to me, and it matters to Mama.”
“There is no Mama for you, Maria; no wife for me.”
“Papa, you said that you thought God sent music to give us joy and Mama to show us he loved us. Do you remember?”
Papa lifted his gaze and stared at the wall. “I remember.”
“I don’t know why she died, but you mock her life with your constant self-pity.”
He raised his voice. “I lost my wife.”
“And I lost my mother,” I shouted. “And now I’m losing you.”
“You will not talk to me like that.”
“Why not? If it’s not like this it won’t be at all.” I pounded the table. “The only talk you do these days is to the TV and your bottles of scotch.”
“You give your dad some respect. Hear?” He rose off his seat, his face flushed, and I knew I was close to a point of no return. I could stop now, and in a few days things would be more or less frigid normal. If I pushed him too far, I could lose him as surely as I had lost Mama.
“Papa, what if Todd is right? What if there is a God, and what if Mama is alive, living with him in another world, waiting for you? What if your being with her again depends on what you do here? What if your selfishness and self-pity kept you from being with her after you die?”
He looked as if each word was a well-aimed bullet. He sunk back in his seat. After a moment of silence, he said, quietly, “No one can know about these things.”
“Todd says he and a lot of other people do.”
For the first time in my life I saw Papa as a little boy, a frightened child who had lost hope.
“Father, may I play you a song?”
“You hate me, Maria?”
“No, I love you, Papa. Please, may I play for you?”
He nodded his head and followed me into the living room.
“Sit down, Papa, and listen.”
I closed my eyes and, this time, pictured the Master, like in a picture Todd had shown me. And Mama stood beside him.
I began the second movement of the Pathetique. When I finished, I looked at Papa, deep in his chair, and he said with a softness to his face, “You play like you want God to hear you.”
“I do, Papa. I want to play so well that he will tell Mama how beautiful it is.”
Papa came over and stood behind me. He put his strong hands on my shoulders. “This Todd. He taught you to play like that?”
“No, Papa. You did.”
I felt his hands tremble against my shoulders, and he said, “Tonight, you play for me, Maria, and inside I sing again.”

A few years back a youth sacrament meeting speaker invited those who weren’t sure they felt God’s love to pray and ask whether Heavenly Father loves them.
I took that invitation to heart. Unbeknownst to me, my older sister also decided to do it. We each prayed individually that night. Months later we shared our experiences with one another. I told her how some time after praying, I’d allowed my mind to wander, eventually recalling a poem I had read about the Savior’s love. I had been overwhelmed by the Spirit, and I had felt of the joy of both my Heavenly Father’s and Savior’s love for me. Tears of joy had crept to my eyes, and I had again folded my arms, this time in a prayer of gratitude.
My sister, however, recollected to me that she felt as if she hadn’t received an answer like I had—no enlightening moment or warmth from the Spirit. At first she was disappointed. But in time, she came to realize that she didn’t need an answer like mine: she already knew. And that was her answer.
Do not be discouraged if an answer to a prayer is not what you want or are expecting. Everyone is different, and Heavenly Father can answer the question in different ways, but He does answer prayers.
Because I have pondered Heavenly Father’s love, I know that if we “ask God … with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ,” that “he will manifest the truth of it unto [us], by the power of the Holy Ghost. And by the power of the Holy Ghost [we] may know the truth of all things” (Moroni 10:4–5).

He continued to work on the farm and later went to the University of Utah. During his years at college he played football, played piano for a dance band, and was elected president of his senior class. His professional plans were made as his graduation drew near, but shortly before receiving his diploma he received a letter from President Wilford Woodruff, calling him to serve a mission in Great Britain. It was a major decision—and he struggled with it, as must some young men today. His ultimate decision, however, was to set aside his plans and accept the call.

In the jungles of Indonesia dwells a tiny member of the deer family called a mouse deer. Its Indonesian name is Kancil (CAN-chill). Because it is so tiny—no higher than two or three feet—and because it provides a delicious snack for such jungle inhabitants as the tiger, crocodile, or panther, it has to rely on its intelligence to outsmart these large predators in order to survive.
One afternoon while ambling down a jungle trail to the river Ciliwong (CHEE-lee-wong) to quench her thirst, Kancil overheard two crocodiles talking quietly together.
“Wait here, my darling,” Buaya (crocodile) whispered with clacking jaws. “When Kancil comes down to drink, I’ll grab her and we’ll share a tender snack. Just wait and see how I trick her.”
Buaya’s girl friend floated on the Ciliwong, her beady eyes and nostrils barely above the water. She was terribly hungry and could hardly wait for her snack.
Buaya waddled up onto the shore, tucked his feet under him, and hid his long tale-telling snout with the razor-sharp teeth underneath a pile of rotting leaves. He was sure he looked like a fallen tree trunk.
No sooner was he settled than Kancil stepped daintily into view, her large eyes rolling from left to right, her short tail trembling nervously.
Buaya’s mouth watered, and he worked even harder at looking like an uprooted tree.
“Oh, my!” Kancil called out loud. “That tree must have fallen down during the night. It wasn’t here yesterday!”
“Let’s see now …” Kancil said, pondering. “If you really are a dead tree, turn around. But if you are a crocodile, lie still!”
At her first words Buaya started to move, then he realized his mistake. Too late! Kancil quickly retreated into the jungle, while Buaya’s girl friend laughed. “Fooled by a dumb mouse deer,” she sneered. “I’m going to find myself another boyfriend!” She dived into the river and Buaya never saw her again.

