Gospel Story Finder

At the age of eight I was baptized in borrowed white trousers. They were too long, but my mother tucked the legs up and fastened them with a few stitches. This worked fine until they got wet. As I stepped out of the water the weight of the wet cloth broke the stitches. I tripped over my borrowed pants and fell to my knees. The thought immediately came to me that this was a reminder to always kneel and pray for the help of our Heavenly Father in everything.

Ieuan Barry, born of wonderful parents, was diagnosed with autism as a young child. His parents were attentive to his needs and Ieuan has learned to stretch himself in life. When the opportunity to represent Wales at the Commonwealth Powerlifting Championships came about, he and his family engaged in the necessary fundraising to be able to attend and go and do. An inspiration to his peers and family, as he represented his country in Auckland, New Zealand in November 2022.
At first I had no idea where my journey in sport would end up, but, at the age of 16, I was taking my GCSE’s and I decided that I would like to get physically and mentally better – fitter in general – so I started doing a bit of everything; a bit of cardio, a bit of running, a bit of weights. Unstructured and unplanned. I started out by looking carefully at my diet, did some research into nutrition, and became more particular about what I ate.
By the time I was 17 I started to get more organised in my thinking about nutrition and exercise and gradually introduced changes that helped me do it properly – I got to know the things I needed to do.
I feel like it gives me something that I’m really good at. I can do what a lot of people struggle to do. It’s consistency and longevity. I think about this moment in time, so I appreciate what I had to go through, progressing step by step, little by little. A lot of people like to get success in the short term, but I’m thinking long term and I definitely hope to be competing in the sport for as long as I can. I have aspirations to go down the coaching route as well, coaching other people, having my own business.
It’s interesting to try and explain as sometimes it can be quite difficult to interact with other people because the way my mind processes social situations is a bit different to other people. For example, if some people are joking and messing around, sometimes I might not really take it as a joke. In other ways my autism helps me to work to a routine and stick to it regardless of how I am feeling on a day-to-day basis. It gives me a determination to achieve my goals no matter what.

Even though his young family lived in the city, President Hinckley’s father bought a farm out in East Millcreek. “My father believed that it was good for boys to learn to work when they were very young,” President Hinckley continued, “so on Saturdays in the early spring and in the fall, we would go out to the farm. And in the summer we would live there. I learned to live around animals and learned the lessons of nature—the beauty that is there and the penalties that come when nature is abused.

“We had large fruit orchards, and we learned how to prune trees. We built stilts that would put us about thirty inches off the ground, and then we could work up in the trees without ladders.

“In January, February, and March we pruned the trees, but we didn’t like it, because it was hard work. Yet we did learn something from it: You can determine the kind of fruit crop that you will have in September by the way you prune the trees in February. That was a great lesson, and it applies to people as well. You can pretty much determine the kind of adults you will have by the way you care for them as children.

This story happened in the USA.
Jessica fidgeted nervously in the car on the way to her aunt and uncle’s ward. Christmas was only a few days away, but she didn’t feel like celebrating.
Earlier that week there had been a fire at her house. Everyone was safe, but their home was damaged. Many of their things were ruined. Jessica and her mom, brother, and two sisters had moved in with her uncle and aunt until their house could be fixed.
Jessica’s aunt smiled at her. “I know you’ll have a great time in our Primary,” she said.
Jessica wasn’t so sure. She was nervous to go to a different Primary. I won’t know anyone, she thought. Will they be nice to me?
Jessica tried not to think about the fire as she walked to Primary. She held her little cousin Sam’s hand and helped him find his seat. The Primary sang Christmas songs about Jesus. Jessica thought about how Joseph and Mary were away from their home when Jesus was born. She wondered if they felt lost and alone, like she felt right now.
When it was time for class, Jessica felt even more nervous. Another girl smiled at her. “Hi, I’m Anna. Do you want to sit by me in class?”
Jessica smiled back. “Sure.”
In class they read in the scriptures about when Jesus Christ was born. The teacher, Sister Rios, said that the Savior was Heavenly Father’s greatest gift to the world. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son,”* she read to the class.
Jessica had never thought about Jesus as a gift before. She thought about their Christmas presents that had been ruined in the fire. She loved getting presents and was sad hers were gone. But she loved Jesus even more and knew He would never go away.
At the end of class, Sister Rios took out a few small boxes from her bag. Each one held a tiny carving of baby Jesus.
“I have a gift for each of you.” Sister Rios started passing out the boxes. “It can help you remember that God loves you so much that He sent His Son for you.” Then she looked at Jessica. “Jessica, I’m so sorry. I don’t have one for you. I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
Jessica looked down at her hands and tried not to cry. She didn’t know she was going to be here either. She wished she could be in her own home, in her own Primary class for Christmas.
Just then, someone placed a box in her lap. She looked up and saw Anna smiling at her. “Merry Christmas! You can have mine.”
Jessica gently touched the tiny baby Jesus figure. “Thank you! Merry Christmas to you too!”
After church, Mom gave her a hug. “How was Primary?” she asked.
“Good! I got this as a present.” Jessica smiled. “And I learned that Jesus is the best gift of all.”

