Gospel Story Finder

At the same time that I was caring for Mary, I had another patient whom I will call Jane. She was 42 years old. Like Mary, she had cancer that could not be cured. Soon after she learned she had a terminal disease, she left home, moved into a local hotel, and followed a life-style in exact opposition to gospel teachings. She visited the bars and drank heavily, and she tried narcotics. In her own words, she was “trying everything before she died.” She died screaming in pain, cursing God.

Throughout my youth, my Church leaders watched out for me. Because my mother died when I was 15 years old and my father had a serious illness, I needed to work at night to earn money and go to high school during the day. I wanted to serve a full-time mission, but I didn’t know how I could save enough money for it. Then the elders quorum president of my ward told me that the quorum would help support me on my mission. I was happy and grateful that they would help me be a missionary. With their help, I served a mission in Brazil. Years later, my wife and children came with me to Brazil while I served as mission president.

Sister Kearon and I have a particular sensitivity and great compassion for Israel and Elizabeth. Our first child, a boy named Sean, died during heart surgery when he was just three weeks old. This was an earth-shattering loss for us. At the time, we wondered if we could survive. We buried him in a painfully small grave in England. Fifteen years later, our family was asked to move from our home in the United Kingdom to serve full time in the Church, and we left that little grave behind.
We didn’t lose our baby on the trek west, and we didn’t suffer the incomprehensible hardships of the Barlows, but we have the beginning of an understanding of what they went through. Our baby boy’s grave is very far away, yet like the Barlows, we have abiding faith in the Resurrection of Jesus Christ and the eternal nature of our family through the holy sealing covenant.

A young missionary who transferred from a teaching assignment to a service assignment struggled with some personal challenges that left him needing Christ’s healing power. Consecrated service brought that power into his life. He said, “I felt that when I was struggling, I could feel Christ lifting me up. There is something special about seeing Him bless people through a food pantry, in the temple, and through His gospel.”

This elder began to feel deeper joy, and his newfound enthusiasm blessed him and his entire family. The Spirit entered their home more abundantly, they attended the temple together more regularly, and Christ became a greater focus in their family. This missionary believes that Christ saved his life and blessed his family through service.

As Paul jogged across the horse pasture toward the barn, he made a mental list of things that he’d need to free the frantic horse: I need some oats. Grandpa said that oats are a great tamer, and if there is anything I need right now, it’s a tamer horse to work on! I need some wire cutters and a halter and lead rope, too—and maybe a flashlight, in case I run out of daylight.
He found everything he needed except the flashlight. The only one he knew about was under the pickup seat, and it was at the hospital. He dropped the wire cutters into the bucket of oats, looped the halter and rope over his shoulder, and jogged back across the pasture.
Wary of getting knocked down again, he carefully offered Ginger a bite of oats. She chewed and reached for more, but he set the bucket out of reach while he put the halter on her and buckled it. Then he offered her another bite before he started cutting wires. Ginger, who must have finally realized that help was at hand, quieted down considerably. Every time she got restless, he gave her another bite of oats. The tangle of wires around her feet was such that he really couldn’t tell which wire to cut, so he had to cut several unnecessarily before he got the strand holding the mass of wire to a half-buried tree stump.
When Ginger felt the tension on her legs ease, she jumped to her feet, shook, and snorted. Then she reared up when she found that she was still tangled. Careful to not get hit by a flying hoof, Paul caught the lead rope and pulled her down. He petted her briefly, gave her a couple bites of oats, and went back to cutting wires. It was so dark by then that he had to work mostly by feel, and he had trouble finding the right places to cut.
Finally the last wire fell away, and Paul pulled the scratchy mass away from her feet. He rubbed a hand down each leg to be sure, left the now-empty bucket to be picked up later, and led Ginger out of the willows and across the dark pasture. She did fine, but he stumbled often in the darkness.
He turned on the barn light and led her under it so that he could examine her injuries. She had some bad cuts, but, he decided, nothing life threatening. Quoting what his father always told him when Paul complained of an injury, he petted the horse softly and consoled her, “It’s a long way from your heart.”
He tied Ginger to a post and went to the house to get some warm water and a rag. While there he read the labels on the containers in the veterinary cabinet until he found one that said it was for “wire cuts and to keep flies off.” Just what he needed!
Ginger let him wash the cuts all right, but pulled free when he tried to spray the medicine on them. With a quick jump, he beat her to the open barn door, closed it, tied her shorter this time, and tried again. She danced around the post, but he finally got all the deeper cuts and scratches covered.
Because the pasture seemed cleaner than the barn, he turned her out when he finished. It was nearly eleven o’clock when he returned to the kitchen, wearily put the bucket and rag into the sink, and dragged himself out to close the chicken coop door.
Too tired to make a sandwich, he drank two glasses of milk and cut a thick piece off the roast to eat. He set the alarm for 6:00 A.M., then fell wearily into bed.

