Gospel Story Finder

I hated school. There was too much homework. It was too hard, and my grades were bad. I thought dropping out was the best thing to do, so I did.
With no high school diploma or GED, I couldn’t get a job. I couldn’t get into the armed forces. I was really having a hard time.
I decided to get my GED, and it took me seven years. Now I know that dropping out was a stupid idea.
Finish school. You’ll be glad you did.
Blake Combe, 25Orofino, Idaho

The young men working on the nature trail learned important design principles as they tried to clear away some of the undergrowth and trees so a person walking on the trail could see other foliage. At first when the nature trail crew looked at the solid wall of green before them, they came back to Brother Kamauoha and told him they did not know what to cut and what to leave.
“I told them this was their responsibility and I wasn’t doing their thinking for them. Then I asked them, ‘When you are in your fale (Samoan house) and the pola (woven blinds) are down, what do you do when you want to see out?’ And they said, ‘We move the pola aside so we can see.’
“After learning this principle, they cut away some of the trees and undergrowth and created beautiful natural windows where students could come and study the plant life or just walk and think.”

My three-year-old granddaughter illustrated the power of innocence and humility to connect us with God. She went with her family to the open house of the Brigham City Temple in Utah. In one of the rooms of that beautiful building, she looked around and asked, “Mommy, where is Jesus?” Her mother explained that she would not see Jesus in the temple, but she would be able to feel His influence in her heart. Eliza carefully considered her mother’s response and then seemed satisfied and said, “Oh, Jesus is gone helping someone,” she concluded.

No pavilion obscured Eliza’s understanding or obstructed her view of reality. God is close to her, and she feels close to Him. She knew that the temple is the house of the Lord but also understood that the resurrected and glorified Jesus Christ has a body and can only be in one place at a time. If He was not at His house, she recognized that He must be in another place. And from what she knows of the Savior, she knew that He would be somewhere doing good for His Father’s children. It was clear that she had hoped to see Jesus, not for a confirming miracle of His existence but simply because she loved Him.

One preparation day, my missionary companion and I were visiting a cathedral in Parma, Italy. While marveling at the beautiful paintings there, I noticed a monk reading nearby. I received a prompting to talk to him about the Book of Mormon, but I became afraid.
How would a Catholic monk react to a missionary proselyting inside a cathedral? The prompting came again, but again I dismissed it.
A few weeks later, the other two elders in our apartment told us they had visited with a monk named Giuseppe while street contacting. After they had taught him a lesson, he accepted a copy of the Book of Mormon.
When the missionaries met with Giuseppe a week later, he had already read much of the book. He was very excited about it.
Before the missionaries met with Giuseppe again, my companion was transferred, so I joined their companionship. When we went to teach Giuseppe in the cathedral, I was not surprised to see that he was the same monk I was prompted to talk to earlier.
Giuseppe told us he was reading the book of Alma, whom he compared to the Apostle Paul. We decided to teach him the second lesson, which ended with an invitation to be baptized. At the end of our lesson, just before we could invite Giuseppe to follow the example of Jesus Christ by being baptized, the cathedral bells began ringing, startling us.
Giuseppe had lost track of time and said he needed to join the other monks for midday prayers. Then he apologized, saying he would be unavailable in the future because he was going to a monastic retreat. His ordination as a priest would follow.
We were surprised at how that significant moment had just evaporated. Had I responded to my earlier prompting, we would have had more time to teach Giuseppe and he would have had time to finish reading the Book of Mormon. As far as I know, missionaries never taught him again.
After that experience, the sound of clock-tower bells reminded me how valuable and short our time is. For the rest of my mission, every time I heard a bell tower ring, I was motivated to speak to anyone I could about the gospel. Today, I still strive to follow promptings from the Spirit.

My cousin was taken to the hospital because he had severe stomach pain. He had to get lots of tests done. I wrote him a letter and told him to be brave and that I would pray for him. I also packed a good book and a treat, which we took to the hospital. When we left, I had a very good feeling inside. I know if we do kind things for others it makes us feel good and it makes Heavenly Father happy.
Jake S., age 7, Alberta, Canada

