Gospel Story Finder

Keslie B. loves a good story. When she’s not singing, swimming, or dancing ballet, she likes to read stories at her home in Brigham City, Utah. So when her grandma told her a story about an ancestor named Marie, Keslie wanted to go to the Family History Library to find out more.
Keslie was happy to learn how to do family history work and piece together the stories of some of her ancestors. But she won’t have to travel to Salt Lake City every time she wants to prepare an ancestor’s name for temple ordinances or do research—Keslie can do many things on her computer at home or at a nearby family history center. Now she can do family history work wherever she lives!
When Keslie walked into the library she saw a big painting called The Eternal Family through Christ. It shows Jesus Christ surrounded by prophets and people from different time periods. Everyone looks like one big family.
The service missionaries and library workers were happy to answer Keslie’s questions. There were so many neat things to see!
This big relationship chart was one of Keslie’s favorite things. She saw how many well-known people are related to each other.

In February 1958, at age 17, I entered the United States Navy. I was assigned to an aircraft carrier, where I met Raymond Covington from Provo, Utah.
I thought Raymond was a bit strange—no smoking, no drinking, no cursing, no nothing. I asked him what he did for enjoyment. He said he did a lot of things, but mostly what he enjoyed was either starting or ending his day with one or two big milk shakes. So Raymond was given the nickname “Milkshake.”
At night, Raymond would tell me about his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was really quite interested, until he told me that if I joined his church, I could not hold the priesthood. That did not go over well with me. Seeing my agitation, Raymond expressed his feeling that perhaps one day the priesthood would be available to me.
As time went by I began to favor Raymond above all my friends because of the way he lived. After a while I found I had ceased to live the kind of life I had been living, and I wanted to do the right thing. He made me realize I didn’t have to curse or drink alcohol. I could make the choice to live a righteous life.
One day several of the guys were sitting on the deck gambling. One of them looked up at Raymond and said, “Milkshake! Say this curse word and you can have all the money in the pot.” I quickly counted the money and found the total to be two months’ pay. I figured since he and I were buddies, Raymond would give me half. But to my dismay, he would not curse. I pleaded with him, but he didn’t believe in that kind of talk. I knew then that to be a true Latter-day Saint was a sacred responsibility.
Raymond was discharged in June 1961, and I was discharged later that year. I often wondered what had happened to my old friend.
One day many years later, in 1990, while looking out the window of my home in the state of Washington in the United States, I spotted two nicely dressed young men. They were missionaries for the Church, and I invited them in. After talking with them a little while, I found out that Raymond’s hopes had come true: President Spencer W. Kimball had received a revelation in 1978 directing that all worthy males could receive the priesthood. I was elated. After receiving the missionary lessons, I agreed to be baptized.
About this time I told a neighbor, also a member of the Church, about my friendship with Raymond. I had no idea the neighbor would go to Utah and actually find Raymond. Two weeks later my old friend “Milkshake” drove more than 1,000 miles (1,600 kilometers) to speak at my baptism. He said he always knew I would join the Church.
In December 1997, I got a call from Raymond’s daughter, telling me he had passed away. I was saddened by the news, but I smile when I think of the reunion Rocky and his friend Milkshake will someday have on the other side of the veil.

I learned to swim in the swift-running currents of the Provo River in beautiful Provo Canyon. The “old swimming hole” was in a deep portion of the river, formed by a large rock which had fallen into the river, I assume, when the workmen constructing the railroad were blasting through the canyon. The pool was dangerous, what with its depth of sixteen feet, its current, which moved swiftly against the large rock, and the sucking action of the whirlpools below the rock. It was not a place for a novice or the inexperienced swimmer.
One warm summer afternoon when I was about twelve or thirteen, I took a large, inflated inner tube from a tractor tire, slung it over my shoulder, and walked barefoot up the railroad track which followed the course of the river. I entered the water about a mile above the swimming hole, sat comfortably in the tube, and enjoyed a leisurely float down the river. The river held no fear for me, for I knew its secrets.
That day the Greek-speaking people in Utah held a reunion at Vivian Park in Provo Canyon, as they did every year. Native food, games, and dances were the order of the day. But some left the party to try swimming in the river. When they arrived at the swimming hole, it was deserted, for afternoon shadows were beginning to envelop it.
As my inflated tube bobbed up and down, I was about to enter the swiftest portion of the river just at the head of the swimming hole when I heard frantic cries, “Save her! Save her!” A young lady swimmer, accustomed to the still waters of a gymnasium swimming pool, had fallen from the rock into the treacherous whirlpools. None of the party could swim to save her. Suddenly I appeared on the potentially tragic scene. I saw the top of her head disappearing under the water for the third time, there to descend to a watery grave. I stretched forth my hand, grasped her hair, and lifted her over the side of the tube and into my arms. At the pool’s lower end, the water was slower as I paddled the tube, with my precious cargo, to her waiting relatives and friends. They threw their arms around the water-soaked girl and kissed her, crying, “Thank God! Thank God you are safe!” Then they hugged and kissed me. I was embarrassed and quickly returned to the tube and continued my float down to the Vivian Park bridge. The water was frigid, but I was not cold, for I was filled with a warm feeling. I realized that I had participated in the saving of a life. Heavenly Father had heard the cries, “Save her! Save her,” and permitted me, a deacon, to float by at precisely the time I was needed. That day I learned that the sweetest feeling in mortality is to realize that God, our Heavenly Father, knows each one of us and generously permits us to see and to share His divine power to save.