Help with temporal tasks is also a form of ministering. At the October 1856 general conference, President Brigham Young announced that handcart pioneers were stranded in deep snow 270–370 miles (435–595 km) away. He called for the Latter-day Saints in Salt Lake City to rescue them and to “attend strictly to those things which we call temporal.”4
Lucy Meserve Smith recorded that the women took off their warm underskirts and stockings right there in the tabernacle and piled them into wagons to send to the freezing pioneers. Then they gathered bedding and clothing for those who would eventually come with few belongings. When the handcart companies arrived, a building in the town was “loaded with provisions for them.”5

On Wednesday afternoons I have a very special job. I bag fifteen newspapers in plastic bags, load them into my red wagon, then go up the street to deliver newspapers and to check on my neighbors.
My first stop is always the Baxters’ house. Every spring a robin builds a nest in the tree by their front door. After the eggs have hatched, I always carefully lay the newspaper on their front steps so that I don’t scare the baby birds.
The next house is Mrs. Kirkham’s. She loves flowers. When I leave her paper, I like to count and see how many tulips have bloomed. One summer she gave me a pink rose to take home to my mother. I carried it straight home so that it wouldn’t get squashed in the wagon.
The Statlers, who live up the block, are gone most of the summer, visiting their grandchildren. I don’t deliver a paper when they’re gone, but once I had to chase a stray cat away from their birdbath.
When it’s really hot, Peg Jackson and her baby, Ryan, wait for me with a glass of ice-cold lemonade. I know I’m half done with my route when I get to their house, so I sit in the shade on their front porch to rest for a minute.
At the end of the street, I cross carefully over to the house with the white picket fence. Mr. Weber lives there. He’s pretty old, but he usually shuffles out to the sidewalk when he sees me coming. Sometimes he “trades” me something for the newspaper. Once he gave me a sackful of zucchini from his garden. Mom made it into bread, and I took a loaf back to him. He said that that was a good deal.
My next favorite place is the Morris’s big house. Mrs. Morris is an art teacher, and in October they have fantastic jack-o’-lanterns on their front steps. Sometimes they have scary monster faces or scenes from fairy tales carved into them. They’re amazing!
There’s a small creek in the trees by the Changs’ house. When the water starts getting ice on the edges, I know that soon I’ll be using my sled instead of my red wagon to haul papers. When the creek is frozen solid, the Changs let me pull my sled right across it so that I can get out of the cold quicker.
When I get home, I always have a treat. Do you know what I like best when I’m cold? Hot chocolate. First it warms my hands and my face, and then it warms me inside.
After paying my tithing, most of the money I earn for delivering papers goes into my missionary savings fund. Mom says that my paper route is preparing me to be a missionary in other ways, too. I’m learning to be a good walker in all kinds of weather, and I’m learning to really care about people and to serve them. I think that’s a pretty good deal for Wednesday afternoons. Don’t you?

“A great lesson that I learned from my parents and grandfather was to pay my tithing. Not much money was made from operating the farm; the only cash income came from selling milk. But somehow my parents worked it out so that we each had an allowance. As soon as I got my allowance, I would cross the street and pay my tithing to Grandfather, who was the bishop. There weren’t any tithing envelopes in those days, and Grandfather was his own financial clerk. When I took my tithing over, I’d sit in the office in his home, and he’d write out a receipt. As he gave me the receipt, he’d say, ‘Waldo, the Lord will bless you because you have paid your tithing.’ I always thought that I was the most important person in the world when I went into the bishop’s office.”