One afternoon my wife had taken our oldest son to the home of a woman who was teaching him to read. I was to pick him up on my way home from work.
His lesson ended earlier than we had expected. He felt confident that he knew the way home. So he started to walk. After he had gone about half a mile (0.8 km), it started to grow dark. He was still very far from home.
The lights of the cars as they streamed past him were blurred by his tears. He realized that he needed help. So he left the road and found a place to kneel down.
Through the bushes he could hear voices coming toward him. Two young people had heard him crying. They said, “Can we help you?” He told them he was lost and that he wanted to go home. They asked if he knew his home phone number or address. He didn’t. They led him to the nearby place where they lived. They found our family name in a phone book.
When I got the phone call, I rushed to the rescue, grateful that kind people had been placed along his way home. And I have been ever grateful he was taught to pray with faith that help would come when he was lost.

“And remember, boys, never, ever, give up!”
Brother Wolff’s words seemed to ring in the silent room, silent not from that last few minutes of afternoon that languish before the final bell, but from the rapt attention of the young men. They knew Brother Wolff’s history. He had joined the Church many years ago when he moved to Queensland, only to lapse into an antagonistic inactivity after a simple disagreement with another member. He nursed that antagonism into full-fledged hatred over the years. A loving friend and home teacher had worked consistently with Brother Wolff until that wonderful day when he had, as he himself phrased it, “come home.”
So they knew that the lesson he had given on home teaching inactive families was straight from the heart. Young as they were, they felt his sincerity as he spoke to them of the bitter agony of the lost ones gone astray and the great joy of those who finally come home.

With hymnbooks in their hands, a group of bleary-eyed seminary students packed pillows and quilts with them. They were barely awake as they gathered at the church on an early Saturday morning. But with the first chords of hymn number one, “The Morning Breaks,” the seminary students from Pleasant Grove, Utah, started a marathon. It would take them more than 13 hours to complete. There was no running involved—just singing. Lots and lots of singing. The seminary students were attempting to sing every hymn in the hymnbook in a single day.
The idea started two years ago when Mike Laudie and his older brother Jim were waiting to be interviewed for temple recommends. They started playing the piano and singing hymns. “We just thought, Wouldn’t it be cool to sing all the hymns in one sitting,” said Mike. At that time, Jim organized and held the first hymn marathon at the Pleasant Grove seminary. Then, this year, Mike was on the seminary council and proposed that the seminary try it again.
First, the seminary council asked the 1,200 seminary students to vote on their favorite hymns. After every 20 hymns, the group would sing a hymn from their top 25 choices. The plan was to save the top-10 vote getters for the last hour of the marathon. Fortified with plenty of doughnuts and juice, they started singing. A few students like David Anson stayed the whole 13 hours. He said, “Music means so much to my life. It has touched me for good.” Others had to come and go as their work schedules allowed. With some talented accompanists spelling each other, the number of singers fluctuated throughout the day between a few dozen to nearly 200. Even if they had come earlier in the day, most who participated came back for the last hour.
The message of the hymns came across strongly for some. They felt the power of beautiful words combined with pleasing melodies. Tyson Peery noted one meaningful line. “There are a lot of hymns we don’t know. But when we sang, ‘There Is Sunshine in My Soul Today,’ one of the lines says, ‘And Jesus listening can hear, the songs I cannot sing.’ That really hit me.”
Another meaningful hymn to the group was “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” Brett Munden said, “I love that song because when I sing it I think of Joseph Smith in Carthage Jail. He asked John Taylor to sing that song for him. It’s my favorite hymn because it was Joseph’s favorite.”
For many, the hymn marathon became more than just an endurance feat. Sarah Overson said, “I thought of the hymn that says, ‘Angels above us are silent notes taking’ (see Hymns, no. 237). I know that God was pleased with us singing praises to Him all day long. Singing hymns is like praying. It was to show Heavenly Father that I was willing to sacrifice my time to ‘pray’ to Him. I want Him to know that I’m willing and trying to improve my habits and keep the commandments.”
These are the 10 hymns the Pleasant Grove seminary students voted as their favorites:
The Spirit of God
A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief
Praise to the Man
I Stand All Amazed
How Great Thou Art
If You Could Hie to Kolob
Called to Serve
True to the Faith
We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet
Come, Come, Ye Saints

When our youngest daughter was about four years of age, I came home from hospital duties quite late one evening. I found my dear wife to be very weary. I don’t know why. She only had nine children underfoot all day. So I offered to get our four-year-old ready for bed. I began to give the orders: “Take off your clothes; hang them up; put on your pajamas; brush your teeth; say your prayers” and so on, commanding in a manner befitting a tough sergeant in the army. Suddenly she cocked her head to one side, looked at me with a wistful eye, and said, “Daddy, do you own me?”

She taught me an important lesson. I was using coercive methods on this sweet soul. To rule children by force is the technique of Satan, not of the Savior. No, we don’t own our children. Our parental privilege is to love them, to lead them, and to let them go.