You may ask, “Do such things occur even today?” Let me share with you the beautiful account of a grandmother and a grandfather now serving a mission and the manner in which their little grandson was blessed. The missionary grandfather wrote:

“My wife, Deanna, and I are now serving a mission in Jackson, Ohio. One of our big concerns as we accepted a mission call was our family. We would not be there when they had problems.

“Just before we went on our mission, our grandson R. J., who was two-and-a-half years old, had to have surgery to correct a crossed eye. His mother asked me to go with them because R. J. and I are real buddies. The operation went well, but R. J. did cry before and after the surgery because none of the family could go into the operating room, and he was afraid.

“About six months later, while we were still on our mission, R. J. needed the other eye corrected. His mother phoned and expressed her desire for me to be there to go with them for the second operation. Of course, distance and the mission prevented me from being with him. Deanna and I fasted and prayed for the Lord to comfort our grandson during his operation.

“We called shortly after the surgery was over and found that R. J. had remembered the previous experience and did not want to leave his parents. But as soon as he entered the operating room, he quieted down. He lay down on the operating table, took off his glasses for them, and went through the operation with a calm spirit. We were very thankful; our prayers had been answered.

“A couple of days later, we called our daughter and asked about R. J. He was doing fine, and she related this incident to us: In the afternoon after the operation, R. J. awakened and told his mother that Grandpa was there during the operation. He said, ‘Grandpa was there and made it all right.’ You see, the Lord made the anesthesiologist appear to that little boy as though he were his grandpa, but his grandpa and grandma were on a mission 1,800 miles away.”

Grandpa may not have been by your bedside, R. J., but you were in his prayers and in his thoughts. You were cradled in the hand of the Lord and blessed by the Father of us all.

Raymond and Gwen Petersen of Wyoming, USA, have served four missions. Their leaving on their second mission—to Samoa for the second time—was initially a challenge for their children, who didn’t understand why their parents needed to serve another mission.
The family quickly realized what great blessings came from their service. “They had all prospered!” says Sister Petersen. “One couple who had been unable to have children were blessed with a baby boy, another had a miraculous healing from cancer, another with a struggling child saw great progress, and others had their best year in business.”
Their hard work has left a trail of faith through their family line. “We have four grandsons on missions right now who tell us we were their inspiration to go,” says Sister Petersen. “What could be more rewarding than that?”

Take Lem Harsh, chairman of the Venturer Officers Association here at camp. He’s at ease at the microphone and leading a meeting. He makes decisions, gives instructions, teaches, and it looks like it comes naturally. But that’s because he’s been here before. He definitely did not see himself as leadership material his first time at camp.
“I remember coming up and feeling like I had no reason to be here. I wasn’t a leader at all, and I just kind of followed my crew around for a while,” Lem says. “Then I stepped it up because they made you want to be a leader, and they gave you the tools.”
Joe Hiller says he attended the first time mostly because his mom wanted him to. “I don’t think I wanted to see myself as a leader.”
Neal Cook has had some leadership callings, but, he says, “I would look to my adviser and just do what he said. When I came up here and learned what a real leader does, it really opened my eyes.”
So, what does a real leader do?
Andrew Hiller, Joe’s brother, says, “One of the best things you can do as a leader is be the example for others. You may not always know it, but you are being looked to as the example for the group.”
Lem gives an example of example. “You have to make decisions, even if they are not popular decisions—like cleaning assignments. It really helps others to know that you have been willing to do the same thing yourself. The first day here, we were the ones who cleaned the latrines.” When others saw that their leaders were willing to do it, they were more willing to accept the assignment.
One of the most important examples a leader can give is attitude. As Joe points out, “When they see you with a good attitude, then they will have a good attitude.”
Fine. But how do you get a good attitude if, say, your group gets an assignment that sounds anything but fun? Ross says reading the scriptures—especially stories about people like Nephi—helps him have a good attitude. “I think when you trust in the Lord, praying to Him and reading the scriptures, you will have a good attitude because the Spirit will be with you and will be guiding you. And once you have that good attitude, be a good example, and show others it works. You have to decide to have a good attitude.”
One of the coolest things about the young men at this camp is how readily they refer to the scriptures as they talk about leadership. Joe refers to D&C 35:13 and how the Lord uses the “weak things of the world” as His instruments—a reassuring thought for all of us who feel inadequate. And Ross points out D&C 82:18, which says that those who improve on their talents will gain other talents, “even an hundred fold,” all “for the benefit of the church.”
In the end, Lem sums it up. “Whenever I’ve had a question about leadership and what to do, I’ve thought, ‘What would Christ do? How has Christ shown an example of this certain leadership skill?’ And He has. He’s done it, and He’s shown us how best to go about it. Mostly it’s loving each other. If you have any questions, you go to the scriptures, and you find that out.”
In less than a week, the guys at camp learned a lot about leadership and about themselves. Those who thought they knew a lot realized they could still improve. Those who thought they didn’t have what it takes learned they did. Everyone has gifts and talents that can be applied to leadership. And everyone can learn the skills they lack—especially if they are willing to learn from the Spirit and if they are willing to move ahead as Nephi did. The Lord doesn’t call anyone to fail.
Neal Cook: “You don’t have to be some popular stereotype. Just reach inside and be yourself.”
Joe Hiller: “There are different strengths in our group that help the whole group work well together. Same with the crews here. All together we’re a great leadership machine.”
Dave Shepard: “As a leader, you have to be humble. The strengths you have come from God. He has given you those talents to develop.”
Ross Quigley: “God won’t call you to something you can’t handle. He knows you have the capability to do it. But you can’t do it all by yourself. You have to know and use your resources.”
Cameron Swain: “Take an interest in the people you are in charge of. Being a leader is helping them and having them help you. They can teach you as much as you teach them.”

