Gospel Story Finder

The screen door rattled and pitched open, and a large man burst through the doorway, fumbling with his brown-and-white necktie.
“All you Johnsons who’re going to the bus station had better be ready pronto,” he shouted across the yard while fingering the tie and looking cross-eyed at the knot. “If we don’t get Sam to town on time, he’ll miss his bus, and then he’ll miss the airplane, and then the whole Missionary Training Center will be sore at the Johnson family.”
“I’m ready, Daddy,” said ten-year-old Jenny, who was sitting on the front porch swing.
“Oh, good, then we’ll send you instead,” he said. “Won’t even have to take you to the station. We’ll just put stamps on your head and drop you at the post office.”
“Daddy!”
“Just think, you’ll be the world’s first mail-order missionary!”
“Daddy, don’t be so silly! I’ll go see if Emily needs some help.”
On the second floor of the rambling, slightly rundown farmhouse, Samuel stood by the window, taking in the whole scene. It was a variation of something that happened every day around the farm—Dad teasing and one of the younger children getting flustered and all the while both of them loving every minute of it. Yet it was a little different this time, at least to Sam. Maybe because it might be the last time, for a while anyway, that he would be witness to such a little game.
He walked over to his bed and the worn, rounded leather suitcase at its edge. He sat down and looked around the room, staring at small things that until the last few days had not seemed at all important. The cracks in the plaster. The faded blue curtains. The lamp that hung from a long cord, stretching from the middle of the ceiling. The dresser, with countless scars, scratches and nicks, each of them a testament that a once-young family was just now starting to grow old, and perhaps, apart.
Leaving home.
The words knotted Sam’s stomach yet sparked his imagination. For a week, maybe two now, old almost-lost memories had come back to him as he tried to hold on to his home and family. Maybe he was only trying to store away a few good memories for the coming two years. Sure, he’d always known leaving home was part of going on a mission. It was just one of those things, difficult but unavoidable, like skinning knees or catching the measles during the middle of summer vacation.
But now the farewell talk, the people saying good-byes—leaving home seemed to be coming just a little too soon. Where had the countless hours with his family slipped to? Sunny days in the summer that began with a heavy dew on the ground and ended with sweat on the brow after working a dozen hours in the fields. Stiff new denim jeans on the first day of school. Good harvests and lean harvests. Christmas time, with little bright packages under the tree. Mother’s lovingly made new dresses for the girls and plaid shirts for the boys. Grandma in the kitchen fussing, fixing and baking the best cinnamon rolls. Arriving at church every Sunday morning. Long shadows drawing across the emerald green valley on fresh spring evenings.
Now Dad had some gray in his hair and Grandpa couldn’t work all day anymore. And yes, Sam was 19 and on his way to Provo.
His thoughts were broken by the sound of footsteps tapping on the staircase and the clicking of high-heeled shoes coming down the hallway. His mother, short, slender and smiling, poked her head into the doorway.
“About ready, Sambo?” she asked. “Daddy’s trying to round everybody up.”
“I guess I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be, Mom,” he said softly. He picked up the suitcase and laid it on the bed. “Uumph,” he grunted as he pushed it closed. “Didn’t you say this suitcase was Dad’s?”
She stepped inside the room and smoothed her dress with her hands. “Yes, that was Daddy’s. He bought it with a little money that Grandpa and Grandma Johnson gave him when he graduated from high school.”
Sam hoisted the suitcase off the bed, paused, and looked around the room once more. His mother said nothing. Finally he turned toward the door.
“Guess it’s time,” he said simply. “Hope Steven will enjoy the room. He’ll be the oldest now. At least while I’m gone.”
He walked through the doorway following his mother down the hall and stairway toward the front door. He made the final trip through the house almost casually, trying to pretend that he was going into the mountains for an overnight fishing trip with friends. He would have pulled off his little self-deception without any emotional tugs, except for hearing Grandma tell Grandpa to hurry along or they would miss seeing their grandson off. Sam sighed inwardly and pushed through the front door.
Outside, Dad had the dusty station wagon running and all four doors wide open.
“Last call for the Ash Valley International Bus Depot, such as it may be!” he bellowed, and a surge of brothers, sisters, and grandparents appeared and headed for the car. “Let’s see now, there’s Sam and two other boys, plus two grandparents and one mother. That makes six …”
Jenny and Emily came to the car last of all.
“… and two girls adds up to eight,” Dad counted. “That means we’re missing one, according to my calculating.”
“You didn’t count yourself, Daddy,” Jenny reminded.
“Why I believe you’re right, Jenny,” he said. “All aboard!”
The family scrambled to their places in the car, a ritual perfected by years of all traveling in one vehicle. Jenny and Emily toddled over the back seat onto a mattress that Dad kept in the rear of the station wagon. Grandma and Mother took their places on the back seat on the driver’s side, with Steven and Sam squeezed in on the passenger’s side. Dad slid behind the steering wheel, with Grandpa on his right. Mother held Tommy, the youngest, on her lap.
“Two forty-five,” Dad announced. “Not bad. We ought to get Sam there right on time.”
The car circled around and moved onto the tree-lined dirt road that led to the state highway a half-mile away. The house, the yard, the cottonwood trees and the fields were all clouded and then lost in the long plume of dust sent out as the car bounced down the road. Sam wanted to look back and see all these little pieces of his life one more time, but he knew one more glance wouldn’t help much.
“You’ve got to let go some time,” he reminded himself for the hundredth time that week. “Might just as well be now.”
Dad soon broke onto the dark, oily asphalt of the country road. The kids in the back were playing, while Tommy had already fallen asleep. Mother and Grandma talked quietly about a neighbor’s daughter who would be marrying soon. Steven looked at Sam often, smiled, but said little.
After a few miles, Dad melodramatically cleared his throat and all the others immediately knew what was on hand. A speech. Dad was renowned throughout the stake for his oratorical skills.
“Ladies and gentlemen, and most of all, my esteemed son Samuel,” he began grandly. “To my way of thinking, there are only three occasions that call for a speech. When a person’s born, when they die, and when they leave home.”
Grandpa chuckled. “That’s a couple of times too many, if you ask me.”
Grandma looked at Grandpa, a trifle annoyed.
Dad continued, more seriously now.
“Now Sam, you’ve always been a good son and a good brother. You know your mother and I are proud of you, and that your brothers and sisters look up to you.
“We think it’s a fine thing that you are going to serve a mission. Things will be a lot different in Venezuela, but I know you’ll be able to handle the changes …”
Dad paused, and for a few long seconds only the clicking of the keys hanging from the ignition could be heard. Even the girls in the back of the car were quiet.
“Well shucks, Sam,” Dad started again. “I practiced all morning in my mind what I was going to say to you, but it doesn’t seem to fit now. I guess one talk on the way to a bus station isn’t going to make much difference. Besides, I think you are a fine son, and I really wouldn’t know how to change you even if I could. Take care, son,” Dad said slowly.
Grandpa put his arm on Dad’s shoulder and looked back toward Sam and nodded.
“Just keep us proud, son,” Grandpa said. “Keep us proud.”
Sam shuffled his feet on the floorboard and felt a little too warm.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be just fine,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed downward.
“And thanks. For everything, I mean.”
He lifted his head and scanned the valley, following the lines of the round-shouldered hills and dark blue mountains. His eyes fixed on a peak, noticeably taller than the other peaks, and Sam smiled.