1 At the edge of the Congo rain forest near the equator, where the days are hot and steamy and the nights are cool and damp, Little Gorilla sleeps snuggled next to his mother on the jungle floor. Night sounds around him of softly moving leaves and a far-off leopard’s roar soon become the morning noises of chattering monkeys and twittering birds.
2 Before long Little Gorilla and his mother are following their troop leader, Silverback, in search of food. Moving slowly through the forest, they nibble leaves, wild celery, bamboo shoots, and blackberries.
3 Little Gorilla’s mother discovers more fruit in a nearby tree. She is too heavy to climb the tree, so Little Gorilla climbs the tree and gathers the fruit for both of them.
4 At midmorning the adult gorillas stop in a clearing to rest. For a while Little Gorilla plays with the other young gorillas, wrestling, sliding down a log that is slick with moss, and playing tag. Then he goes over to his mother, and she grooms him. It feels good as she parts his fur with her fingers, cleaning him from head to toe before his nap.
5 At midafternoon it is again time to search for food. As the gorillas follow Silverback, he stops abruptly and begins hooting. He places a single leaf between his lips and beats his chest. The other gorillas run to hide in the underbrush.
6 Silverback’s usually gentle brown eyes now stare in anger from under the thick, bony ridge of his forehead. He thumps the ground with his hand and begins ripping up bushes and throwing them around.
7 Little Gorilla and his mother peer between the leaves of their hiding place and watch Silverback run sideways, then charge toward a leopard. The spotted cat snarls at Silverback but swiftly retreats. Cautiously the rest of the gorilla troop again fall in line behind Silverback in search of food.
8 As Little Gorilla follows his mother, he watches Silverback. He had been depending on his mother for everything, but now he is older and will soon leave her. Part of him wants to grow up and be a fearless leader like Silverback. And part of him wants to remain a baby and stay with his mother.
9 It is hard to let go for both Little Gorilla and his mother, but tonight Little Gorilla is to sleep by himself, up in the trees. He has been practicing how to build his nest of twigs and leaves, and he can do it very well. Sitting in his nest, he hears the sound of the distant river. He is lonely.
10 Climbing down to be with his mother, he finds that she does not welcome him as she once did. She will not let Little Gorilla sleep in her nest. It is hard for her to send him away, but she must. Little Gorilla once again climbs the tree to his own nest, where he listens to the river’s current until sleep comes.

My family had an amazing mystery adventure in a cemetery. We felt like explorers—or detectives! We followed a map, looked for clues, and made it through lots of obstacles.
The mystery started when Grandma found a list of family members who were buried in a family cemetery. She wondered why her own grandpa wasn’t on the list.
Grandma knew he was buried there, but she had never visited the cemetery before because she lived far away.
“I wish we could help Grandma,” I said during dinner. I felt sad that Grandma couldn’t find out about her grandpa.
“I do too,” Dad said. “Maybe we can take a trip to the cemetery and find her grandpa’s headstone.”
I was excited to solve the mystery. My little brothers, Joseph, Hyrum, and Daniel were excited too!
First we had to drive a long way and do some detective work before we even found the cemetery. We stopped to ask a man if he knew where it was. Guess what! It was hidden down a road on his farm!
The cemetery was in the middle of a muddy field. It was surrounded by a cinder-block wall and covered with overgrown plants. We had to cut through vines just to open the gate.
It was like a jungle inside! Big trees filled the cemetery, and thorny vines wrapped around the headstones. We had to clear them off to read the names.
“Who is Marenda Ann Thomas Humphrey?” I asked, pulling plants off a headstone.
Dad ran over. “She’s your great-great-great grandmother!” he said. “Hopefully your great-great grandpa’s headstone is nearby.”
We looked and looked for his headstone but couldn’t find it anywhere. Mom and Dad cut and cleared vines. My brothers and I cleaned off dirt, bugs, and spider webs. It was gross! Some headstones had tipped over because tree roots grew under them. They were heavy, but we worked together to lift them up again.
We worked hard all day. When the sun was going down, Dad said it was time to go.
“I don’t think we’re going to find it today,” he said. He sounded pretty disappointed.
I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to find the headstone for Grandma.
“Let’s say a prayer,” I said.
“That’s a great idea. Heavenly Father can help us find it,” said Mom.
We said a prayer and looked one last time. Dad found a long wire and used it to poke the ground. Suddenly the wire hit something solid. Maybe a headstone?
“I think Dad found something!” I said.
We knelt down and cleared away vines and weeds. Under a thin layer of dirt, we found a headstone. The name on it was Rodolph Jackson Humphrey.
“Dad, do you know who this is?” I asked.
When I looked at Dad, he had tears in his eyes. “This is exactly what we were searching for! It’s your great-great grandpa’s headstone,” he said.
“Yay!” we all shouted.
I gave my brothers high fives. “I knew we’d find it! We just needed a little help,” I said.
Mom smiled. “That’s what prayer is for.”
It was tricky and fun searching through the cemetery. We had to overcome walls, mud, thorns, and vines. But it was all worth it to get to know more about my great-great grandpa.
I know that the Holy Ghost helped us and that Heavenly Father answered our prayer. And the best feeling of all was hearing Grandma cheer when we told her all about it.