On a cool evening in late June, 1987, voices were raised in song outside the Oakland California Temple. Had you been there, you would have recognized the beautiful song, but wondered at the unfamiliar words. The song was: Thov Vaj Tswv Kom Peb Rov Sib Pom Dua, or “God Be with You Till We Meet Again,” sung in Hmong. Hmong is the language of many hill tribes in Laos, Southeast Asia, and the native language of Kua Lo and his brothers Yia Lo and Chong Lee Lo, who had just had their families sealed to them in the temple. It was one of the happiest days of their lives.
The Lo families first attended the Church in a Salt Lake City ward where they met Scott Jenkins, the stake mission president. He, with the assistance of Brian Walker, a returned missionary who spoke Thai, began teaching the Lo families. Brother Walker would give the gospel message in Thai which Kua Lo would then translate in Hmong to his family and friends.
In spite of difficulties in communication, the Lo families enthusiastically received the gospel message, continued to attend church, and became the nucleus of a Hmong-speaking branch. Eventually, the Church’s Translation Division was able to provide Hmong versions of the sacrament prayers, portions of Gospel Principles, and some hymns, and branch members could hold entire meetings in their native language. Later, they received complete copies of Gospel Principles and of Book of Mormon Stories.
Following the Lo families’ baptism, Kua Lo was called to serve as president of the first Asian Branch in Salt Lake City. He now lives in Bakersfield, California, where he serves as president of the Asian Branch there. Constantly sharing the gospel message among his people, Brother Lo has been responsible for at least ninety baptisms.
Brother Lo can testify of the influence of the Holy Ghost in his conversion, an influence that could be felt despite language barriers. But without translated gospel materials in Hmong, the Lo families may have had to wait much longer than they did to receive the blessings of the temple. Perhaps they may never have received them at all.

Like many people, Elder DeMoine and Sister Joyce Findlay knew little of the disease until they were called as a missionary couple to help coordinate the Church’s involvement with the Measles Initiative in Ivory Coast. The Measles Initiative is a movement to immunize 200 million children in Africa sponsored by the Red Cross, UNICEF, CDC, WHO, and other agencies.
During their service, the Findlays witnessed the members in Ivory Coast volunteer by the hundreds, working long days to ensure the success of the campaign. Church members with medical training helped at vaccination sites, others knocked on countless doors to promote the campaign through education, and still more helped to gather families and children together. Even Primary children helped by submitting drawings for the campaigns. By contributing to the remarkable turnout, the Saints hoped to “show President Hinckley that they would do their best to support this unique opportunity.”
Still, providing the life-saving medicine was no easy task. Due to civil unrest, all full-time foreign missionaries, including Elder and Sister Findlay, were evacuated in November 2004 before they could complete their initial campaign. The campaign was postponed until August 2005, at which time they returned to finish the job.
This time Elder and Sister Findlay met with the partnering agencies to determine their needs and to identify ways in which the Church could best use its funds and resources. It was decided that the Church would support the Measles Initiative by providing volunteers; producing printed materials such as posters, fliers, and stickers; and supplying the Red Cross with megaphones, uniforms, and batteries. The Ministry of Health was enthusiastic about the Church’s participation and designated it an official partner in the campaign, announcing on television all the contributions the Church made.
From there, Elder and Sister Findlay set out to help organize the campaign. Ten-year-old Roseline Dekaye’s artwork was chosen to be featured on the printed materials. Her drawing was also used in both the Tanzania and Malawi campaigns.
Working under the direction of stake presidents in the area, Elder and Sister Findlay recruited the regional welfare committee as their working group. This committee coordinated volunteers from every one of the 23 wards and branches in Ivory Coast.
One of the main responsibilities of the member volunteers was to ensure that the general population knew where vaccination sites were located. To do so, many were up at 6:30 a.m. knocking on doors, educating their neighbors about the dangers of measles, and inviting them to bring their children to get vaccinated. They often took the time to physically show the people where to go, at times bringing groups to the vaccination site. The full-time missionaries wanted to help as well, so they stuck campaign stickers on their bags and encouraged their contacts to take their children to be vaccinated.
Hundreds of vaccination sites were set up in the capital city of Abidjan alone, with locations including health units, the village chief’s home, and a parking lot. Some sites were just small plastic-covered shelters beside the road.
During the first few days the people came in masses. Children filled the lines—some were accompanied by parents, but most came on their own. When the people stopped coming to the fixed vaccination sites, the teams gathered up their materials and walked through busy markets and neighborhoods looking for unvaccinated children to vaccinate on the spot.
With the help of more than 700 Church members, the measles campaign in Ivory Coast was a huge success. Vaccinating nearly 8 million children, workers met 87 percent of their goal in a country so politically divided that 50 percent is considered a good campaign success rate.
In all, members donated 40,000 hours of volunteer labor. They could be seen everywhere wearing their colorful badges, and they became quite popular and well known. In all but one of the health districts, members were the only mobilization volunteers. The health districts were grateful for their help and asked if they could contact the Church for help in future campaigns.