“Entering Ash Valley” the sign said, and Sam’s thoughts were shifted from climbing mountains to catching the bus for Spokane. Dad pulled the car up in front of Strandberg’s Hardware Store, which doubled as the bus station. The car stopped, and the Johnson family piled out.
“Afternoon, Charles, Mrs. Johnson,” greeted Mr. Strandberg. “Today must be the day for Sam.”
“Sure is, Henry. How’s the bus running?”
“Should be right on time—about 15 minutes away,” Mr. Strandberg said.
Sam pulled the luggage from the car and started inside to buy a ticket. Grandpa pulled him aside.
“Want me to tell you a secret? When you get up on the bus, you look down at all of us and close your eyes real slow. Then as soon as your eyes are shut, picture in your mind what you’ve just seen and it will always stay there. Better than a photograph. You can never lose a picture that’s in your mind.”
Grandma was next. She rummaged through her purse until she finally found a five dollar bill.
“Buy yourself something to eat when you get to Spokane,” she instructed. “Buy some stamps and stationery and write us.”
“Oh, Grandma, I don’t need your money,” Sam protested.
“I won’t have it any other way,” Grandma said firmly. “You take it. You’ve got to learn how to receive as well as give.”
“Thanks, Grandma,” Sam said meekly, giving her a hug and kiss. “Take care of Grandpa. And yourself.”
Just then the bus roared around the corner and stopped in the parking lot.
“Early. First time in two months the bus has been early,” Mr. Strandberg said, shaking his head. “Family’s saying their good-byes and wouldn’t you know it, the bus is early.”
The family instinctively circled around Sam, and farewell hugs, kisses, and handshakes came in a blur. At last Sam turned numbly toward the bus. He stopped just before getting on. Jenny and Emily were gathered around Grandma, who was again looking into her purse.
“Six dimes is all I’ve got, but they’re yours to share because I love you,” Grandma told the girls as she handed them the change.
“Look, Sam, we’ve got six dimes from Grandma, and we’ll buy you something and send it to you in the mail!” shouted Emily.
It was then that Sam decided to slowly close his eyes. The two girls were in front, down on the ground, dividing the dimes. Grandpa had his arm around Grandma, who was wiping a handkerchief near her eyes. Steven stood on the far left and was waving good-bye. Mother was on Dad’s right side, with Tommy in her arms, her head tilted down toward her daughters. Dad stood tall, steadily gazing into Sam’s eyes, looking proud and sad and dignified all at the same time. Sam pressed the picture into his mind and discovered what Grandpa meant when he said it was better than a photograph.
Sam took his seat, the door closed, the bus driver revved the engine and pulled back onto the highway. Sam kept his eyes closed most of the way to Spokane.
Three weeks later in his room at the MTC, Sam set down his Spanish books and fumbled for the letter he’d received from Jenny. He tore open the envelope and read:
“Dear Sam,
“How do you like the mission field? I hope you are okay. We are all fine here, but we miss you. After we took you to the bus station, everyone was really quiet on the way home. Daddy and Grandpa went out to the shed and worked there until way after dark. Grandma made some rolls, but we weren’t able to eat them all. She said it was because you were gone.
“Guess what happened last Saturday? Daddy and Steven got up early and climbed all the way to the top of Staley’s Butte. …”
Sam stopped reading and put the letter down. He closed his eyes, and a sweet, wonderful picture of a small knot of people standing on the side of Strandberg’s Hardware Store flashed into his mind.
And he thought about the sons he might someday have, and hoped he would be the kind of father to take them to the tops of mountains.