On 10 January 1969, my life abruptly changed. I certainly hadn’t intended to make any changes. I was not active in the Church and was a heavy smoker and drinker; in fact, I had reached the point where I felt unable to function without alcohol. I enjoyed the companionship of my drinking buddies, and the alcohol numbed my senses, making it seem easier to deal with life’s challenges.
But on that January day I did some quick reevaluation of my life. At work I was removing the rind from slabs of bacon with a five-inch boring knife and accidentally sliced a deep cut in my thigh. I started for the door, trying to remove my belt and cutting tools, and fainted before doing either. Co-workers carried me out to the loading dock, placed me in the company truck, and sped off to the hospital. I was losing a great deal of blood, and one man rode in back with me, applying constant pressure to the cut.
Midway to the hospital, we passed over a rough section of railroad tracks, and he was thrown down. By the time he regained his footing and could assist me again, we were both sure I was going to die. Although I was alert, I became extremely cold. I felt and saw a blackness settle over me, and I became very frightened.
I’m dying, I realized. I thought of my wife and children. I can’t die now. I have too much to do.
Right then I determined that if I were spared, I would repent and set my life in order. Immediately the cold I felt was replaced by a satisfying warmth in my body. The darkness fled, and I drifted into sleep. I later learned that more than once I came close to dying on the operation table, yet the doctors were able to save me and my leg.
When I awoke that night, I saw the moon shining through the window. I wept as I thought of my second chance. I felt a strong desire to pray—a foreign feeling to me. I couldn’t kneel, but I poured my heart out to my Heavenly Father. I thanked him for all he had given me and for his patience and mercy.
With the help of a supportive wife and an outstanding bishop, I began making changes I’d never imagined I would make. After being released from the hospital, I attended church with my family. I studied the scriptures and read other Church books as well.
I was ordained a priest and then an elder. Eventually our family went to the temple, where we were sealed for time and eternity.
Other blessings followed. My wife, who had battled with cancer, rheumatic fever, and several other debilitating health problems, felt better than she had felt in years. I had suffered from a hearing loss for most of my life. After much fasting and prayer, I underwent surgery that restored most of my hearing.
My whole life became more peaceful, more enjoyable, more worthwhile. The more I learned and grew, the more I prayed, thanking God for the most fortunate accident of my life.

Old Bob came into our lives in an interesting way. He was a widower in his eighties when the house in which he was living was to be demolished. I heard him tell my grandfather his plight as the three of us sat on the old front porch swing. With a plaintive voice, he said to grandfather, “Mr. Condie, I don’t know what to do. I have no family. I have no place to go. I have no money.” I wondered how grandfather would answer. Slowly grandfather reached into his pocket and took from it that old leather purse from which, in response to my hounding, he had produced many a penny or nickel for a special treat. This time he removed a key and handed it to Old Bob. Tenderly he said, “Bob, here is the key to that house I own next door. Take it. Move in your things. Stay as long as you like. There will be no rent to pay and nobody will ever put you out again.”
Tears welled up in the eyes of Old Bob, coursed down his cheeks, then disappeared in his long, white beard. Grandfather’s eyes were also moist. I spoke no word, but that day my grandfather stood ten feet tall. I was proud to bear his given name. Though I was but a boy, that lesson has influenced my life.