Permit me to give just a personal reference to this principle. Back in the 1940s, my younger brother received a mission call to New England, and (without running through all the details which really don’t matter), he was sent to a little community in Nova Scotia called Kentville. There he labored for most of his mission. As some elders and missionaries do, he came home seemingly a failure if you count the number of people he baptized. You are familiar with the situation of elder brothers teasing their younger brothers when what they do has little or no results. I constantly reminded him of how unproductive his mission was. Twenty years later, almost to the day, I, his older brother, was called to preside over the same mission. In my first district conference at Halifax, Nova Scotia, a little lady came up to me after the first session. She said, “Elder Dunn, Elder Dunn, do you have a brother by the name of David?”
And I said, “I believe I do.”
And she said, “Was he on a mission in New England?”
I said, “He was.”
And then (missionaries will appreciate this) she opened her purse and shuffled through all her pictures. She lifted one out and said, “Is that he?”
I said, “Twenty years ago, that was he.”
“Oh,” she said, “where is he?”
I said, “He’s in southern California.”
“Oh, I’d like to communicate with him. He’s responsible for bringing me into the Church.”
I said, “No, ma’am, you’re mistaken. My brother didn’t bring anybody into the Church.”
“Oh,” she said, “I hate to correct you, sir, but—.” Then she called six other people over, all with great families, who happened to be the backbone of the district at Halifax. And she said, “All of these are because of your brother. We thank God for him.”
Out of small things great things shall proceed.

Similarly, at the moment any of the Father’s children write, none can realize the fruitfulness of such a work.
Susan Larsen of Blackfoot, Idaho, for example, didn’t realize that her entry, written after the birth of her first child, Stephani, would work a miracle for her five years later.
When her second child, Rebecca, was born, five-year-old Stephani was mature enough to sense a shifting away of all the attention. She didn’t understand why it was so, but it was, and she resented it. She became a difficult child. She pouted and whined around the house, until finally Susan went to her.
“You love Rebecca better than me,” Stephani cried. “You do, Mama; you do!”
What Stephani said was just not true, but how could Susan convince her of that fact. Telling her of her love would not truly convince her, but her journal might. So mother and daughter sat down together, and Susan read to her out of her journal.
“January 29, 1967. Yes, the baby finally arrived—an 8 1/2 pound girl. … Steve really beamed about the whole thing. Stephani was born on December 4, at 12:10 A.M., and that same morning, Steve passed around her picture in priesthood meeting. She looks just like him, bless her heart. Although she doesn’t sleep much during the day, she really is a good baby. … We really do love her.”
Through her mother’s journal, Stephani was able to share the birth-light for a few moments with her baby sister. When she was new, she, too, had been the focus of her family’s attention. They had loved her then, and they loved her now. She was happy again.

Also let us remember that through any illness or difficult challenge, there is still much in life to be hopeful about and grateful for. We are infinitely more than our limitations or our afflictions! Stephanie Clark Nielson and her family have been our friends for more than 30 years. On August 16, 2008, Stephanie and her husband, Christian, were in a plane crash and subsequent fire that scarred her so horrifically that only her painted toenails were recognizable when family members came to identify the victims. There was almost no chance Stephanie could live. After three months in a sleep-induced coma, she awoke to see herself. With that, the psyche-scarring and horrendous depression came. Having four children under the age of seven, Stephanie did not want them to see her ever again. She felt it would be better not to live. “I thought it would be easier,” Stephanie once told me in my office, “if they just forgot about me and I quietly slipped out of their life.”