Frederick W. Babbel, who accompanied Elder Ezra Taft Benson on his postwar visit to Europe to assist the struggling Saints, recounts in his book On Wings of Faith one heartrending account. A woman, even the mother of four small children, had been newly widowed. Her husband, young and handsome, whom she loved more than life itself, had been killed during the final days of the frightful battles in their homeland of East Prussia. She and her children were forced to flee to West Germany, a distance of a thousand miles. The weather was mild as they began their long and difficult trek on foot. Constantly being faced with dangers from panicky refugees and marauding troops was difficult enough, but then came the cold of winter, with its accompanying snow and ice. Her resources were meager; now they were gone. All she had was her strong faith in God and in the gospel as revealed to the latter-day prophet Joseph Smith.
And then one morning the unthinkable happened. She awakened with a chill in her heart. The tiny form of her three-year-old daughter was cold and still, and she realized that death had claimed her. With great effort the mother prepared a shallow grave and buried her precious child.
Death, however, was to be her companion again and again on the journey. Her seven-year-old perished, and then her five-year-old. Her despair was all-consuming. Finally, as she was reaching the end of her travel, the baby died in her arms. She had lost her husband and all her children. She had given up all her earthly goods, her home, and even her homeland.
From the depths of her despair, she knelt and prayed more fervently than she had ever prayed in her life: “Dear Heavenly Father, I do not know how I can go on. I have nothing left—except my faith in thee. I feel amidst the desolation of my soul an overwhelming gratitude for the atoning sacrifice of thy Son, Jesus Christ. I know that because he suffered and died, I shall live again with my family; that because he broke the chains of death, I shall see my children again in the flesh and will have the joy of raising them. Though I do not at this moment wish to live, I will do so, that we may be reunited as a family and return, together, to thee.” This prayer, this testimony sustained her until finally she reached Karlsruhe, her destination.

The last category are those who turned their heel against the Prophet Joseph Smith. Almon Whiting Babbitt, an attorney-at-law and a graduate from the State University at Cincinnati who obtained licenses to practice law in six states, is our last example. On 19 January 1841, the Lord revealed to the Prophet that “there are many things with which I am not pleased,” in speaking of Babbitt. “Behold, he aspireth to establish his counsel instead of the counsel which I have ordained, even that of the Presidency of my Church; and he setteth up a golden calf for the worship of my people.”[17] Nowhere is the concept of a “golden calf” better seen in his life than in June 1844. The day before the martyrdom, Uncle John Smith visited the Prophet in Carthage Jail and received instructions to “. . . tell Almon W. Babbitt I want him to come and assist me as an attorney at my expected trial.”[18] Patriarch Smith met with him three hours later in Macedonia, Illinois, and delivered the message. Almon replied, “You are too late, I am already engaged on the other side.”[19]

For the next appointment I was to meet the elders at their home. I was late and had not read the pamphlet nor the few pages in the Book of Mormon they had asked me to before our meeting. When I got to their home, no one was there. I sat on the porch and waited a few minutes. Then it began to pour down rain. I thought that instead of going home and getting soaked I could wait and see if the elders made it back.
While waiting I decided to read in the Book of Mormon about Christ visiting America. I read of cities being destroyed and of the calamities and suffering. I was captivated with the story and I had to keep reading. Soon I got to the part about God introducing his son. I could not believe what I was reading. The words were so powerful, yet they brought peace to my soul. I believed them. I knew that book contained the word of God. I knew it was true!