A remarkable example of President Monson’s kindness occurred in 2012. As the beautiful Brigham City Utah Temple was nearing completion, I met with the First Presidency to discuss plans for its dedication. With Brigham City being only one hour north of Salt Lake City, it would have been very easy for President Monson to travel there for the dedication.
Instead, President Monson said, “Brigham City is the hometown of President Boyd K. Packer, this great Apostle who has sat beside me for so many years in the Twelve. I want him to have the honor and blessing of dedicating the temple in his hometown. I will stay away, and I’ll assign President Packer to dedicate the Brigham City Temple. I want it to be his day.”
It was a wonderful day for President Packer and for Sister Packer, who also grew up in Brigham City. I was very touched by President Monson’s kind and magnanimous gesture to his fellow Apostle. We can all be that way. We can share and be kind and think more of those around us.

Going to a wedding reception alone isn’t always comfortable. But when an old friend invited me to his wedding dinner, I knew I couldn’t miss the opportunity to celebrate with him and his new bride.
The day of the wedding, I arrived just before dinner started. I spotted an empty seat and asked one of the women at the table if it were taken.
“Are you supposed to be here?” she questioned, eyeing me suspiciously.
I had no idea what prompted the question—or the manner in which she asked it. There wasn’t someone checking a guest list. The seating wasn’t prearranged. I was on time and dressed appropriately. What could be the problem?
I smiled nervously. “I’m a friend of the groom,” I assured her. She nodded, so I sat down and tried to strike up friendly conversation with the six couples at the table. Whatever discomfort I had felt before was magnified given the “welcome” I’d received. I desperately scanned the room for someone—anyone—I knew, but aside from the groom, there wasn’t a familiar face anywhere.
But then it happened. My friend, seated next to his bride at the front of the crowded hall, stood. As he did so, he saw me on the opposite side of the room. He paused, smiled, and placed his hand over his heart as if to say, “Thank you for coming. I know you sacrificed to be here. It means so much that you’re with us.”
A feeling of relief and happiness washed over me. Whatever anyone else thought, in the groom’s estimation, I belonged. I smiled as I mirrored his gesture. I hoped my friend knew how much I wanted to celebrate and share in his and his wife’s joy. Whatever social awkwardness I had felt was gone in that 10-second exchange, and I spent the rest of the evening infused with confidence.