Ever heard of a do-it-yourself musical? The Young Men and Young Women of the Kinston North Carolina Stake have. To help celebrate the sesquicentennial year, they organized, wrote, directed, and performed their own musical drama. First a youth drama specialist was called from each ward and branch in the stake, with a ward adult specialist to assist. Two workshops were held on the stake level to teach how to develop the production. Then each ward and branch selected a different time period of Church history, researched it, and wrote a script for that period. The stake drama specialist tied all the ward scripts together with narrative and musical interludes, and the musical was born! Every youth in the stake who wanted to participate either appeared on stage or helped backstage. Even moms and dads helped, and all had a terrific time.

Elder Craig Proctor and his companion had to wait for every appointment with Julieta Villanueva Bulan Ledesma, a 5-foot nutrition graduate from Philippine Women’s University and mother of four (a girl and three boys), who had a fierce determination to resist the efforts of the two towering missionaries in converting her to the Church.
She found all the excuses to make them wait expecting that, by taxing them to the limit of their patience, they would be exasperated with her. One time, she started to wash a huge bundle of clothes when the two came for another appointment, hoping that they will get the message and leave her alone, not to return anymore. But, Elder Proctor and his companion were not to be discouraged and, at that time and other times, they held fast to their positions in the battle of the long wait. And, then, the moment long awaited by the diminutive Julieta came. The persistent Elder Proctor was transferred. At last, Julieta thought, the battle of nerves was won by her.
There was no apparent reason for Julieta to shy away from the missionaries. Her husband was then 1st Counselor in the Bishopric under Bishop Robert Evans of Makati I Ward. She was, in fact, already active in Church, serving an assignment as non-member Home Making Teacher under the guidance of Sis. Doris Scott, President of the Makati Ward Relief Society.
She was like any other member, attending Church functions and services, but the thought of baptism was still farthest from her mind. She was determined to remain in the faith she was born into. And, that was that, until …
During an unguarded moment, she saw her husband alone in her room, kneeling in fervent prayer, and a very strong feeling tugged at her heart, knowing that her husband was beseeching the Lord to show her the way and the light.
On July 20, 1974, two years, five months and one week after her husband was converted to the Church, Julieta was baptized at the Quezon City chapel. Elder Proctor was there, and great joy was in their hearts as her husband immersed her in the baptismal font.
Autumn of 1975, on October 1 to be exact, Bro. Craig Proctor stood impatiently at the doorway of his home at Oneida Street in Salt Lake City, waiting … This was the longest wait ever. He was expecting the arrival of two close friends from the Philippines, and the minutes ticked on like days.
And then, two familiar figures came into view. His heart leaped with joy as he ran towards them with tears in his eyes. His two friends from the Philippines also cried unashamedly as they embraced him on the street.
For Bro. Proctor, the missionary who waited and waited, another chapter in his book of life had been written.—P. Ocampo, Jr.
Editor’s Note: On October 6, 1975, Bro. Jacinto L. Ledesma and Sis. Julieta were sealed for eternity in the Salt Lake Temple.

I can still remember one particular Young Women lesson, even though my teacher, Sister Cato, taught it years ago. It was about reaching out to others who may not seem to fit in with “our group.”
I was in high school then, captain of the marching band color guard, publicity chair for a club, active on the academic team and in drama, Laurel class president, and a member of the stake youth committee. I was the only member of the Church at my school, but people seemed to respect me for my beliefs.
The day after Sister Cato’s wonderful lesson, I noticed a guy at lunch I’d never really noticed before. He was sitting by himself, except for two other guys who were making fun of him. I remembered having seen him at band practice after school, but I didn’t even know his name. I asked my friends from the band if they knew anything about him.
“That’s Chris. He can’t march and won’t play his trombone loud enough for you to hear him three feet from you!” the trombone section leader replied.
“I think he just moved here from another school,” said another. “People say he’s really weird.”
“I heard he can’t drive to save his life. Once he hit someone’s trash can when he was driving home after school!” another of my friends said.
The bell rang, and we all scattered for class. I continued to think about Chris and how lonely he had seemed at lunch.
The next day, I decided to sit with Chris instead of with my usual group. Ignoring my friends’ stares, I introduced myself and sat down. I really enjoyed my lunch with Chris. He was funny and bright, though a little quiet that first day. The next day at lunch, I asked Chris to sit with my friends and me. My friends protested, but I insisted, and Chris had lunch with us the rest of the year.
I’m so thankful for that lesson in Young Women. Chris and I became the best of friends. When band practice ended each afternoon, we would often end up at one or the other’s house. I introduced him to my younger brothers, with whom he became fast friends, and he introduced me to his girlfriend. We went to the movies together. He helped me get my first job, and we even double-dated to the prom.
The next year, I completed the Personal Progress program in Young Women. My parents decided to have a little party to celebrate my receiving the Young Womanhood Recognition. I handed out invitations to all my friends and reminded them many times, hoping they would come. Chris came—my only friend who wasn’t a member of the Church to show up.
Graduation day came and went, but Chris and I still keep in touch. Who would have known that by following a Young Women lesson, I would end up with a great friendship?