Two missionaries teaching an older couple in their home in Peru were interrupted by the arrival of the couple’s son, his wife, and three children. The elders explained who they were and what they were doing. The son was suspicious of the missionaries, resulting in an awkward moment. The junior companion prayed silently, “Heavenly Father, what do we do?” The impression came to sing. They sang “I Am a Child of God.” The Spirit touched the hearts of this family of five. Instead of two converts, all seven became members, influenced initially by a hymn.

I did like seeing my friends at church. And every Sunday after church, my dad and I would talk about the gospel. One Sunday we talked about prayer. I said I felt like I was talking to the air. My dad helped me understand more about prayer. We talked about how I was afraid of being called a goody-goody or being known as too “churchy.” My dad helped me realize I didn’t have to let negative labels keep me from doing what’s right.

Everyone likes to feel the support of friends and loved ones, and bishops are no exception. When Bishop Robert Stevens of the Mountain View 11th Ward, West Jordan Utah Mountain View Stake, faced his first Sunday at church sporting a new “hairdo”—he had lost his hair because of chemotherapy he is undergoing—the deacons and teachers decided to show their support in an unusual way.
“We shaved our heads so that my dad wouldn’t feel out of place,” says Jonathan Stevens, the bishop’s 13-year-old son. “We wanted it to be a surprise, so we all had to hide from him until Sunday at church. I could tell it made him feel really good, and we all felt great too.”
The bishop is expecting a full recovery.

Darrell graduated in 1997 and attended Brigham Young University in Utah, USA to complete his master’s degree. From there, he moved to New York City to study at the Manhattan School of Music, for his third degree in the subject he had once failed while still a struggling schoolboy.

Whilst in New York he met and married Jennifer Welch, a renowned opera singer in her own right. In 2005 Darrell, Jenny and their two little sons moved back to Utah where they were both asked to teach at BYU. Darrell was eventually offered a full-time position, and Jenny decided to be a full-time mother.

As a professor of music for 14 years, Darrell was hugely successful, with his students winning major international opera competitions. One of his students, Rachel Willis-Sørensen, was invited to sing at Prince Charles’ 70th birthday party at Buckingham Palace, who has since gone on to be a highly successful recording artist.

In 2019, Darrell was approached by the world-renowned Juilliard School and offered a full-time faculty position. Darrell, Jenny and now five children moved back to New York.

In 2021 it was announced that Darrell would be chair of the music faculty at the Juilliard School. It can be no surprise to learn that his students have also won many competitions and have appeared on The Voice and America’s Got Talent. One student has also been nominated for a Grammy award.

One final story: William Tyndale, who translated the Bible into the language of the common person--English--in the sixteenth century--and was martyred for it--stated to a cleric who opposed his efforts: "If God spare my life, ere many years I will cause a boy that driveth the plough, shall know more of the Scripture than thou dost!"[43] In a parallel some three hundred years later, Nancy Towle, a famous itinerant preacher in the 1830s, visited Kirtland. While there, she sharply criticized the Church. The emotional Sidney Rigdon responded in kind, and accused her of being "in the gall of bitterness, and the bond of iniquity!" According to Towle's record, Joseph said nothing during this heated exchange until she turned to him and demanded that he swear to her that he had seen an angel. Ever gregarious, Joseph good-naturedly replied to her that "he never swore at all." Having failed to rattle him, she tried to belittle him: "Are you not ashamed, of such pretenses?" she rejoined. "You, who are no more, than an ignorant, plough-boy of our land?" Joseph calmly responded: "the gift has returned back again, as in former times, to illiterate fishermen."[44]
Joseph compared himself to an "illiterate fisherman." In this, Tyndale's words were prescient: certainly a plough-boy did grow to know more of scripture than that cleric, and probably more than any man that ever lived, save the Savior only.

When the age reduction for missionaries was announced, we received a tremendous influx of sister missionaries. At times we had difficulty selecting the right areas in which we should have sisters serve. As a result, we ended up with a zone in Antigua, Guatemala, where the majority of ­missionaries were sisters. The area had approximately eight elders and fourteen sisters, if I recall correctly. In one particular zone conference, we were truly focused on the sisters.