But to her eternal credit, and with the prayers of her husband, family, friends, four beautiful children, and a fifth born to the Nielsons just 18 months ago, Stephanie fought her way back from the abyss of self-destruction to be one of the most popular “mommy bloggers” in the nation, openly declaring to the four million who follow her blog that her “divine purpose” in life is to be a mom and to cherish every day she has been given on this beautiful earth.

Sandra was a student in my advanced English class. Several weeks into the year, she hadn’t done any of the homework or projects. She just daydreamed at her desk. She made up excuses for why she hadn’t completed her assignments, and she demonstrated neither the attitude nor the work necessary for success in such a demanding course.
Her counselor and I decided to schedule a conference with Sandra, her father, and some of her other teachers to determine what direction she should take: should she drop her advanced courses and take standard ones instead? Most substantial was the unspoken question weighing on all of our minds: could we find a way to help Sandra succeed?
Believing that Sandra had been given many chances to succeed but instead had chosen to fail, I went into the meeting feeling very discouraged. Secretly I hoped she would decide to drop my class so that I wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore. I felt I had done all I could and that it was already too late.
In the meeting, Sandra’s body language revealed that she too doubted her ability to succeed. She stared at the table as I recounted her failure in English class. As her history teacher confirmed that Sandra was failing his class as well, her body slumped lower in her chair and I could see tears streaming down her face.
Mustering compassion, I explained to her and her father that if Sandra wanted to succeed in these challenging courses, she was going to have to change the behavior that had gotten her so deeply into this hole and that it was going to be very difficult.
The counselor then turned to Sandra’s father, a man with little education who seemed uncomfortable in the school setting. The counselor asked him if he had any questions for the teachers. He said he didn’t and thanked us for what we had done for Sandra. But then he said he had something to say to his daughter.
My heart tightened. I had been a part of some parent-teacher conferences where the parents had verbally rebuked their children in front of teachers and counselors, berating them for their laziness, inattentiveness, and lack of motivation. I braced myself to hear it again.
What I heard instead surprised me. Sandra’s humble father turned to his tearful 16-year-old daughter who was weighed down by shame and regret and said to her, “It’s not too late. It’s not too late for you to succeed. It really is not too late.”
I left that meeting grateful for his loving reaction but concerned that he had no idea what it would take for his daughter to pass at this point. It seemed impossible. Word came later that she had decided to drop her history class but not my English class.
Sandra, with motivation to start again, made slow but significant changes. The transformation was not easy—it required daily effort to overcome her bad habits—but she saw the rewards of her efforts as her grade gradually improved.

I skipped up the sidewalk to my home, overflowing with excitement. My friend had invited me to spend the weekend at a cabin.
I came bursting through the front door and announced my plans to my mother.
“Don’t you have baptisms for the dead tomorrow?” she said.
I thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, but I can do it another time.”
She looked at me with concern. “You went in for your recommend interview and everything. You said you would go.”
My thoughts of a weekend at a cabin began to slowly fade away. The cabin sounded like so much fun. “Well, I already told my friends I would go with them.”
“You also told your Young Women leader that you would do baptisms. You made that promise first,” my mother reminded me.
“I don’t care! I’m not going!” I snapped back.
She looked on me with disappointment and then walked away.
“Great!” I said to myself, feeling even more guilty. Finally I went into the living room by myself, knelt down, and asked Heavenly Father to help me make the right decision.
When I finished, I just knelt there for a moment. I paid attention to my thoughts. They were directed now toward being in the temple and getting baptized for people who had been waiting for so long. I stood and walked into the kitchen. As I walked past the fridge, I saw a quote from President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008):
“If we are a temple-going people, we will be a better people, we will be better fathers and husbands, we will be better wives and mothers. I know your lives are busy. I know that you have much to do. But I make you a promise that if you will go to the house of the Lord, you will be blessed, life will be better for you” (“Excerpts from Recent Addresses of President Gordon B. Hinckley,” Ensign, July 1997, 73).
I stood there transfixed as I read the quote over and over again. My prayers had been answered. I went back into my living room and knelt a second time, only this time I thanked my Heavenly Father for answering my prayer and for teaching me a lesson about sacrifice.
The next day when I went to the temple, I remember feeling so good. I knew I had made the right decision, thanks to Heavenly Father. I know if we truly want to do what is right, sacrifice is a blessing rather than a setback.