Mara buttoned her skirt and looked in the mirror. It felt funny to wear church clothes on a Saturday, but this was a special Saturday. It was general conference!
“Are you excited for the women’s session?” Mak (Mom) asked. She brushed Mara’s hair with quick, gentle strokes. “I want you to try to listen as much as you can.”
“Yes! I hope they tell pioneer stories!” Mara liked those best.
“Maybe they will,” Mak said. “Did you know your dad is a pioneer?”
Mara was confused. Her dad had never ridden in a covered wagon, like the early pioneers in the Church.
“How is he a pioneer?” she asked.
Mak nodded toward the window, toward the river. “He was fishing there when he met the missionaries. He was the first one in his family to get baptized,” Mak said. “That makes him a pioneer! Now let’s go find your grandmother.”
Yiay (Grandma) was waiting for them in the front room. Mara’s family and her grandparents all lived together. Yiay helped take care of Mara after school while her parents worked. Now Yiay stood by the moped, the big motorized scooter that carried them around the city.
“The Church has only been in Cambodia for 25 years,” Mak told Mara as she opened the door and pushed the moped onto the street. “So we’re all pioneers. Even you!”
How am I a pioneer? Mara wondered as she got on the moped. Mak drove the moped, with Yiay in back and Mara in the middle. Mara held on tight as they zoomed down the crowded street.
As they passed a café, the smell of tea wafted over them. Almost everyone here drank tea. But Mara didn’t. She followed the Word of Wisdom. Mara grinned. That’s one way she was a pioneer!
As the moped turned a corner, Mara saw a wat, a Buddhist temple. The red pointed roof rose above the other buildings. Monks with shaved heads and orange robes sat studying in the courtyard.
Mara knew that most people in Cambodia were Buddhist. They didn’t believe in Jesus Christ. But Mara did. That’s another way I’m a pioneer, thought Mara. And today she would get to listen to the prophet!
As the moped turned into the church parking lot, Mara saw lots of women arriving. Some had walked or ridden mopeds. Others arrived in tuk tuks, small carriages pulled by a motorbike. Many of the women wore dresses or plain skirts, like Mara did. And some wore sampots, beautiful long skirts made of colorful patterned fabrics.
Mara, Mak, and Yiay sat down in the chapel with the other women. Conference had actually happened a whole week ago in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. Now the people in Cambodia would be able to watch the broadcast in Khmer. Mara spoke both English and Khmer at home, and she also learned French in school. Many Cambodians just spoke Khmer.
The first speaker didn’t tell any stories about pioneers. But then the second speaker told a story about walking up a steep dirt path on her way home from school. It was called the “boys’ trail,” and sometimes she would take off her shoes and walk barefoot. She wanted to do hard things so she could be like a pioneer! Mara smiled as she thought about all the ways she was a pioneer.
The last speaker was the prophet. He stood tall. Mara listened extra closely. “I invite you to read the Book of Mormon between now and the end of the year,” he said. “The heavens will open for you. The Lord will bless you.”
Mara knew it wouldn’t be easy to read the whole Book of Mormon. She looked at the women around her. All of them had chosen to follow Jesus Christ. All of them had come to listen to the prophet. She would follow the prophet, just like they did. She would be a pioneer!