However, as my wife was teaching, the Spirit prompted her to pay particular attention to one of the few elders in the meeting. She stopped and walked over in front of one of our district leaders, who was nearing the end of his mission. She looked right in his eyes and said something like, “Elder, do you know that President Brough and I love you?” I watched that missionary’s eyes fill with tears. I knew him as a very good missionary and thought he obviously knew of our love. Later, in a private setting, he told me that he had decided he was going to return home from his mission and go inactive. He did not feel loved. To be honest, I was shocked. But that moment changed everything.

Elder D. Todd Christofferson said, “Women bring with them into the world a certain virtue, a divine gift that makes them adept at instilling such qualities as faith, courage, empathy, and refinement in relationships and in cultures.”12 I witnessed that divine gift as my wife cultivated and cared for that missionary in her role as a ­mission leader. I recently spoke with him. He is strong and active—doing just fine.

A few years ago our stake youth went on a pioneer trek to Martin’s Cove, an area in Wyoming where the stranded handcart pioneers took shelter from the storms and waited for help to arrive. As a stake we had planned and prepared for this experience for months. On the second morning of the trek, around 4 a.m., I awoke suddenly with terrible stomach pains from food poisoning.
In the early morning hours I slowly paced back and forth in significant discomfort. I sat for a while on a wooden bench and watched the sun begin to peek over the horizon. I knew that it was very unlikely that in just a couple of hours I would be able to walk with the youth from our campground to the cove.
All morning I had had a prayer in my heart that I would be able to accompany the youth. However, at one point I stopped and specifically prayed that I would be healthy and able to go to Martin’s Cove. I told Heavenly Father that after all the months of planning and effort, I really wanted to go and have that experience.
At approximately 6 a.m. I received a message that a member of the stake presidency wanted to give me a priesthood blessing. To be honest, I had not thought about asking for a blessing, but I readily accepted the offer. In that blessing President Smith told me that Heavenly Father was mindful of me. He blessed me that my body would rid itself of what was making me sick and that I would be able to fulfill my responsibilities with the youth.
By 10:30 a.m. I was able to leave camp, meet the youth at the cove, and fulfill my responsibilities as promised. I then walked back to camp, a distance of about four miles. I had the strength to do this despite the fact that I had been sick, had slept only a few hours, and had eaten very little food.
I had often wondered why the Lord allowed those faithful handcart Saints to suffer so much. Surely he could have intervened and tempered the storms. As I stood in Martin’s Cove and pondered the pioneers who lived and died there, the Spirit whispered to me that just as the Lord was mindful of me that day, He was mindful of those pioneers in 1856. He knew of their suffering and pain. Just as those pioneers came to know the Savior in their extremities, I too have a testimony that when we have trials and challenges, we can, if we are willing, draw close to the Lord and that He will strengthen and bless us by the power of His almighty hand.