The bell rang on Friday afternoon, and everyone quickly filed out of the school. Finally, my school week was over, and it was time to have some fun with my friends. We threw our backpacks into the trunk of my car and hopped in.
I was the first of my group of friends to have access to a car, so I was usually the driver. I was also the only Latter-day Saint in the group and, even though I had good friends, their standards were sometimes different from mine.
As we drove that day, my friends used swear words to dress up their stories. As in times past, it bothered me. So I thought about how I could cut down on the swearing and make the language of our group better. I knew my friends were aware and respectful of my values, but would they get mad if I expected them to uphold one of those values? I decided to try an idea.
“Hey, I’m trying out this new rule in my car where there’s no swearing allowed,” I said. They all gave me funny looks, but they went along with it. The result was amazing! Our conversations were hilarious because, instead of using swear words to express strong emotions, everyone found funnier ways to say things. It made our experiences in the car so much more enjoyable, and our friendships were strengthened as we kept the rule during car rides together.
I was so glad my friends were receptive to that no-swearing rule and were willing to uphold it in my car. It made me feel good to know I could stand up for my values and have my friends respect them. Best of all, it really made a difference in our friendships and helped us all to better appreciate the effects good language can have on people’s lives.

After the meeting my daughter Alyssa told me a story about her friend Jessie, who has a small catering business. Jessie was asked by her stake Relief Society leaders to make a dessert to serve after the general Relief Society meeting. Jessie told Alyssa she knew immediately what she should make—250 cupcakes. Alyssa volunteered to help transport the cupcakes to the stake center.
The day of the meeting arrived, and when Alyssa went to help, she found Jessie nearly in tears. The cupcakes were ready, but Jessie had sent a picture of them to a relative who said they were not fancy enough for the meeting.
Jessie began to doubt herself. She concluded that the stake Relief Society leaders would be expecting something more elaborate than her simple cupcakes. She was frantically trying to figure out a way to redecorate the cupcakes, but there wasn’t time. She and Alyssa took the cupcakes as they were, with Jessie feeling that she had let the sisters down—until President Uchtdorf spoke.
As he spoke about the tiny forget-me-not flower, a picture of the little blue flower appeared on the screen. It was such a simple flower but so beautiful with its delicately veined petals. President Uchtdorf’s message touched everyone’s heart as he pleaded with us not to become so distracted with the large exotic blooms around us that we forget the five simple but important truths he was teaching us.
After the closing prayer, the sisters made their way to the cultural hall. When Alyssa and Jessie walked in, they found everyone surrounding the dessert table and asking, “How did they know?”
Each cupcake was frosted in plain white frosting and decorated with one simple, beautiful, delicate, five-petaled forget-me-not flower.

Some years ago, when the Missionary Executive Committee was comprised of Spencer W. Kimball, Gordon B. Hinckley, and Thomas S. Monson, Brother and Sister Hinckley hosted a dinner for the committee members and our wives. We had just finished a lovely dinner in the beautiful home—which Brother Hinckley constructed and on which he did most of the actual work—when suddenly there was a knock at the door. President Hinckley opened the door and noted his home teacher standing there. The home teacher said, “I don’t have with me my companion, but I felt I should come tonight. I didn’t know you would be entertaining company.”
President Hinckley graciously invited the home teacher to come in and sit down and instruct three Apostles and their wives concerning our duty as members. With a bit of trepidation, the home teacher did his best. President Hinckley thanked him for coming, after which the home teacher made a prompt retreat.