It’s a bright, sunny morning on June 26, 1999. The green grass at the Indiana State Capitol building is looking a little shabby. A trailer pulls up, and as 14-year-old Ryan Tripp unloads a lawn mower, it becomes obvious this is no ordinary lawn job.
There are green balloons on the lawn in the shape of a big ribbon—the symbol for organ donation—and Ryan is thronged by Indiana state officials and a large crowd. Flashing a smile, he talks from the podium about the importance of people becoming organ donors.
The idea for what turned out to be a two-year mission began on a spring day in 1997 when Ryan and his dad, Todd, were returning home after mowing church lawns around Parowan, Utah, his hometown. When their truck broke down, Ryan suggested they ride a lawn mower back to town. During the ride Ryan said, “Dad, why don’t we ride this lawn mower all the way to Salt Lake and mow the state capitol lawn?”
His dad replied, “Why don’t you ride it all the way to Washington, D.C., and mow the White House lawn!” Ryan began dreaming about his name appearing in the Guiness Book of World Records for the longest lawn mower ride in history.
But something was missing. Ryan and his family felt they needed a greater purpose for such an undertaking.
Shortly after, while Ryan’s father was getting his truck repaired, his mechanic, a neighbor, confided that their three-month-old daughter, Whitnie, had a rare disease requiring a liver transplant. The cost would be enormous, and the Penders had limited insurance and funds.
Ryan’s heart went out to the Penders. He wanted to help, but what could he do? Perhaps his goal to mow the White House lawn could work together with a fundraising project for Whitnie! Why not hand out cards to the people he met along the way asking for donations to be sent to a special fund? People could pledge money for each mile he drove.
The Tripp family members all wanted to help, and wheels were set in motion. They charted a course from Parowan to Washington, D.C.; they obtained local police permission for Ryan to drive the lawn mower along state and city roadways, and a large lawn mower manufacturer generously donated a machine. Ryan’s mom, Diane, his two sisters, Tiffany and Chantel, and his brother, Robbie, agreed to temporarily take over the lawn-mowing business.
On August 15, 1997, Ryan began his 3,116-mile cross-country lawn mower drive, with Grandpa and Grandma Meidlinger leading the procession by car and his dad following Ryan in their truck.
Sound like fun? Picture yourself driving a lawn mower at 10 mph, 10 to 12 hours a day, for 42 days through blistering heat, rain, and wind. For the first few weeks, Ryan had lots of fun. He signaled his dad on their walkie-talkies, waved to passing cars, listened to music on his CD player, looked at the scenery, and made all kinds of noises as he drove along.
Then he ran into a problem. One day he was particularly tired from their early morning starts and dozed off listening to his music. He awoke to the blasting horn of his father’s truck behind him, just as his lawn mower was careening off the side of the road. His CD days were over.
After that, the hours became long, and it seemed the cornfield-lined roads would never end. “Sometimes I got a little antsy and wanted to get off my lawn mower and go do things a normal boy would, especially when it rained. It got kind of hard to just sit there and drive along the road,” he recalls. The trek became a challenge to Ryan.
However, each challenge brings its own reward, and Ryan’s was time for serious thinking. He thought about his plans for the future; he thought about the importance of never giving up, of keeping promises and commitments; and he thought about how nice it was to have his dad so close. Reaching his father on his walkie-talkie at any time reminded him of talking to another Father: “It was kind of a lesson to me about how close my Heavenly Father is and how I can reach Him through prayer whenever I need something,” Ryan says.
Thinking about his own supportive family, Ryan’s thoughts often turned to little Whitnie. He understood her family’s love for her and knew he must do whatever was needed to help.
Ryan began to see a much greater purpose in this trip. Breaking records took a distant second to helping Whitnie. And as he thought about her, and others he learned about along the way, Ryan’s prayers took on new meaning. “My dad and I would pray every morning before we started and again when we got back to the hotel,” he says. They prayed for safety, for Whitnie, and for all the people needing transplants.
Finally, Ryan’s quest ended at the U.S. Capitol. Senator Orrin Hatch of Utah, other government officials, press members, and TV viewers watched as he mowed the Capitol Hill lawn. The trip was successful—Ryan broke the record and, more importantly, raised $15,000 for little Whitnie, who received her transplant that same year.
But Ryan didn’t see this as the end of his goal. Throughout his trip he had become increasingly concerned about the 63,500 people in America waiting for organ donors. So, even before he and his dad left Washington, D.C., they formulated a plan to further raise awareness for organ and tissue donation: they would mow every state capitol building lawn in the country, including those in Juneau, Alaska, and Honolulu, Hawaii.
Two summers later, on June 1, 1999, Ryan set out on his second mission. This time he had a lot more company—his mother, his sisters, his brother, his Grandpa and Grandma Tripp, and his Grandpa Meidlinger.
The next 72 days were a whirlwind of state capitol buildings, governors, news reporters, talk-show hosts, and families involved in organ donation. The stories they heard from the many recipients, donors, and donor-hopefuls, buoyed them up at each stop.
“One of the coolest stories was about a family in Kansas,” Ryan says. “I had been on local TV speaking about the importance of organ and tissue donation a few days before their daughter died. They told us because they were so touched by what I was doing, they decided to donate their daughter’s organs.”
Ryan encourages everyone he sees to set their goals high and work hard. “With Heavenly Father’s help, you can do anything,” he says, especially if it includes serving others. “It makes you feel so good inside, and you never know how many people you helped.”
Although Ryan met many good people and celebrities along the way, when asked who his hero is, Ryan replies, “There are a lot of role models out there, but my hero is my dad because he’s a good example to me, and he believes in my dreams. I’d like to be just like him when I grow up.”

It was a hot, uncomfortable day, and the heat sapped both my strength and my patience. My job at the checkout counter at a grocery store was about to begin for the evening, and as I sat watching the minute hand of the clock ticking away, the soft, cool air in the store did not make me feel better. Ten more minutes, I thought, and I need to be ready to get to work.
My thoughts were interrupted by the store manager calling over the loud-speaker system, “Kathleen, come to the courtesy booth!”
As I approached the front of the store, a customer asked me where the flour was. I pointed her in the right direction with a smile, but my mind was still grumpy. Lady, let me have five more minutes to myself. Generally, I enjoyed seeing and talking to the customers. They make my job enjoyable—on days I didn’t feel on edge. I could see this was going to be a long evening.
At the courtesy booth, I received the money for my cash register, checked it, and was assigned to the express check stand lane.
Oh, dear! I disliked that check stand. It was meant for customers with eight grocery items or less, but someone was always trying to get by with more than eight items or taking too long to write out a check. What a night this will be!
I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I could hardly smile. I’d worked with the public for years—smile, say hello—even when I didn’t feel like it. One almost has to be an actress in this business.
As the night wore on and the customers came and went, my mood began to get better. I thought I might survive the evening. Just then, I saw old Mr. Smith shuffle through the line. “Hello, Mr. Smith. How are you?” I managed to say pleasantly. I was even able to smile at him and almost be sincere. He proceeded to tell me how he was as he fumbled to get his wallet out of his back pocket and I entered the price of his purchases on the cash register.
Come on, I thought. This is taking too long! I told him I hoped his wife would be well soon. The line behind him got longer. With shaking hands, he got his checkbook out. Oh, great, a check. He asked me to write it out for him. “I’ll be glad to,” I responded in my best voice. As I hurriedly wrote the check, he fumbled through everything in his wallet, looking for identification.
Don’t look exasperated, I told myself. Finally he found his identification, and I copied what I needed onto the check. I thanked him and told him good-bye. He smiled and wished me good day as he walked away.
Now what are all these other people going to say about being delayed by that old man? I wondered. The next man in line said, “Hi.”
“Hello,” I replied, and after making sure Mr. Smith was far enough away, I said that I was sorry everyone had had to wait.
He smiled and said, “I just hope you’re around to help me when I get to be his age.”
His statement changed my whole night. What a lesson he taught me! I had controlled my emotions and smiled because I was paid to, not because I had love or compassion in my heart. But this man had forbearance toward the faults and infirmities of others because he wanted to. His reaction had also made a difference in the attitude of those behind him in line. Their foot stamping and fidgeting had been replaced with smiles and patience.
When you are irritated, tired, and out of patience, it lightens the heart to take a minute to think how you would want to be treated. Then turn it around and treat others that way.