I dreaded testimony meeting each fast Sunday. Time seemed to go so slowly, especially on those sticky, hot summer days when people would rather lean back and wait for somebody else to do the talking. The waiting always made me squirm in my seat. Sometimes I’d watch the big wall clock to see how long it took until someone finally went to the pulpit to bear testimony.
Most of the time, though, so many people wanted to bear their testimonies that the meeting went five or ten minutes over the usual time. Some of them would start crying in the middle of their testimony, and that made me uncomfortable.
But the worst part was Molly Prentiss. She had been bearing her testimony almost every month for two years. She always used fancy words and went back to her seat with a contented smile on her face.
One day I had a great idea: I wrote up a testimony that even a returned missionary would be proud of and practiced it for days until I had it memorized. I even practiced how I’d walk to the pulpit. I hadn’t ever born my testimony before, but how hard could it be? I’d just walk up, deliver my brilliant speech, then go back to my seat as the whole ward smiled in approval. Yes—that would show Molly Prentiss, all right.
On fast Sunday, before we left for church, I stood in front of the full-length mirror and practiced one last time. Wow! Even I was impressed! For once even my braids stayed neatly in place.
I decided I’d save the best for last and give my performance right at the end of the meeting. What I didn’t count on was how nervous I would get in such a short amount of time. When the moment came, I tried to boldly walk up the aisle, but my confidence had just about disappeared.
It was when I was nearly to the pulpit that Sister Johnson and I noticed each other for the first time. Both of us had thought we were the only one headed for the front. I knew that I should let her go first, but I also knew that I would never make it back up that aisle if I had to sit down. Sister Johnson took matters into her own hands and with an understanding smile waved me on and sat in an empty seat on the front row.
When I stepped up to the pulpit, I was suddenly filled with panic. It seemed that there were a thousand people at church that day and that they were all staring at me! I opened my mouth, only to discover that I had forgotten the wonderful speech I had prepared. I couldn’t remember one word of it. I closed my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, hoping I could find the words better that way. When that didn’t work, I opened my eyes again, and there was Sister Johnson down on the front row, smiling encouragingly.
That was when the most embarrassing thing happened. I felt tears pricking at my eyes. And try as I might to hold them back, they burst out and flooded down my cheeks. There was only one thing I could do. I turned and stumbled back down the aisle to where my family was sitting. Mama put a comforting arm around my shoulders, and I heard Sister Johnson saying something about how her testimony affects her the same way sometimes. But that did not make me feel better. I vowed then and there that I would never try to bear my testimony again for the rest of my life.
I was surprised that when church was over, no one from my Primary class teased me about what had happened. Molly Prentiss gave me a sympathetic look.
The next few weeks were busy ones. School started again, and then my eighth birthday came along almost before I realized it. After my baptism and confirmation, a few things began to change. I started getting up a little earlier each morning to read the Book of Mormon before I went to school. That was hard because I hate getting up in the morning, but I was determined to make it all the way through that book.
I also started fasting each month on fast Sunday. There aren’t many things I like to do more than eat, so I forgot sometimes; but even so, I started noticing a difference in how I felt about testimony meeting.
I began paying more attention to what each speaker was saying, and that made the meeting a lot more interesting. I found out that Sister Johnson had joined the Church when she was twenty-six years old. I thought she’d been a member all her life! And I loved it when Brother Badger bore his testimony. He had exciting stories to tell about his life and about miracles he had witnessed.
I finished the Book of Mormon early the next summer. There were great stories and teachings in it, and I was happy that I’d reached my goal. But Moroni had written in the last chapter that if you read the Book of Mormon and want to know if it’s true, you should ponder it in your heart and pray to Heavenly Father about it. He promised that if you do that with faith in Jesus Christ and with a sincere heart, the Holy Ghost will help you know that it’s true. I decided to try it out for myself.
The rest of that week I prayed every morning and night. Sometimes I even said a quick prayer in my mind when I was at school, but I never saw a vision or even heard a voice that told me the Book of Mormon was true. I felt like giving up, but I really wanted to know, so I just kept on praying.
The next fast Sunday, I fasted to know if the Book of Mormon was true. I spent a lot of time on my knees, and I reread some of my favorite parts. It was amazing how seldom I thought about food.
Testimony meeting was going along great that day. I was even happy for Molly Prentiss when she went up and bore her testimony. Then Brother Badger went to the front to speak. His quiet voice trembled as he spoke of his great love for the scriptures and how he knew of the truth of the gospel.
As he spoke, a strange feeling started in a little spot in my chest. It got warmer and bigger until my whole body was filled with glowing, tingly warmth. When he finished, that warmth seemed to make me want to go right to the pulpit. As I stood to bear my testimony, a few words came right from my soul: “I know that the Book of Mormon is true. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

When I was five years old, I became very ill. It turned out that I had polio, a disease that was completely unknown to the small-town doctor. I lay for several weeks on a World War I army cot in our front room beside a coal stove. Afterward, I could not walk. I remember very clearly sliding around on the linoleum floor and pulling myself up on chairs, learning to walk again. I was more fortunate than some. A friend walked with crutches and steel leg braces all of his life.
As I moved into school, I found that my muscles were weak. I was very self-conscious. I knew that I could never be an athlete.
It did not help a lot when I read about the man who went to a doctor to find a cure for his inferiority complex. After a careful examination, the doctor told him, “You don’t have a complex. You really are inferior!”
With that for encouragement, I set about through life and determined to compensate in other ways.
I found hope in my patriarchal blessing. The patriarch, whom I had never met before, confirmed to me that patriarchs do have prophetic insight. He said that I had a desire to come to earth life and was willing to meet the tests that would accompany life in a mortal body. He said that I had been given a body of such physical proportion and fitness to enable my spirit to function through it unhampered by physical impediment. That encouraged me.
I learned that you should always take care of your body. Take nothing into your body that will harm it, such as we are counseled in the Word of Wisdom: tea, coffee, liquor, tobacco, or anything else that is habit-forming, addictive, or harmful.
Read section 89 in the Doctrine and Covenants. You will find great promises:
“All saints who remember to keep and do these sayings, walking in obedience to the commandments, shall receive health in their navel and marrow to their bones;
“And shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures;
“And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint.”
And then this promise: “And I, the Lord, give unto them a promise, that the destroying angel shall pass by them, as the children of Israel, and not slay them.”10

I have a friend whose son came home early from his mission with unexpected mental health challenges. He was suffering physically, emotionally and spiritually, and pushing everyone away. My friend found a picture she loved of the Savior with His hands outstretched. She attached a small photo of her son into those hands. She kept that image by her bedside; a daily reminder that Christ could reach her son—hold him and carry him—in ways that she could not.