Here is an example of a priesthood holder magnifying his priesthood responsibility. I heard this from Elder Jeffrey D. Erekson, my companion in a stake conference in Idaho. As a young married elder, desperately poor and feeling unable to finish his last year of college, Jeffrey decided to drop out and accept an attractive job offer. A few days later his elders quorum president came to his home. “Do you understand the significance of the priesthood keys I hold?” the elders quorum president asked. When Jeffrey said he did, the president told him that since hearing of his intention to drop out of college, the Lord had tormented him during sleepless nights to give Jeffrey this message: “As your elders quorum president, I counsel you not to drop out of college. That is a message to you from the Lord.” Jeffrey stayed in school. Years later I met him when he was a successful businessman and heard him tell an audience of priesthood holders, “That [counsel] has made all the difference in my life.”

A priesthood holder magnified his priesthood and calling, and that made “all the difference” in the life of another child of God.

“Christmas 2018 was my most beautiful Christmas. There was a feeling of togetherness and friendliness, and I got to participate in an event for refugees.
“I made red paper boots and taught those who were invited to the dinner to make them, to place one on each plate. Those invited to the evening brought backpacks filled with personal hygiene items so that they could be handed out on a Sunday.
“We watched a film about Christ with the refugees as part of the evening. It was a good Christmas to remember.”
Alexis L., Paris, France