This story is about my little brother, Daniel. One day, when our family was driving through a storm, our big brothers told us that a car was a safe place to be during a thunder-and-lightning storm because it has rubber tires. Tyler, 10, trying to help Daniel not be afraid, told him that if the rubber tires would keep us safe, maybe the thick rubber on the bottom of Daniel’s shoes would also help him to be safe.
One night, Daniel, I, Mom, and two of Mom’s friends—Sister Bowen and Sister Eyring—were together when it suddenly started to rain. The rain got louder and louder, and there was lots of lightning outside. The thunder was booming very loud. The lights went out, and it was very dark. Mom went to find candles and flashlights. While she was gone, I said a prayer with Daniel to ask Heavenly Father to protect us.
After the prayer, Daniel must have been remembering what Tyler had told him about rubber shoes, because he looked to see if everyone was wearing some. He saw that he was barefoot and begged Mom to bring his rubber shoes. Sister Bowen sat by us and said that Daniel could wear her rubber shoes until Mom found his. Even though they were too big for him, he was glad to have them on. Then he started to cry. He said, “If I’m wearing Sister Bowen’s rubber shoes, then she won’t have any to protect her.” He gave them back to her so that she’d be safe. He told Mom later, “I wanted Sister Bowen to be safe. I had to give her shoes back, because if I was wearing her rubber shoes, she might have got hit by lightning. I didn’t want her to die.”
Mom told us that when we care and sacrifice for others, like Daniel did for Sister Bowen, we are showing that we really are trying to be like Jesus Christ. She said that the best way to be protected is to pray to Heavenly Father, just as Daniel and I had when the lights first went out. We are glad to know that we can pray anytime, anywhere.

One day when the king of Thailand wanted to have a banquet for all the princes and lords in his kingdom, he ordered the chief cook to prepare his favorite fish dish.

But the chief cook replied, “Your highness, there are no fish. No fishermen have gone to sea for the past three days because the storm has made the sea too rough for fishing.”

“Do you mean to say there are no fish for my banquet?” the king asked angrily.

“Yes, your highness,” answered the cook.

“Very well then,” proclaimed the king, “I’ll give a handsome reward to anyone brave enough to go fishing and bring me fish for my banquet.”

Although the sea was still too stormy for fishing, one brave fisherman ventured out and soon returned with a good supply of fish for the king’s banquet.

When the fisherman tried to deliver the fish to the king, a guard at the palace gate stopped him and said, “I’ll let you in only if you promise to give me half of the reward the king will give you.”

The fisherman thought the guard’s request was most unreasonable. But seeing no other way to get the fish to the king, he agreed, and the gate was opened.

When the king saw the fish, he was most pleased and at once asked the fisherman to name his reward.

“Give me fifty strokes of the whip,” the fisherman asked.

“What?” exclaimed the king. “You want to be whipped fifty times as your reward?”

“Yes, your majesty. Whip me fifty times, and that shall be my reward.”

“Very well,” replied the king in disappointment. “You will be whipped fifty times. Do you wish for anything else besides that?”

“No. I ask for nothing else,” said the fisherman as he was tied to the wall.

One, two, three, four, five … The whip fell painfully on the fisherman’s back.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen … But the fisherman did not make the slightest protest.

Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. “Stop! Stop!” cried the fisherman.

“Do you wish to change your mind?” the king asked in surprise.