When our children were small, my wife Mary and I decided to follow a tradition which my father taught when I was a child. He would meet with each child individually to help us set goals. Then he would teach us how church, school, and extracurricular activities would help us achieve those goals. He had three rules:
We needed to have worthwhile goals.
We could change our goals at any time.
Whatever goal we chose, we had to diligently work towards it.
When our son, Larry, was five years old, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said he wanted to be a doctor like Uncle Joe. Larry had experienced a serious operation and had acquired great respect for doctors, especially his Uncle Joe. I told Larry how all the worthwhile things he was doing would help prepare him to be a doctor.
Several months later, I asked him again what he would like to be. This time he said he wanted to be an airline pilot. Changing the goal was fine, so I explained how his various activities would help him achieve his new goal.
Almost as an afterthought I said, “Larry, last time we talked you wanted to be a doctor. What changed your mind?” He answered, “I still like the idea of being a doctor, but Uncle Joe works on Saturday mornings, and I don’t want to miss Saturday-morning cartoons.” Since that time our family has labeled a distraction from a worthwhile goal as a Saturday-morning cartoon.

Charlotte and her sisters were huddled around the dining room table with paper and pen, each absorbed in a world of her own. Although the wind and snow were blowing through the moors outside, the girls were comfortable sitting by the fireplace in their long woolen dresses.
Born in the early 1800s, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë grew up in a bleak parsonage on the Yorkshire moors of England. After their mother’s death when they were small children, Aunt Branwell, kind but proper, came to look after the family. Their father was good and loving but kept very much to his study.
Once a friend named Ellen Nussey, whom Charlotte had known at school, came to visit for a few days. After walking through the moors with Charlotte and realizing how isolated her friend’s parish home was, Ellen asked, “What do you do with yourself around here?”
“Oh, we’ve plenty to keep us busy,” Charlotte answered. “We teach Sunday School and visit the sick to help father. During the day we help Tabby, our cook, with the food preparation and Aunt Branwell with the housework. The best part of each day is spent by ourselves in our own special part of the moors. In the evenings we … well, we write stories.”
“How exciting!” Ellen replied. “What kind of stories do you write?”
“One night a long time ago we were sitting by the fireplace waiting for it to get dark,” Charlotte said. “Aunt Branwell never let us waste candles until it was dark enough to really need them, so we began to tell stories. We made up some countries along with our favorite heroes, and we’ve been writing little stories about them ever since.”
So began the love of writing by three young sisters who were to be found each evening sitting in front of a candle with pens in hand.
Charlotte found it necessary to bend very low over her paper because of her nearsightedness, and the scarcity of paper didn’t help. The girls had to train themselves to write so small that even a tiny piece of paper might contain a complete story or a lengthy poem.
One night Anne and Emily were writing on a flyleaf that had been carefully torn from a book. Charlotte was finishing a tiny book she had made by sewing small bits of old paper together. She had already completed several little books like this that she kept locked in a writing desk—a small rosewood box.
For many years the girls were too shy about their writing to share it even with each other. It took a small accident by Charlotte to get them to share their work and their dreams of someday having their work published.
Charlotte was moving Emily’s notebook one day to set the table. She had done this many times in the past and had never neglected Emily’s privacy by reading her work. This day, however, the notebook fell open accidently to some poems, and before Charlotte could close it her eyes caught a few lines.
Having studied the best poets at her boarding schools, Charlotte was capable of recognizing good poetry when she saw it. Emily’s poems were good, very good, and Charlotte couldn’t put the notebook down. She knew her sister’s work must be published.
“Charlotte! How dare you!” Emily cried as she came into the dining room.
“It was an accident, Emily; really it was.” Charlotte realized what her sister must think. “Your poems are so good, though, I couldn’t quit reading them.”
Emily’s anger lasted for three days during which she didn’t speak to Charlotte. After all was forgiven, the door was open for the sisters to discuss their work with each other and make plans to try to publish it.
There was something more than their love of writing that made the sisters want to publish their work. It was a fear of having to go out in the world to make a living. It had been hard enough on them to leave home for some schooling, but it was unbearable to stay away after that.
Each served as a governess to wealthy families for a short time, but they could not stand the cold indifference shown them. They longed for the warmth and love of their own home and family. At different times each one of them gave a quick notice to either school or employer and returned to the family.
They finally decided to each contribute some poems into a collection to be sent to an editor. The poems were accepted for publication, but the girls had to pay the printing expense. Only two copies were bought at that time, but these same two copies would be worth a fortune today.
Before the poems were sent off, the girls had a decision to make—what names to attach to their work. Women’s writing was not regarded highly then, so they desired to choose names that were neither feminine nor masculine. Each chose a name using her first initial. Anne chose Acton, Emily, Ellis; and Charlotte, Currer. They wanted the last name to begin with B and finally decided upon Bell.
While they were waiting for the poems to be published, they began a new, larger project. Each was at work on a novel. Emily chose to write about some old ruins that could be seen on a hilltop near their home. She had been entranced by the place for several years as she had watched the wind wuther (blow) through the moors up to the old ruins. She planned to call her book Wuthering Heights.
Both Anne and Charlotte expressed some of their unhappy experiences and feelings when serving as young governesses to wealthy families. Through Agnes Grey Anne told of the selfishness and bad tempers shown her by the “respectable” people for whom she had worked. Charlotte wanted to write about a poor, plain girl like herself, and after much thought she chose the name of Jane Eyre for her heroine.
Anne’s book had very little success at the time it was published, but she ignored that and immediately began another. Emily’s book received more attention, but not all of it was favorable. Jane Eyre, however, was soon being read by people all over the world. In time all the books written by the Brontë sisters became classics in English literature.