This Christmas seemed the worst ever. I longed for a BMX mountain bike like snowflakes want cold weather. My friend Simon had one for his 14th birthday last month. Cool blue and chrome with 15 gears. He’s always raving about riding through the Clent hills and forests, a couple of miles from our village in the central part of England.
But I didn’t get one. Instead my presents were a track suit, new skateboard, and the promise of a job starting the day after tomorrow. A paper round. A 6:00 A.M. paper round! I mean, how bad can things get?
Not only would I miss skimming over frosted hillsides at breathtaking speeds, but I would have to get up early, starting Wednesday. And it’s holiday time. Lying-in-bed time.
What were my parents thinking of? I can guess, of course. It’s all about working for things you badly want, so you’ll appreciate them. Old-fashioned nonsense if you ask me. Of course, I’d appreciate that bike. What could be more amazing than bombing into the distance along those mountain tracks? I’d be there every spare minute. Life can be mean at times.
It felt even more mean Wednesday morning. “Come on, Robert,” Mum whispered. “It’s quarter to six. Rise and shine. There’s porridge and hot black currant on the kitchen table.”
I couldn’t even focus properly. Surely this wasn’t for real. It’s liquorice black out there, freezing cold and lonely. The whole world’s asleep except for me—and my crazy Mum.
Breakfast didn’t taste too good. Lumpy porridge bounced in thick clumps as I stumbled onto our porch. Muffled in track suit, red jacket, white scarf, red woolly hat and boots, I felt like some undersized Santa.
“Now don’t forget houses 50 and 66 don’t want papers delivered,” Mum reminded, helping me stuff endless sheets into the dirty yellow bag.
I lifted the sagging load onto my shoulder. “Mum, I don’t want to sound weak or anything, but this is killing me. Have you felt the weight of these things?”
“Never mind, dear. Think of the muscles you’ll build. Here’s your skateboard. And remember, be quiet in the block of flats. Elderly people don’t like being wakened this early.”
“Huh!” I muttered, heading lopsidedly down the path. “They’re not the only ones.”
The first morning was painful. I never realized how many different letter box shapes there are. The wide ones move along with the newspaper. But others—I nearly lost my fingers a few times. Heavy gold ones that grab before the paper’s through are the worst. They look rich and splendid, but they grab.
I got quite a shock at one house. As I slid a paper through the wide chrome flap, I heard a snarling thud as a body hit the door, snatching the paper and just missing my fingers. A little shaken, I walked down the path and rode to the next house.
A muffled figure was climbing into his car. He turned as he heard me coming.
“Ah, there you are my lad.” The man actually sounded pleased to see me. No dogs. No fighting metal slits. Human hands to receive my offering.
“I hoped you’d arrive before I left for work.” His voice was soft, kindly. “We’ve been away, so we didn’t give our usual tip this year. Here, have this.” He put two pound coins into my hand in exchange for a paper. Two solid pounds. Brilliant!
“Thanks very much, sir.” I stood, open-mouthed, wondering if I should bow or shake his hand or something. But he was in the car and gone before I could move. I made mental notes never to take shortcuts over this man’s garden.
I moved on. With feet half iced and fingers black with ink, I began dreaming of earnings. Let’s see—if I get five pounds a week for sixteen weeks, in four months there will be enough for a secondhand bike. And I already have two pounds. I could almost smell spring sunshine and scorching tyres.
As six-thirty appeared, so did a lighter sky and household stirrings. I had ten houses to go before freedom. I never even saw the small lad until I reached his doorstep, because something else caught my eye. The newspaper fell open at page 4, and there, taking up a whole sheet of pictures, were bike adverts. Oh man, how my feet itched for those pedals. And look at those wheels!
The sound of sniveling brought my head up sharply. It was too cold for anyone to be sitting outside, let alone a little tot in his pyjamas.
“Hey, what’s up, mate?” I whispered, trying not to frighten him.
Lifting his brown curly head a moment, he wiped a sleeve across his face, like my youngest brother does when he’s trying to act braver than he feels. “Nothing much,” he said.
I knew he wasn’t telling the truth. I mean, pyjamas aren’t exactly outside gear, and that stone step can’t be the warmest place on earth.
I crouched at his level. “So why are you out here freezing?”
He squinted at me, as if weighing the friendship in my voice, then screwed up his face, pushing small fists at his eyes to stop the tears.
“Look kid,” I said, wondering how to get him inside without too much fuss. “It’s Christmas week. Don’t you want to go back in where it’s warm and play with your toys?”
Gulping sobs began shaking his body. Wrong line.
“Er … what’s your name?” I asked kindly.
His feet were curling sideways on the cold stone. I took off my hat, wrapping it around his purple toes. He half smiled. I put my scarf around his shoulders.
“I’m Jamie,” he said, “and … and … I wanted a bike for Christmas.”
You too, I thought.
“But my … my dad left home before Christmas came, and …”
Giving him a slightly grey tissue from the depths of my coat pocket, I nodded slowly and patted his arm. “You mean you didn’t have the bike after all?” I interrupted, feeling pleased at my cool detective instincts.
His big eyes looked up, reproaching me for being so dumb. “Yes, I did,” he exclaimed.
“Sorry,” I muttered, mystified. “Then why … ?”
“I was trying to tell you,” he interrupted. “You see, my mum got one for me. She thinks I think it was Santa, but I know it wasn’t ’cos I heard her talking on the phone. Anyway, all over Christmas I thunk and thunk. Dad used to take me to get her a present, but …” He scrubbed at fresh tears and hiccuped. “But this year no one did, and I didn’t have anything for her and …”
He stopped, and began shivering all over. I couldn’t think what to do next. Suppose he was getting pneumonia or something out here.
That’s when the brain wave arrived.
I touched his arm again. “Look, you get inside and sit by the window, watching. I’ll be back in 15 minutes.”
He rose to his feet, staring owlishly, one finger stuck in his mouth, his face filled with awe. He nudged open the front door and his voice sounded husky, wondering, as if magic were beginning. “What you going to do?”
“You’ll see,” I called, skating up the path.
By the time I’d finished the last delivery but one, I had second thoughts. Okay, so most of the shops are closed, but Dillons will be open already. It will take all of two pounds to get a present though. My dream bike slid into the distance. My subconscious dragged it back. I needed every penny. The kid won’t really expect to see me again. It was a stupid idea. He’ll be all right. He’ll soon forget.
I battled toward the final letter box … a gold one. As my cautious fingers outmanoeuvred the gleaming flap, I suddenly pictured Jamie’s pinched face gazing at me in wonder.
That did it. I slung the bag across my back and skated fast. Dillons looked warm, inviting. The box of chocolates came to £1.80.
I raced back to number 9, my skateboard taking bumps in harmony with my legs and feet. A strange bubbling was building inside me—and it definitely wasn’t the porridge.
Some massive clouds began unloading snow just then, but I could see Jamie’s window from several houses back. His nose was flattened against the glass, face squashed and goggle-eyed.
By the time I reached his door he was out on the step, bare feet wriggling, and eyes and mouth all but meeting in one huge grin.
“You forgot these,” he whispered, swapping my scarf and hat for the brightly wrapped box.
“What will you say to your mum?” I asked, catching his excitement.
“Happy Christmas!”
I nodded, “But where will you say the present came from?”
“Santa’s helper, of course.” He spoke the name firmly, the grin shouting pleasure and satisfaction.
I glanced down at my red jacket, feeling a little foolish. “Of course,” I muttered. “Who else?”
The door closed, but curiosity got the better of me. Gently lifting the letter flap, I peeped through. It was one of those scenes you know will stay in your mind forever.
Jamie was yelling, “Mum, Mum!” She came rushing from the kitchen. As she received her gift, both their faces shared a kind of glow, as if some magnetic power were zapping back and forth.
I could almost touch the joy. My inside felt odd once more—happily odd—as if something were melting deep down, melting and spreading upwards until it reached my throat.
The scene blurred. I had to swallow hard. Softly letting down the flap, I tiptoed back to the pavement.

That first memorable experience led to other strong confirmations that God lives and that Jesus is our Lord and Savior. Many of these came in response to earnest prayer. As a child, when I lost things such as my precious pocketknife, I learned that if I prayed hard enough, I could usually find them. I was always able to find the lost cows I was entrusted with. Sometimes I had to pray more than once, but my prayers always seemed to be answered. Sometimes the answer was no, but most often it was positive and confirming. Even when it was no, I came to know that, in the Lord’s great wisdom, the answer I received was for my best good. My faith continued to grow as building blocks were added to the cornerstone, line upon line and precept upon precept.