My father touched me on the shoulder.
“Mrs. Gleaves was my Sunday School teacher,” he said. Mrs. Gleaves laughed.
“That was a long time ago. Your wife was in the class too. She wasn’t your wife then, was she though?”
My father was silent. He kept eating like he hadn’t heard her.
“She had a temper, didn’t she? I remember we were building models of the city of Bethlehem out of Epsom salts one Sunday. I don’t remember what you did, but she got mad at you and dumped the whole bucket of salt on you right there in church.”

“See, Mom!” I was almost shouting as we walked into the cultural hall. “Nobody’s here!”
She looked down at me with a slight grimace. “There are plenty of people here. It’s early. More people will come.”
I knew that more people would come, but none of them would be from my class. There were only four of us, and the other guys never came to any of the Primary service projects. I only came because Mom and Dad made me. It was a real waste of my time.
Sister Montgomery, the first counselor in the Primary presidency, came over to us. “Good morning, Sister Drew. I’m glad Rick could join us today.”
I stared at the floor.
“I’m sure that he’ll have fun making up bags to take to the less-active children in the Primary.” Sister Montgomery paused. “Why don’t we go over to that table and paint, Rick?”
I looked up. Painting was one of my favorite things to do. Sister Montgomery took me to the table with small ceramic figures on it. “You can paint three, if you’d like. There aren’t very many of us here today.”
I looked into the box and chose three pairs of Noah’s ark animals. Those were the ones I’d like to be given.
After I finished painting, Sister Montgomery had me decorate three paper sacks. The little kids were having a ball. I guess they like to cut and paste.
I wasn’t done with my second bag, when Brother Kennedy, the ward mission leader, came in. Sister Peterson, the Primary President, had us sit in a semicircle around him. He told us about how we could be missionaries by being friendly to the less-active children in our ward. He talked for a long time. I listened really closely until Brother Tisch came in with a couple of big brown boxes and a few gallons of milk. I watched him take doughnuts out of the big boxes. I wanted one with the colorful sprinkles.
Before I knew it, a bunch of the little kids were running up to the table—Brother Kennedy had finished!
“Rick, you can get a doughnut now, too.” Sister Montgomery was standing next to me.
I stood up and walked as fast as I could, but it was too late. All the sprinkled doughnuts were gone. I had to settle for a plain-frosted one. I sat on the floor and ate it slowly.
After eating, we finished decorating the bags, then put some treats, a church schedule, one ceramic figure, and a picture of the Savior into each one.
“Because there aren’t very many of us here today, each group will have to visit a few extras,” Sister Peterson announced.
I groaned—more time wasted!
Some of the leaders walked around with slips of paper with the addresses of those we were going to visit. Other leaders were gathering the classes into groups.
“I guess it’s you and me, Rick!” Brother Tisch put his hand on my shoulder. “Where’s your coat?”
I trudged over to the coatrack. I didn’t want to go outside. It had been cold when we came to the church, and it would take forever for the cars to warm up.
I returned to where Brother Tisch was, and we grabbed the bags. He led the way out the door. I turned toward the parking lot. Almost everyone was gone, and all of the cars I saw had people already in them.
“Rick,” Brother Tisch called from behind me.
I turned around. The bags were in a red wagon. Brother Tisch was pulling it by the handle. “My wife had to run some errands with our car, so I borrowed my daughter’s wagon.”
I just stood there.
“Come on, Rick—let’s go! If we walk quickly, it won’t be too cold.”
Brother Tisch checked an address on a slip of paper, and we walked to the house that was farthest from the chapel. “This is Diana’s house.”
“Brother Tisch, I really don’t want to go up there. She goes to my school.”
Brother Tisch nodded. I was sure glad that he understood. I stayed by the wagon while he knocked on the door. No one was home. Great! I thought.
Brother Tisch returned to the wagon with a smile on his face. “I’ll take this one to her later.”
We walked to the next house. This time the girl on our list was home. She smiled as Brother Tisch told her about the bag. I didn’t say anything. The same thing happened at the next two houses.
“Rick, I’d like you to talk to the next boy. He should be in your Primary class.” Brother Tisch had stopped walking. “Would you please do it?”
I hesitated.
“Just do it the way I did,” Brother Tisch reassured me.
I nodded, though my stomach jumped a little. This bag-giving stuff looked pretty easy. Besides, I knew Carl pretty well from school. I hadn’t known that he was supposed to be in my Primary class, though.
I knocked on the door. When Carl came to the door, I gave him the bag and told him all about it, just the way Brother Tisch had.
Carl stood there quietly. After I finished, he said “Thanks” and shut the door. For a second, I thought I saw tears in his eyes. But I must have been mistaken. It was only a silly bag of stuff.
Brother Tisch walked me home. We didn’t talk much. I was thinking about the look on Carl’s face.
The next day, as I walked into Primary and looked at the row of chairs where my class sits, Carl was there!
“Thanks for the bag. I never knew when church started. My mom and dad don’t go to our meetings very often, and I always feel kind of dumb asking about it.” Carl had a big smile on his face. “I put the picture right next to my bed, so I can see it every day!”
I felt a warm feeling grow inside of me. It seemed to start in my chest and move up to my face, and I had to smile, too.