The summer of 1870 was a good time to live in the valley of the Great Salt Lake and to be 16 years old! The pioneers’ original settlement was becoming a bustling city, and there was work for anyone willing and able.
That is just what young Robert Hemphill Gillespie was. Bob had gained a reputation for being good with horses and cattle and for being a hard worker.
Bob already had a fine horse and the necessary gear for it—a big accomplishment for such a young man, especially one who had been on his own with no home or parents since he was nine. He had proven himself to be trustworthy and dependable, and people liked to hire him.
One fine June day, Bob accepted a job that required him to cross 100 miles (160 kilometers) of the Great Salt Lake desert. Today people can cross this desert in a car in less than two hours. But on that day more than 130 years ago, it took many hours on a horse. Friends told Bob to be sure and take along some water, so he filled a canteen and set off.
Bob had never crossed a desert before, and he didn’t realize the danger of needing water and having no place to get it. He drank all the water he had before he had covered even half the distance. When he and his horse really began to suffer, Bob figured they still had about 60 miles (98 kilometers) to go.
He thought, “Oh, if I had only saved some of the water! It was warm, but it was wet! If I hadn’t hung the canteen on my shoulder where it was so handy, I might have a little left now!”
He thought of all those swallows of water he had taken when he was not in real need as he was now! In desperate hope, he turned the canteen upside down above his mouth once more. The water really was gone! Fear made him urge his horse to go faster—for a while. Then he noticed that his horse was sweating, and he slowed down.
Soon Bob’s tongue was so swollen he couldn’t close his mouth. His horse was suffering too. “We have to have water!” Bob said to himself.
Just then he saw a small cabin a short distance off the trail. A cabin meant there would be water! He immediately turned in that direction. When he reached the cabin, he found it deserted. There was a deep hole in the ground nearby, and there appeared to be water at the bottom. Bob climbed inside. There was a little water! But there were also dead birds, a dead rabbit, and maggots! The water was bad. Sorrowing, Bob climbed out, mounted his horse, and returned to the trail.
Then he remembered his mother teaching him to pray when he was a small child. He had not prayed in a long time, but he decided to try. Looking around for a suitable place, he left the trail again. He found a large, low place, dismounted, knelt, and began to pray, pleading for water: “Please send me a drink, Lord. Yes, and a drink for my poor horse too! My fine, good horse! Please, Lord!”
Bob thought of rain. “God, canst Thou send rain, please?” he prayed. “Please forgive me, Lord, but we need a drink. Please make it rain. I thank Thee, Lord. Amen.”
After his prayer Bob felt a little better. He climbed back on his horse and rode on, still filled with thoughts of the heat, his thirst, and his horse’s thirst.
Recalling that he had asked for rain, Bob began to scan the sky for clouds. All he could see was one tiny cloud, far to the southwest. He watched that cloud closely, wondering and thinking. After a while he noticed a little wind coming toward him from the direction of that little cloud. Could it be drifting his way? It seemed larger now too. “Yes, Lord,” he said aloud, “I prayed for rain.”
Soon a drop of rain hit his hand. Another hit his saddle, another hit the horse, and then one hit his hand again. Suddenly there came a rain shower from that one little cloud! Within a few minutes, water was rushing down the trail and into a little ravine beside the trail, reaching almost to the horse’s knees! The horse bowed his head and drank. Bob dismounted, got down on his belly, and gratefully drank his fill of the muddy water. Then he refilled his canteen. Refreshed, he and his horse continued on their way.
After riding just a short distance, Bob found that the trail and the ground all around him were hot, dry, and dusty once again. It was then that Bob fully realized what had happened. Halting his horse, he again dismounted and knelt on the dusty trail. Again he prayed with a full heart: “I thank Thee, Lord, for making rain come from a small cloud in the desert so my horse and I could have a drink.”
From that day until Bob died at the age of 86, he told this experience many times to his children and grandchildren. They never tired of hearing it, and they have passed it on to their children and grandchildren.
The most thrilling moment every time Bob told the story was when he bore his testimony: “Now, children, don’t ever let anyone convince you that the Lord can’t answer your prayer, for I know that He can!”