From age 8 to age 18, I reflected a lot about getting baptized. But it took me a long time because I had a lot of things I needed to change in my life, even though I tried to live good principles.
At the age of 18, I met the missionaries in Cayo’s home. The missionaries taught me the lessons to prepare me for baptism. They helped me, and their message touched my heart. During this time, my mother and my little sister were introduced to the missionaries. They were baptized a few months before I was. I was baptized on March 10, 2007.
It took the time that it took, more than 10 years, but finally he was baptized.
“It’s interesting to see how the Lord does things,” Cayo says. It took more than 10 years for Anthony to be baptized, but in that time, Anthony gained a strong testimony.

My mother taught me the gospel when I was young, but because my father was not a Church member, I always wondered if I was on the correct path. I never understood why my father had never joined the Church if it really was true. Still, I loved going to Primary and singing the hymns. I also enjoyed when my mother read the scriptures to me, and little by little I began to develop my own testimony.
When I joined Young Women, one of the first goals I made was to share my testimony every fast Sunday. Bearing my testimony became a habit for me and strengthened my desire to increase my knowledge when I was able to enroll in seminary.
My first seminary class covered the Old Testament. That year I not only grew to appreciate and value the Old Testament, but I also learned the importance of temples and family history.
I joined together with other students from my ward and got involved in family history work. We indexed hundreds of names and developed an enormous love for people we knew almost nothing about—just their names and other limited data. Even though I knew that the work we were doing was important, I sometimes felt discouraged and frustrated. I was working so that ordinances could be done for people I did not know, yet I could not reach my own father. He did not understand the importance of what I was doing. I continued praying and fasting that he would be touched.
The following year in seminary we studied the New Testament. One morning after I woke up, I began to read about the Savior in Gethsemane. Tears flowed from my eyes as I realized that the drops of blood He shed were for me. How I wished I had never sinned! The words of Isaiah that I had studied the previous year came into my mind: “He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him” (Isaiah 53:5). As I read about the Crucifixion and the Resurrection, my mom came into my room. I shared with her my feelings, my testimony, and my desire for my father to know what I had learned in seminary.
My testimony continued to grow the next year as we read the Doctrine and Covenants. I obtained a testimony that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I also decided to follow his example and ask God if the Church is true. Although I already had conviction in my heart, one afternoon I found myself alone and sincerely prayed. As I did, I realized that the testimony I was asking for had been developing as I studied the scriptures and attended seminary.
The Lord opened my mind and my heart that year, and I understood the Doctrine and Covenants as I never had before. I also learned of the great value of souls (see D&C 18:10–16) and began to share my growing testimony with those who did not know about the gospel, including my father.
I knew that studying the Book of Mormon during my final year of seminary would also fortify my testimony. As I truly studied, I felt Heavenly Father’s love for me. The stories inspired me to the point that all I wanted to do was read the Book of Mormon. I began to take the Book of Mormon to school and would read it during my free time. I also began to discuss what I was reading with my father.
One day after a long conversation with my father about the gospel, I challenged him to read all of the Book of Mormon. I testified that, like me, he could receive a testimony.
I am happy to say that my father read the Book of Mormon. When he did, he knew the Church is true and was eventually baptized! My family is now preparing to be sealed in the temple. I know that attending seminary and reading the scriptures helped me develop my own testimony, and I know that they bless families.

Brother Thach had joined the Church in 1971 while on a South Vietnamese air force training assignment in the United States. He made Latter-day Saint friends, attended Church meetings, accepted the missionary discussions, and was baptized. On his return to Vietnam some nine months later, his suitcase containing his copy of the scriptures was stolen. At the time, he was not aware of any Church organization in Vietnam, although a branch did exist in the capital city. But he did receive a twelve-month gift subscription to the Ensign, the English-language Church magazine. Reading and rereading the twelve copies of the magazine sustained him spiritually during the next ten years. When the government changed in Vietnam and “foreign” printed materials were viewed with suspicion by the authorities, he cherished his copies of the Ensign even more and hid them for safe-keeping.

On August 15, 2007, Peru suffered a massive earthquake that all but destroyed the coastal cities of Pisco and Chincha. Like many other Church leaders and members, Wenceslao Conde, the president of the Balconcito Branch of the Church in Chincha, immediately set about helping others whose homes were damaged.
Four days after the earthquake, Elder Marcus B. Nash of the Seventy was in Chincha helping to coordinate the Church’s relief efforts there and met President Conde. As they talked about the destruction that had occurred and what was being done to help the victims, President Conde’s wife, Pamela, approached, carrying one of her small children. Elder Nash asked Sister Conde how her children were. With a smile, she replied that through the goodness of God they were all safe and well. He asked about the Condes’ home.
“It’s gone,” she said simply.
“What about your belongings?” he inquired.
“Everything was buried in the rubble of our home,” Sister Conde replied.
“And yet,” Elder Nash noted, “you are smiling as we talk.”
“Yes,” she said, “I have prayed and I am at peace. We have all we need. We have each other, we have our children, we are sealed in the temple, we have this marvelous Church, and we have the Lord. We can build again with the Lord’s help.”
This tender demonstration of faith and spiritual strength is repeated in the lives of Saints across the world in many different settings. It is a simple illustration of a profound power that is much needed in our day and that will become increasingly crucial in days ahead. We need strong Christians who can persevere against hardship, who can sustain hope through tragedy, who can lift others by their example and their compassion, and who can consistently overcome temptations. We need strong Christians who can make important things happen by their faith and who can defend the truth of Jesus Christ against moral relativism and militant atheism.