“No, your majesty, but I want to share my reward with the guard at the palace gates.”

“What do you mean?” The king was very puzzled.

The fisherman then explained, “When I was bringing the fish to you, the guard at the palace gate would not let me in unless I promised to give him half of my reward. Since the reward I have asked for is fifty strokes of the whip, and since I have now received half of them, the guard should receive the other twenty-five strokes.”

Immediately the guard was brought before the king. “Is it true that this fisherman promised to give you half of his reward?” questioned the king.

The guard, not knowing what had happened but thinking that he was to be rewarded, replied that it was true.

This made the king very angry. He ordered the guard to be taken away and whipped twenty-five times—his reward as promised by the fisherman.

Then, turning to the fisherman, the king said, “Since you have given half of your reward away, do you wish for something else?”

“No, your majesty,” replied the fisherman. “I ask for nothing more than to serve you as a loyal subject.”

And the brave fisherman left the palace and continued to serve his king.

Why is Floriano Oliveira, a member of the high council in a stake in Brazil, so successful as a missionary? Because he obeyed the Lord’s counsel to open his mouth and share the gospel. One day as he was driving through the congested traffic of São Paulo he took his eyes off the road for but a second and crashed into the car in front of him. He jumped out of the vehicle, hurried up to the car he had hit, opened the door and said, “I am so sorry I hit you. It was all my fault. I accept the full blame and will pay the total costs. I had no intention to do this, so please forgive me. Yet if I hadn’t hit you, you wouldn’t have received this message I have for you, the message that you have waited for all your life.” He then explained the restoration of the gospel to this man, who was a medical doctor, and the man joined the Church two weeks later. Why has Brother Oliveira had so much success in baptizing more than two hundred people? Obedience—obedience to the request of the Lord.

What if you didn’t even have a room to meet in for Sunday classes? That’s the situation some young women from Iceland found themselves in a few years ago. The Church rents rooms in a building there, and at first the young women had to meet in the foyer. That wasn’t the best environment for a class, so after some renovations they turned a closet into a classroom.
Still, “the room was tiny and empty. It was impersonal,” recalls Karolina G., 18. “We decided as a class that we wanted to make the room our room. We wanted to feel the Spirit just by being there, to make it a holy place. So we did. We picked pictures and made our own poster with the Young Women theme on it.”
The result? The room may be small—the five youth and their two leaders barely fit—and it may be cold in the winter and very hot in the summer, but “the room is now a place where you can feel the Spirit,” Karolina says. “I’ve had many spiritual experiences in there. We’re squeezed in, but we’ve become closer. We’ve become a little family. I love this room!”

I was worried. My Primary teacher had asked me to give a talk the next week in sharing time. “You could bear your testimony about prayer,” she had said. We had just talked about prayer in our class.
I had prayed many times. I always said my own prayers, and I often prayed during family prayer. I had prayed for blessings on the food many times too, and I had prayed in Primary before. But now I wasn’t sure I had a testimony of prayer or if I understood how prayer could help me. “Does someone really hear me when I pray?” I wondered.
I went to the kitchen, where my mother was getting dinner ready.
“Mama,” I said, “how can I bear my testimony of prayer when I’m not sure I have a testimony of it?”
My mother put her arm around me. “Why don’t you give a lesson about prayer in family home evening tomorrow, and we’ll talk about it together,” she said.
My mother helped me find stories and conference talks about prayer. Then I began to prepare for family home evening and for my Primary talk.
When I gave the lesson on Monday, my mother and father told me how prayer had helped them. I gave my Primary talk the next Sunday too, but I didn’t feel much different. I still wondered if I had a testimony of prayer. I prayed sincerely about my doubts, but the answer didn’t come right away.
One day my father came home after looking for work all day with no success. He was very sad. He had been out of work for many weeks. I ran to him and hugged him, as I always did.
“Don’t be sad, Papa,” I said. Then suddenly I felt something in my heart. “We need to pray,” I said.
“Right now?” my father asked.
“Yes, right now,” I said. “I believe Heavenly Father will hear us.”
We knelt together and prayed, asking Heavenly Father to comfort us.
After the prayer we read the scriptures, as we did each night, and then sat together and talked. I noticed that little by little our sadness was replaced with the happiness we always had in our home. I felt different—as though we were safe and protected, and I knew that everything would be all right. It was a wonderful feeling.
Mama noticed it too. “Can you feel it, Lucas?” she asked quietly. “The Holy Ghost is comforting us, helping us know that we are not alone.”
“Yes, I feel it,” I said. I knew that Heavenly Father heard our prayer.
It was a night that I will never forget. Now I have my own testimony of the power of prayer.