There is a much repeated story by Russell Conwell about acres of diamonds:
Ali Hafid, an ancient Persian, owned much land, many productive fields, with orchards, gardens, and money out at interest. He had a lovely family and was content because he was wealthy, and wealthy because he was content.
An old priest came to Ali Hafid and told him that if he had a diamond the size of his thumb, he could purchase a dozen farms like his, and Ali Hafid said, “Will you tell me where I can find diamonds?”
The priest told him, “If you will find a river that runs over white sands, between high mountains, in those white sands, you will always find diamonds.”
“Well,” said Ali Hafid, “I will go.”
So he sold his farm, collected his money that was at interest, left his family in charge of a neighbor, and away he went in search of diamonds, and he traveled through many lands.
The man who purchased Ali Hafid’s farm led his camel out into the garden to drink, and as the animal put his nose into the shallow waters, Ali Hafid’s successor noticed a curious flash of light in the white sands of the stream. Reaching in, he pulled out a black stone, containing a strange eye of light. Not long after, the same old priest came to visit Ali Hafid’s successor and found that in the black stone, containing a strange eye of light, was a diamond. As they rushed out into the garden and stirred up the white sands with their fingers, they came up with many more beautiful, valuable gems. Thus were discovered the diamond mines of Golconda, which were the most valuable diamond mines in the history of the ancient world. So, had Ali Hafid remained at home and dug in his own cellar or anywhere in his own fields rather than traveling in strange lands, he would have had acres of diamonds.

On April 30, 1844, the ship Timoleon came in sight of the small Pacific island of Tubuai, 640 kilometers (400 miles) south of Tahiti. Canoes filled with men paddled out to greet the passengers. When they met Elders Addison Pratt, Noah Rogers, and Benjamin Grouard, the first Latter-day Saint missionaries to arrive in the region, they greeted them happily. For nearly 50 years, Tubuaians had received Christian missionaries—most from the London Missionary Society—and embraced Christian teachings. Previous missionaries had occasionally visited the island’s two villages, Mahu and Mataura, but they usually stayed only a short time. Telii,1 a local woman from Mataura, was also excited when she learned that new gospel teachers were on the island. The island’s kings and chiefs attempted to convince one of the missionaries to remain as their teacher, and Telii and her husband, Nabota, offered their home as a place for the missionaries to stay.2
The missionaries initially declined these invitations. The people, anxious to have them stay, persisted. “I took the subject into prayerful consideration,” Elder Pratt said, “and was soon convinced that should I leave this island, I should be running away from duty.”3 Elders Grouard and Rogers sailed on to Tahiti while Elder Pratt remained and accepted the invitation to live with Telii and Nabota. The couple immediately began helping Elder Pratt study the local language, and they learned the gospel as visitors asked Elder Pratt to interpret scripture, offer spiritual guidance, and provide healing blessings.4 As Telii and Nabota listened to Elder Pratt preach, the fire of a growing testimony was kindled in their hearts. In late July 1844, Telii and Nabota were the first natives of Tubuai to be baptized. Many others soon followed.

I remember my husband telling our teen-age daughter "I taught high school for a long time, and I can't ever remember one righteous girl turning around a whole group of unrighteous friends. Too often, the one who is trying to keep her standards high begins to relax, then accept, then embrace the talk and dress and attitudes of the world." Based on that counsel, our daughter made some different choices concerning who she associated with, and when she enrolled at BYU–Hawaii, she created strong bonds with an excellent peer group who shared her values and eternal goals. We believe those decisions made all the difference in instilling a desire to serve a full-time mission. Hermana Kammerer is now serving in the Texas Fort Worth Mission, where she is finding great joy in her journey despite the inherent challenges of missionary service.

We have been given all that we need to be successful in these assignments that come. I remember one of these opportunities while serving in the Cannery. I was standing by a conveyor belt watching it go by with dizzying results. One of the workers came up and informed me that a women from my ward had passed out and would I please go and check on her. When I arrived, they were loading her in an ambulance to take her to the hospital. They said she had been out for about thirty minutes. I asked if she had been given a blessing, they said no, but there was a Catholic Priest who had come with a friend, and that he had given her the last rites, but that no one had given her a blessing. I followed her to the hospital and with her husband, we gave her a blessing. It amazed me that with all of the faithful priesthood brethren there, no one had thought to give her a blessing. President Packer said we live far below our privileges. We need to be bolder in using the amazing spiritual gifts each of us are endowed with.

“Sometimes you have to find peace within yourself,” said Rieko Ishikawa, 18, of the Tokyo Eighth Ward. “I live in downtown Tokyo. Whenever I go to stations or anywhere in the heart of the city, I find it very noisy. But where I live, we are close to the high buildings, so it is relatively quiet. You learn to enjoy the parks. You learn to enjoy friendly people. And with the gospel you know that you always have something good to share.
“For example, at school I know my friends would love the Church if they only understood it. So when we had a play at the ward, I took flyers and handed them out to my friends. They wanted to know where to come to see the plays. So I got to tell them where our chapel is, and that let me tell them a little about the Church.
“When I meet others at church, I find so many fine brothers and sisters, including our bishop, who show their love toward people around them. I am really happy to be among such exemplary people.”