Recently on a flight home, I found myself next to Steve, who shared with me parts of his personal story. He had graduated from high school, entered the U.S. Army as a communications specialist at 18 years old, and soon began working at the White House, providing communications support to the President of the United States. From age 18 to 26, he served two U.S. Presidents. His stories were fascinating!
“Steve,” I said, “you have to write these stories down for your posterity! They need to have these stories firsthand from your perspective.” He agreed.
Then the Spirit prompted me to ask him what he knew about his ancestors. Steve knew plenty about his mother’s side, including a story of how his family had once eaten dinner with Abraham Lincoln while he had been campaigning through the countryside during the 1860 U.S. presidential election.
He knew very little about his father’s side, however. He really wanted to know more. I pulled out my phone and opened the FamilySearch app. “Steve, we can find your family right now!”
I connected to the in-flight Wi-Fi. I rested my phone on the tray table in front of me so we could both see. We searched FamilyTree. Within minutes we were both staring at his great-grandfather’s marriage certificate to his great-grandmother.
“That’s them!” he said. “I remember her last name now!”
The spirit of excitement poured over both of us. We worked on building profiles for his lesser-known ancestors for the next 45 minutes. He asked me to promise him that we would continue searching together in Colorado. We exchanged contact information as the plane was landing.
Here we were, flying 30,000 feet (9,144 m) in the air, with a device as small as my hand, searching for a man and a woman married 100 years ago who had been lost to him and his family. Incredible! But we found them. Families were linked. Stories were remembered. Feelings of gratitude were felt for the technology and the tools. It was nothing short of a miracle.
Jonathan Petty, Colorado, USA
Photograph from Getty Images

That lesson has never left me. Indeed, years ago I relearned its meaning and partook of its power. My teacher was the Lord. May I share with you this experience.
Far away from Salt Lake City, and some 130 kilometers from Shreveport, Louisiana, lived the Jack Methvin family. Mother, Dad, and the children are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. There was a lovely daughter who, by her presence, graced that home. Her name was Christal. She was but 10 years old when death ended her earthly sojourn.
Christal liked to run and play on the spacious ranch where her family lived. She could ride horses skillfully and excelled in 4-H work, winning awards in the local and state fairs. Her future was bright, and life was wonderful. Then there was discovered on her leg an unusual lump. The specialists in New Orleans completed their diagnosis and rendered their verdict: carcinoma. The leg must be removed.
Christal recovered well from the surgery, lived as buoyantly as ever, and never complained. Then the doctors discovered that the cancer had spread to her tiny lungs.
Christal’s condition deteriorated. The end drew nigh. But her faith did not waver. She knew that stake conference was approaching. To her parents she said, “Do you think whoever is assigned to our stake conference could give me a blessing?”
Meanwhile in Salt Lake City, with no knowledge of the events transpiring in Shreveport, an unusual situation developed. For the weekend of the Shreveport Louisiana Stake conference, I had been assigned to El Paso, Texas. President Ezra Taft Benson, who was then President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, called me to his office and explained that one of the other Brethren had done some preparatory work regarding the stake division in El Paso. He asked if I would mind were another to be assigned to El Paso and I assigned elsewhere. Of course there was no problem; anywhere would be fine with me. Then President Benson said, “Brother Monson, I feel impressed to have you visit the Shreveport Louisiana Stake.”
The assignment was accepted. The day came. I arrived in Shreveport.
That Saturday afternoon was filled with meetings: one with the stake presidency, one with priesthood leaders, one with the patriarch, then yet another with the general leadership of the stake. Rather apologetically, stake president Charles F. Cagle asked if my schedule would permit me time to provide a blessing to a 10-year-old girl afflicted with cancer. Her name: Christal Methvin. I responded that, if possible, I would do so, and then inquired if she would be at the conference, or was she in a Shreveport hospital. Knowing the time was tightly scheduled, President Cagle almost whispered that Christal was confined to her home many kilometers from Shreveport.
I examined the schedule of meetings for that evening and the next morning, even my return flight. There simply was no available time. An alternative suggestion came to mind. Could we not remember the little one in our prayers at conference? Surely the Lord would understand. On this basis we proceeded with the scheduled meetings.
When the word was communicated to the Methvin family, there was understanding but disappointment as well. They prayed fervently, asking for a final favor—that their precious Christal would realize her desire.
At the very moment the Methvin family knelt in prayer, the clock in the stake center showed the time to be 7:45 P.M. The Saturday leadership meeting had been inspirational. I was sorting my notes, preparing to step to the pulpit, when I heard a voice speak to my spirit. The message was brief, the words familiar: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” My notes became a blur. My thoughts turned to a tiny girl who desired a blessing. The decision was made, the meeting schedule altered. After all, people are more important than meetings. I turned to Bishop James Serra and asked that he leave the meeting and advise the Methvins.
The Methvin family had just arisen from their knees when the telephone rang and the message was relayed. They were informed that early on Sunday morning—the Lord’s day—in a spirit of fasting and prayer, we would journey to Christal’s bedside.
I shall ever remember and never forget that early-morning journey to a heaven the Methvin family called home. I have been in hallowed places—even holy houses—but never have I felt more strongly the presence of the Lord than in the Methvin home. Christal looked so tiny, lying peacefully on such a large bed. The room was bright and cheerful. The sunshine from the east window filled the bedroom with light as the Lord filled our hearts with love.
The family surrounded Christal’s bedside. I gazed down at a child who was too ill to rise—almost too weak to speak. Her illness had now rendered her sightless. So strong was the Spirit that I fell to my knees, took her frail hand in mine, and said simply, “Christal, I am here.” She parted her lips and whispered, “Brother Monson, I just knew you would come.” I looked around the room. No one was standing. Each was on bended knee. A blessing was given. A faint smile crossed Christal’s face. Her whispered “thank you” provided an appropriate benediction. Quietly, each filed from the room.
Four days later, on Thursday, as Church members in Shreveport joined their faith with the Methvin family and Christal’s name was remembered in a special prayer to a kind and loving Heavenly Father, the pure spirit of Christal Methvin left its disease-ravaged body and entered the paradise of God.