So often I had been on the “giving” end of prayers, asking Heavenly Father to give his blessings to my loved ones. After I said “amen” I would meditate briefly, then carry on with my day. I never considered how my prayers might affect others’ lives until I happened to be on the “receiving” end of many prayers.
I was pregnant with my third child, and was attempting to follow my doctor’s orders to take it easy. My husband was out of town, leaving me totally in charge of our two small children, when I suddenly became ill with a serious infection that endangered the life of my unborn child. Frightened, I called a member who lived near by and asked him to give me a blessing. He and the elders quorum president soon arrived, and as they administered to me, I felt the sweet presence of the Spirit. However, a visit to my doctor that afternoon caused me to worry again. I thought about the possibility of losing the baby, and spent much of the rest of the day crying.
But that night, my fears were replaced by the same comforting feeling I had experienced during the blessing, and I became aware of the concern felt by family members and friends who cared for me and wanted me and my baby to be healthy. I knew they were praying for me and that their prayers were being answered. I left their love surround me and give me courage. This sweet feeling stayed with me until I finally regained my health.
Often, through the remainder of the pregnancy, people told me that they had prayed for me when I had been ill. I always replied, “Yes, I know you did.” And as I later held my healthy, newborn daughter, I reflected on the miracles that can come from prayer.

A valiant mother courageously fighting a debilitating illness spent untold hours laboriously completing a large, challenging needlepoint work of art. It was a gift to a couple experiencing trials. For the couple it is a priceless treasure, a constant reminder of the precious fruits of resolute effort in the face of adversity, an enduring message of hope bound in the bonds of pure love and willing sacrifice.

