Gospel Story Finder

Rushing to scribble a message on the last Christmas card, I quickly licked the envelope and stuffed the cards into my bag. I arrived at church just in time to join the other young men and young women in a holiday service activity.
This particular Christmas season we had decided to go to a local nursing home to sing hymns and Christmas carols as we strolled up and down the halls. I had decided that I would also bring along Christmas cards to hand out and to visit with people as we sang. I was looking forward to that evening, mostly because I love to sing Christmas carols. And it was a lot better to sing indoors rather than outside in the bitter cold!
We gathered in the foyer and began with a few Christmas classics like “Jingle Bells” and “Frosty the Snowman.” Then we opened our hymnbooks and began to sing as we wandered up and down the halls. Our voices soared and filled the air with the beautiful spirit of Christmas. Each doorway was overflowing with smiling faces, “Merry Christmas” greetings, and even several hugs.
But there was one man in a wheelchair who followed our every move for two hours. When we were done singing, he motioned for me to come to him. I leaned down to hear his frail voice.
“Can you please sing ‘O Holy Night’?” he asked softly.
Looking into his warm and hopeful eyes, I knew that he felt the Spirit and that hearing this song would help him feel closer to the Savior.
“Sure,” I replied. “We would love to.”
This song was not in our hymnbook, and I did not know all of the words, but I was sure that with close to 75 people there, someone was bound to know the lyrics. But as I gathered everyone to sing this request, I could not find anyone who knew the lyrics.
Slightly discouraged, I stood there staring at that man in his chair, desperately wishing to sing his simple Christmas request. Then I heard a girl in our group begin the song. One by one we all began to sing. The words flowed from my mouth with such ease, it was as if I had written the song myself. Our voices created an angelic chorus and echoed through the lonely halls. I knew that Heavenly Father was using our group to bring His Spirit to this man and the others in the nursing home.
After the song, everyone in the group and in the foyer stood in silence for a few minutes with tears running down our faces, full of the spirit of Christmas. I looked in my hand and noticed that I had one Christmas card left. I knelt down by the man in his wheelchair and handed him the card. Before I could say anything, he flung his arms around my neck.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much.”
As we finished giving hugs and Christmas wishes, we decided to walk around the neighborhood to continue our caroling. We had all been messengers that night, sharing our feelings of the Savior and His love. We strolled through the cold night air singing hymns, warmed by our testimonies of the Savior, whose birth we celebrated.

Just a few weeks ago a young man, while at a Scout camp in the mountains east of Salt Lake City, was struck by lightning, which took his life. His parents, grief stricken and devastated at the sudden loss of their son, struggled quietly and asked why this happened. Because their hearts were submissive and their faith strong, there came a great outpouring of love from the Lord. In the midst of their grief came a quiet, tender resolve to accept without anger the outcome of this experience. With their acceptance came a larger vision of the purpose of life and a remembrance of the covenants that were in place. Though still filled with anguish from their sudden loss, they found themselves standing on a higher plane committed to hold even faster to their covenants and to live such that they might be assured of a joyful reunion with their son.