My mind was focused on the Savior as the congregation finished singing the sacrament hymn, but as I started to close the hymnbook, the music continued. A large congregation that day made it necessary for the organist to play two more verses while the priests finished breaking the bread. I was grateful for the extra time. It allowed me an additional moment of reverent meditation before the sacramental prayers.
During the prayers, I followed carefully the words the priests spoke as they blessed the emblems of Christ’s sacrifice for us. Just as the final prayer concluded and at the moment when the congregation voiced their assent, a four-year-old boy’s voice from two rows behind me sprang from the midst of the “amens.”
“Hooray!” he exclaimed.
His spontaneous expression was loud enough to cause several children nearby to giggle. I confess that it brought a quizzical smile to my lips.
“Hooray?” I thought. That’s an odd response to the sacrament prayers. It was certainly a response I’d never heard before and likely will never hear again. After all, we end our prayers with “amen.”
Perhaps that young child had sensed more of the truth than I had.
Hooray communicates excitement. It is an exclamation of joy, usually for a victory. Sometimes it’s shouted to show approval for someone who has finished a difficult task well.1
Instantly, my mind caught hold of the idea. Yes, I thought, hooray that Jesus Christ overcame death so we can all be resurrected! Hooray that because of His Atonement, He can forgive our sins! More to the point, He can forgive me of my sins! Hooray that through His grace I may return to my Heavenly Father and enjoy the hope of eternal life! Yes! Hooray!
As I silently shouted these praises of thanks to my Heavenly Father, the Holy Ghost flooded my heart with a joy that nearly brought me to tears. I had been led that day by a little child (see Isaiah 11:6), and I rejoiced with fresh vision for the blessings of the Savior’s Atonement in my life.

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland told of a young man who was the brunt of his peers’ teasing during his school years. Some years later he moved away, joined the military, received an education, and became active in the Church. This period of his life was marked with wonderfully successful experiences.
After several years he returned to his hometown. However, the people refused to acknowledge his growth and improvement. To them, he was still just old “so-and-so,” and they treated him that way. Eventually, this good man faded away to a shadow of his former successful self without being able to use his marvelously developed talents to bless those who derided and rejected him once again. What a loss, both for him and the community!