An aged figure wearing an Irish cap peered through a wild hedge of bramble close to a fire-ravaged dwelling. Through the drifting smoke he saw a gnarled-faced man in a scraggly beard and a tattered shirt. His eyes widened at his recognition of the marauder. “Sully Pike,” he whispered.
The scraggly bearded man poked around the popping, red leavings with the muzzle of his big shotgun. He turned over an ashy board, then picked up what appeared to be a small, scorched music box. He opened the lid, and a simple melody tinkled from the little box and a tiny dancing lady turned in circles to the music. He sneered, then smashed the box with his boot heel and laughed spitefully. His horse, tethered to the limb of some underwood, whinnied uneasily.
“Them Mormons are to a barn raisin’ on the flats, Sugarfoot,” he assured his bay. “They won’t be back till late this evening, and it’s only really getting dark now.” His attention turned back to the smoldering ruins, and he smirked, “From the looks of things, it appears a Mormon’s homestead takes to a torch as easily as the next man’s.”
His dark humor was interrupted by the rattle of wood on the little bridge down by the creek beyond the big grove of cottonwoods. He growled a curse, hurried to his mount, and with a final scowl in the direction of the burnt dwelling, jabbed the bay’s flanks with his boots and bolted off into the black of the night.
The Donohue family’s flatbed wagon trundled into the smoky yard and stopped. For a long moment, all that was heard was the occasional popping of still smoldering timbers and the snorting of tired horses as shock at what the people seated in the wagon beheld took its grim toll.
Ethan Donohue slipped down from the wagon, numbly gazing at the black, glowing ruins. He had arrived in the valley with his family four years before and carved out of the raw elements a home and a hope that at long last they could live in peace and worship their God without fear. Tears stumbled out of the dark recesses below his brows.
Twelve-year-old Chase sat silent in the wagon and watched his father’s shoulders bunch in pain. Then he noticed their neighbor Clancey O’Hara standing nearby in the shadows.
Mr. O‘Hara slowly advanced to where Chase’s father was standing and rested a comforting hand on his arm. “It was Sully Pike, Ethan. Saw him with my own eyes, I did. He was drunk and looking as mean as a grizzly bear!”
Chase’s mother held Baby Thankful and sobbed quietly, her body shaking with emotion. His seven-year-old sister, MacKinzee, seated beside him in the back of the wagon, was clutching her rag doll and darting frightened looks about at the shadows. Chase placed a protective arm around her and listened to Mr. O’Hara and his father.
“What do you plan on doing about it?” the neighbor asked.
“About Sully Pike?”
“Aye.”
“Nothing much I can do about him, or what he did here,” Ethan admitted, kicking at a hot coal. “The law’s not in favor of our people. Besides, Sully Pike is first cousin to the sheriff.”
Chase’s arm tightened about his sister’s shoulders, and his eyes clouded over with hate. This wasn’t the first time that he and his family had felt the raw sting of persecution, and the dark hurt of it settled over him once again like a vulture’s wing.
Early the next morning the Donohues began sifting through the rubble in an effort to salvage any belongings worth retrieving. Chase, deadened by a sleepless night and a deep, festering spite, sat on a charred chest in the yard and wondered why the small yellow bird in the brushwood was singing so joyfully when everything that belonged to his family had been maliciously destroyed.
He watched his mother pick up a small, badly burned diary. It crumbled in her hands and fell away like a thousand lost memories. She sat on an ashen hearth and began to cry, rocking back and forth. When Ethan stepped up beside Chase and regarded his wife a long, sad moment, the boy asked, “What are we gonna do, Papa?”
“Well, Son, first let’s see if we can. comfort your mama.”
“How can we make her feel better after what Mr. Pike did to us? We have nothing left, Papa.”
“You can’t say we have nothing, Son. We have each other, don’t we? And there’s the team and wagon to carry us on to Mosiah Twigg’s place. He’ll probably let us stay with him until we can get a new place started. And we have a Heavenly Father who’s no farther than a prayer away.”
“What can we ask of Him, Papa? To give us our house back? To put a curse on Sully Pike so lightning strikes him for what he did?”
Ethan gazed at his son a moment, “Maybe we could ask Heavenly Father to help us to not harden our hearts against Mr. Pike so that we can pray for him. Anyone who carries that much hate and spite around from sunup to sunset has to be awfully miserable, don’t you think?”
Chase didn’t answer. He was still too taken aback by the notion of praying for the likes of Sully Pike!
“Bitterness can be a poison worse than a rattler’s bite, Son. If you let it get the best of you, it can rob you of a lot more than Mr. Pike ever could.”
Chase squinted up at the gentle man who stood dark against the amber light, “What could it take that Mr. Pike already didn’t?”
“The chance you might have for any real happiness,” his father replied. “It would be a lot harder to get away from yourself than from the likes of Sully Pike. Once you tie bitterness to your wagon, it follows you everywhere you go. There would be no peace in your life—You’d be just like Mr. Pike.” Ethan patted his son on the shoulder. “I best go see if I can comfort your mother.”
“Papa?” Chase hesitated, wrestling with his thoughts. “Papa, could I take one of the horses and go for a ride?”
Papa’s eyes scanned the wild forest of brushwood beyond the yard as he considered his son’s request. A day earlier he would have said yes. Now, after everything that had happened, it might be too dangerous. A prompting, as still and as deep as the morning light that glowed through the shadows, interrupted his concerns. “Yes,” he answered softly, “but come back soon. We need to be on our way.”
“I will, Papa.” Chase crossed to where the horses were tethered, quickly untied one, slipped onto its back, and galloped off into the haze.
He soon alit, secured the horse to a lightning-split tree limb, crept to the side of a dilapidated outbuilding, and hunkered down behind a clump of tall yellow weeds. The whine of an old screen door opening, then banging closed made him duck lower and peer cautiously between the stems. He could see Sully Pike stagger to a chair on the warped-wood porch, sit heavily, and gaze numbly around the dirt yard.
Suddenly, to Chase, Mr. Pike looked like the very farmhouse he had put to the torch—empty, hollow, vanquished. The man leaned forward in his chair and placed his head in his hands. He remained in that position for as long as Chase watched. As the boy said a silent prayer for the figure on the porch, a peace distilled across his soul.
Chase climbed onto his horse and slipped away into the brush. He reined up to glance back at the shack in the tall yellow weeds. “Papa was right,” he said softly to the horse. “Papa was right!” A warm breeze wafted gently across his brow and seemed to touch his very soul with peace. After a moment, he reined his horse about and galloped home.

Christmas was still a few weeks away, but Truman and his family had already put up the Christmas tree. He was excited as he thought about the presents he hoped to see under the tree on Christmas morning.
A few days later Truman walked into the living room and saw there was one small box under the tree. It was wrapped in red paper and tied with a green bow.
Our first present! Who sent it? Was it Grandma?
No.
Is it from one of my cousins?
No.
Truman was confused.
Well, then who sent it?
You’ll have to wait and see. All we can say is that it is a very special gift.
As days passed, more presents appeared under the tree, but Truman kept wondering about that first red present with the green bow. Where did it come from?
On Christmas morning, Truman raced to wake up his brothers and parents.
Wake up! It’s Christmas!
After arriving at the tree, Truman was excited to see the presents underneath it.
Truman, you may open the small box with the red paper and green bow.
Truman was excited to finally see what was inside.
Truman removed the lid and found a few small items. He pulled them out one at a time—a picture of Jesus Christ, a poem about Jesus’s birth, and a star. Truman showed everyone the picture, and Dad read the poem.
I put the box under the tree so we could remember the real reason we celebrate Christmas.
Truman was happy to remember Jesus.
Dad, you put the box under the tree, but now I know who really gave us this gift.
Who?
Heavenly Father.