September 23, 1846—on the western bank of the Mississippi RiverTremendous thundershower today. The rain came down in torrents, drenching everything. We have only a tent to shelter us. We left Nauvoo in haste a few days ago. Our carefully packed belongings were scattered by the mobs looking for firearms. We have little left. It was not hard to leave the deserted city, but it breaks my heart to see our beloved temple just across the river—so near, yet unreachable. Papa is still grieving. As Brother Joseph’s bodyguard, he feels he should have somehow prevented the martyrdom. If he would just make music again on his fife, I am sure my heart would not be so heavy.

“Mom, can I go play?” Kayla asked. “My morning chores are done.”
“Yes, you may,” Mom replied. “Thank you for doing everything so quickly.”
Kayla had been looking forward to summer break. She enjoyed the freedom summer brought. She loved the warm breezes, trying to catch butterflies, and skipping stones in the pond. So far this summer had been perfect, except for one problem.
“Wait for me!” Kayla’s younger sister, Brooke, cried.
Kayla grew frustrated as she waited for Brooke to catch up. “Pretty soon summer will be over, and I’ll have spent the whole time waiting for my sister,” she thought.
Kayla waited while Brooke tied her shoes. She waited while Brooke looked for her butterfly net. And she waited a long time for Brooke to catch a butterfly before they could go inside for lunch.
Things were the same after lunch. Kayla had just learned to ride her bike without training wheels. She loved pedaling hard, then coasting as far as she could. Brooke wanted to ride her tricycle too, but she couldn’t ride nearly as fast. Kayla didn’t feel like waiting anymore.
“Wait for me,” Brooke said as Kayla rode past.
“Zip!” went Kayla on her bicycle. She zipped and whooshed up and down the sidewalk while Brooke tried her hardest to keep up.
After a while, Kayla noticed how quiet it was. She listened nervously. She couldn’t hear Brooke, and she hadn’t seen her for a while. Worried, Kayla looked around the yard. Then she noticed Brooke sitting onthe lawn, frowning.
“I’m trying, but I can’t keep up with you. I give up,” Brooke said as she put her head down and began to cry.
Kayla sat down next to her. She felt terrible. “I’m sorry I left you behind,” she said. “Will you forgive me?”
Brooke looked up but didn’t answer.
“We can ride together,” Kayla said, smiling. “But only if you’ll wait for me.”
Brooke got on her tricycle and Kayla pushed her to the top of the sidewalk. “Now wait here while I get my bike.” Kayla ran down to her bike and quickly rode it back up. Then they coasted down together. Kayla set her bike down and began pushing Brooke back up the sidewalk again. She glanced at her sister, who sat smiling like a princess. Kayla’s frustration was gone. Instead, she felt warm and happy.
They rode together until they were so tired they flopped down in the long green grass. They stayed there and listened to the crickets until Mom called them inside.
Mom had been watching Kayla from the kitchen window. “That was a very unselfish thing you did today, Kayla,” she said, kissing her on the head. “Thank you for taking such good care of your sister. I think you treated her like Jesus would want you to.”
“This has been my best summer day,” Brooke said.
Kayla loved the way she felt inside. “Mine too,” she said.