There was a time when I felt like my most earnest prayers were going unanswered. I felt like I was lacking direction and pleaded with God for answers and blessings. As time wore on, praying became harder as feelings of frustration and impatience built. It was exhausting.
I couldn’t help but ask, “What’s wrong with me?”
As I searched the scriptures for answers, I found that they teach about a type of waiting that’s different from what I was experiencing. The prophet Isaiah taught, “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint” (Isaiah 40:31).
Was it possible that I was waiting all wrong? I felt there must be more to waiting upon the Lord than just simply waiting.
As I pondered these words, the word “wait” suddenly took on a new meaning. Instead of silence, it sounded like the Spirit was saying, “Stay here with me for a minute.” What I thought was the Lord’s indifference suddenly transformed into an invitation to sit with Him and be renewed by His strength.
I thought of one of my favorite scriptures: “For the Lord shall comfort Zion, he will comfort all her waste places; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord. Joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving and the voice of melody” (2 Nephi 8:3).
Waiting, to me, had always felt like being in a “desert” or a “waste place”—empty and tiring. All I thought I could do while in this “desert” was hope that one day God would finally give me the promised blessings I sought and lead me to a full and beautiful garden.
But these scriptures helped me realize that God has so much more power than I was giving Him credit for. He could make my “desert” a beautiful garden now, while I waited on Him. I started seeing this waiting period as a spiritual refuge as I prepared to receive whatever future blessings the Lord had in store for me.
As I continued to ponder on 2 Nephi 8:3, the last sentence stood out to me: “Joy and gladness shall be found therein.” So where does this joy come from if not from immediately receiving the blessings we seek?
As President Russell M. Nelson recently taught:
“The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.
“When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation … and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives. Joy comes from and because of Him. He is the source of all joy.”
Shifting my focus away from what I felt I lacked and toward the Savior has created a space where joy and gladness feel abundant in my life.
I’ve noticed I feel the Savior’s joy more clearly as I strive to build on the things in my life that uplift me. For me, this looks like creating deeper connections with family members and friends, serving in the temple, learning new skills, and going to my favorite Wednesday-night yoga class.
I also learned that because of Christ, God’s promises to us are assured. That, in and of itself, is a reason to rejoice.
I’ve found that gratitude is essential in transforming my waiting space from a desert into a garden. There is a healing power in being grateful for all the blessings I do have, but I’ve also especially found a deep sense of gratitude for the things that I don’t have yet and the time I’m spending deepening my faith in the Lord as I wait.
Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Patience helps us to use, rather than to protest, these seeming flat periods of life, becoming filled with quiet wonder over the past and with anticipation for that which may lie ahead.”
Waiting gives us the opportunity to sit with God, learn more of Him, see more of His hand, feel more of His love, hear more of His voice, and ultimately receive more of His abundance. As I look back on times I felt like God was making me wait, I see the abundance of spiritual treasures He offered me. I see loving and supportive friends, priceless moments of comfort and revelation, lessons about the security and power of keeping sacred covenants, and a deeper connection to my Savior, Jesus Christ.
As I practice waiting on the Lord rather than just waiting, I know that He will continue to make my life into a garden more beautiful than I can imagine.