During a spiritually low moment in my life as a member of the Church, a particular incident renewed my faith.
I was on a boat in the Philippines, traveling to visit my mother. The boat was filled with passengers, some enjoying the beauty of the blue horizon, others laughing and chatting with friends and acquaintances. I felt alone and lost amid the crowd of people. The anticipation of seeing my mother after a few years of separation was coupled with hesitancy.
I belong to a very religious family. When their daily religious rituals began to seem endless and without meaning, I investigated other churches until I eventually joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Because of the Church’s strong programs, sound doctrines, relevant gospel teachings, and friendly atmosphere, I felt a lot happier than I was before I embraced the gospel. My family, however, was not pleased with my choice.
But then after my baptism, in what I later recognized as a test of faith, I began to doubt, and I gradually lost my firm grasp on the iron rod. I didn’t commit any major sins, but I wasn’t as diligent as I should have been. Then I remembered my mother, a pious, gentle, and understanding woman who, despite the many trials in her life, remained steadfast to her faith. When I had told her of my decision to join another church, she said with a look of sadness, “The religion we belong to is a legacy from our ancestors, but if you think you will be better off with that new church, then go ahead. But make sure you will be true to it and will defend the truth you uphold.”
These thoughts sent a surge of embarrassment through me. How can I face my mother with my now flickering flame of faith? What if she asks me how I am faring with my newfound religion? Will I be able to meet her gaze without blushing?
As I struggled with these questions, I heard the words church and religion. A man, probably in his mid-40s, seemed to be forcing some tenets of his church onto an uninterested lady sitting next to me. Sensing her discomfort, I tried to help.
Looking straight into his eyes, I asked, “What church do you belong to?” For a split second, his eyes glowed with excitement and pleasure, as if to say, “Here’s a soul willing to open her ears to my preaching.” He sprang to his feet and moved close to me. He introduced himself as a minister. I recognized the name of his church; it is well known for religious debates.
An alarmed feeling crept into my heart, but I tried not to show it. I thought, Not now when I’m losing my spiritual equilibrium. How am I supposed to defend my faith when mists of doubt lurk in my mind? A quick glance at the lady I had rescued made me secretly wish I had not intruded. But she met my gaze with a reassuring look, encouraging me to defend my beliefs. I gathered courage and prayed silently and earnestly for assistance in this unexpected confrontation.
A feeling of confidence enveloped my whole being. I told him, “I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Without giving me a chance to say more, he interrupted, “I know all about your church and your founder.” He went on to make offensive remarks about the Prophet Joseph Smith, the gold plates, and the Book of Mormon. He said they were all fallacies.
What I felt next surprised me. I felt a strong desire to defend my religion. But hadn’t I been drifting slowly from the Church?
What surprised me most were the firm declarations that came from my mouth, attesting to the truthfulness and reality of the Prophet Joseph Smith, the First Vision, and the Book of Mormon. I added that people’s negative opinions of Joseph Smith would not change my testimony that he was chosen by God to restore His Church in this last dispensation.
I could hardly believe how confidently those truths flowed from my lips. At that moment I knew with a surety that the Spirit was there to testify in my trial of faith.
With renewed faith, I remembered the statement in Ether 12:6: “Ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.” I offered a silent prayer of gratitude to my Heavenly Father as that verse sank into my heart. Peace filled me, and I realized I was ready to face my mother and to share with her the blessings of joy and peace that the gospel brings into my life.

In the Book of Mormon, the Liahona provides Lehi and his family with a clear vision of the Lord’s path. In similar fashion, a group of young single adults from Utah helped Dr. Robert Christiansen, M.D., an LDS ophthalmologist from Salt Lake City, Utah, and his family give vision spiritually and physically in South America.
The Liahona Eye Care Mission, a privately operated group, consisted of 23 young single adults and the eight members of the Christiansen family. They offered “helping hands” in differing service projects during an August 2005 trip to Brazil and Argentina. The Christiansen family has invited single adults on various service trips to South and Central America for the past four years.
On one leg of their service trip, in El Dorado, Argentina, the group provided free eye exams and glasses. The Argentina trip was organized with the help of local members who rallied local news outlets and community leaders to publicize the service project.
Because of the widespread announcements of the free eye exams, it is estimated that more than 1,300 people benefited from the service provided by the Liahona group during their brief visit to Argentina.
In Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, the group assisted in the renovation of an old playground at a small preschool. Local Church members helped organize the day of service. The local members proved invaluable as they helped bridge the language gap. Side by side, the members of the group meticulously painted the faded yellow playground equipment, walls, and playhouse a bright blue and white.
Some members of the community watched curiously. Many hearts and doors were opened to the missionaries because of the display of service that transformed the public preschool.
Shannon Christiansen, who led the group with her husband, Robert, said of the experience, “What touched my heart was realizing that we were with our brothers and sisters, and we could all feel the love of being part of God’s eternal family.”