The Young Women camp had a similar effect. Twelve young women met with their leaders near the ancient battle site of Marathon. They spent three days together, learning to rely on each other for strength and encouragement.

“When I was 12,” says Loukia, “I went to church for the first time and was so happy, but then I realized that I was the only one my age. Now, two years later, we have so many young women that for the first time we were able to have Young Women camp.” As they met together, she says, “I realized what it means to be a Latter-day Saint. When we live the gospel, a light surrounds us.”

After having been set apart to serve in the Second Quorum of the Seventy, I, with my wife and one of our children, visited my father. We asked him to give me a blessing, something which I have always striven to do when I have received a new priesthood assignment. He laid his hands upon my head and gave me a short but grand blessing. He said, “Son, I bless you that the Holy Spirit may accompany you, your wife, and your children in everything you do.” What more could I wish for?

One afternoon my mission companion and I unexpectedly found ourselves with an extra block of time and were discussing what we should do. We were assigned to a United States Army base in western Germany, and as we drove to the base, I pulled out a list of all the branch members there. On the bottom of the list was a name that I had penciled in just the day before. It was the name of a less-active member who was living on the base alone while he waited for his family to arrive from the United States. The branch president had given his name to us and asked us to find the brother and invite him to the next week’s stake conference. I said a silent prayer that we would be able to find and invite him.
When we entered the base, I received an interesting impression that we should go buy batteries. I shared the impression with my companion, and he drove us to a small electronics store. We quickly found our batteries and were standing in line when I bumped into one of the soldiers standing there. Fortunately for us, all U.S. soldiers have their last names stitched onto the front of their uniforms. My spirits soared as I saw that he had the last name of the man we were looking for. His eyes grew wide in recognition as he exclaimed, “Elders! It’s good to see you. I had been praying that you would find me.”
With the Spirit’s guidance, my companion and I were able to bring that brother to stake conference and help him become firmly rooted in the branch before the rest of his family arrived. I know that if we, like Nephi, let ourselves be “led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which [we] should do” (1 Nephi 4:6), then Heavenly Father will allow us to be tools in His hands to bless others, especially his fallen sparrows.

I was 60 years old, my pockets were empty, and my life was a disgrace. I believed that life was for my own enjoyment. I was lost, my eyes were closed, and then Jesus Christ opened them.
My baptism, confirmation, and the covenants I made with Jesus Christ are the miracle that changed my whole life. I realized what I could gain and what is important to me. Now I am a happy person because I know Jesus Christ.
I would never have thought that a worldly man such as I was would one day become a Church member, a priesthood holder, and a branch president. It is a great gift for me to serve Jesus Christ, our Savior.

Back in Salt Lake City, Janet McMurrin was tending to her dying father. In a conversation about the spirit world, she asked him when he went beyond the veil to tell Grandfather McMurrin that the family were unable to find any of his genealogy to do work for in the temple. He agreed to deliver the message, and shortly thereafter died.
A little time later, about the time that Elder McMurrin was being transferred to Ireland, Janet had a dream in which her father appeared to her. He informed her that he had delivered her message and had now come to tell her that “42 Islington” would do all the rest. With this she awoke and wondered what he could have meant by 42 Islingto”. Members in England at the time would have been able to tell her, but she had to wait for Elder McMurrin’s letter telling her of his changed assignment, one given him by the British Mission President, whose office was at 42 Islington, Liverpool.
When we do all we can, the Lord will do the rest.