Michael Diaz looks past the long barrel of a heavy cannon and scans the choppy waters of Portobelo, Panama. If an attack on the stronghold and the gold it guarded were to come by sea, the attacking ships would have to survive heavy fire from more than a dozen cannons, and their sailors would have to get past soldiers manning two waterfront forts, including the one where Michael stands. Past battles were fierce and frightening.
Fortunately for Michael, no such battles have taken place in more than 250 years.
A lot has changed since then. But as he paces along the thick stone walls of the ruins, Michael, 15, isn’t thinking about cell phones, the Internet, or men walking on the moon. He and his friends from the Colón Panama Stake are talking about the changes they have seen in themselves thanks to the Duty to God program.
“I’ve learned a lot,” Michael says. The others nod in agreement. “I have more faith in myself. I don’t have to depend spiritually on others so much. I have the courage to talk to others about the Church.”
Built to be strong, the forts stood guard over Portobelo for more than 100 years, and their remains still stand today.
The strength of the Duty to God program, according to these young men, is found in setting and completing goals. Their goals are helping them build spiritual strongholds that will help them stand against whatever they will have to face in life.
“You live in a day of great challenges,” said the First Presidency. “You can strengthen yourself, building faith and testimony, living the gospel while you learn it and share it” (Aaronic Priesthood: Fulfilling Our Duty to God [2001], 4).
Aldo Cardenas of the Puerto Pilon Ward recalls a recent goal to organize a family home evening with his father’s help. “My dad gave me the theme of the priesthood and how important it is to our family. I learned a lot about the priesthood. It’s a great blessing to us and others through us.”
He’s grateful for the way the program works. “Having to follow through with the goals has helped me to be more responsible,” he says.
Narcisso Garay, 17, of the Barriada Kuna Ward decided to set a goal to read the Book of Mormon every day. “My parents suggested that I read the other scriptures too. Now I’ve almost finished the New Testament. At first I thought it was boring, but now I’ve seen what Jesus suffered for us, and I know that we can return to Him.”
Michael’s older brother Isaac says completing the goals he has set in the program has strengthened him spiritually. When Isaac was a teacher, he was the only active member in his quorum. Duty to God has not only helped him; it has also provided opportunities for him to get the three quorum members who didn’t attend regularly to come to some activities, and one of them has attended church.
“I tried to visit the others and invite them to come to church,” Isaac says. “That was my duty to God.”
Perched on top of a long-unused cannon, Michael can easily imagine defending the fort against the fierce attack of an enemy. But as he looks out to sea, he talks about strengthening himself against a different kind of attack—one without cannons and gunpowder.
“My friends at school sometimes make fun of me for belonging to the ‘church of Mormon,’” he says as the sun sets on Portobelo. But he’s not afraid to tell them, “I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

Quietly the ten-year-old girl tiptoed toward the big oak tree. Her bare feet stepped lightly on freshly fallen leaves. A twig snapped. The girl stopped a moment, hoping the boy on the other side of the tree had not heard. There was no sound.
The girl moved closer. Soon she stood beside the boy and, without warning, grabbed the slate shingle he held in his lap.
“Hey, what—”
Before the boy could say another word, Sarah Lincoln waved the shingle high in the air. “Look at this, everyone,” she teased. “This is my worthy brother and his shingle for writing. You ask what my worthy brother is worth? Why, look at his shingle. He has written his name again and again. Surely he must fancy he is worth a giant treasure.”
Eight-year-old Abe jumped up and grabbed his shingle board. “You are always teasing!” he scolded. “You might do well to practice your own writing.”
Sarah laughed. “If I did, I’d write something better than my name—or yours. Vanity brings pain, dear brother.”
Still smiling, she ran off into the Kentucky woods. Abe sat down again, looking at his name on the shingle board.
“That Sarah,” he said to himself. “She’ll always be a tease.”

Does hiking 16 miles in the Arizona desert pulling a handcart sound like a good time? Well, for more than 225 young men and young women in the Mesa Arizona Kimball East Stake it was a great time.
The “trekkers” marched 12 miles the first day along the original Mormon Battalion Trail southwest of Phoenix. They traveled near the exact location where the Mormon Battalion was on Christmas Day, 150 years ago.
The eight companies, each including three handcarts with “Ma’s, Pa’s and children,” made camp on the second day, when they did a whole lot of “pioneering.” Many priests, Laurels, teachers and Mia Maids learned to kill a chicken and cook it.
“We did what they did,” says Rayna Martinez, 14, of the Sunny Mesa Ward, “but they had to do it every single day. It sure makes you more thankful for everything you have.”
The last day of the trek included hiking and pulling the handcarts about four more miles and ended when the tired and dusty youth were treated to a barbecue.
“It strengthened my testimony,” says Ronda Abel, 16, of the Fairfield Ward. “The pioneers went through all that because they knew that what they believed in was true. They endured those hardships. That makes me stronger. I know that if I ever have to stand up for what I believe in, I will because I’ll remember what they went through.”

To promote modesty and values, the young women of the Torrance Second Ward in California had a modest “fashion shoot” for a recent Mutual activity. Each girl chose a value to portray in her clothing choice. The room where the young women meet was then transformed into a working photo studio, complete with studio lights and backdrop. Each girl had her own photo shoot with her value poster and then the photographer took group shots. Not only did the young women learn about the values, but they also realized modesty can be easy, fun, and fashionable. And it never goes out of style.

It was a rainy day in March 1988. I was taking my car to the mechanic because the hazard and blinker lights did not work. As I drove toward the highway, I felt a strong impression that I should move into the right lane for slower traffic. But when I reached the road, I somehow ended up in the left lane—the one for faster traffic.
I was traveling at about seventy kilometers per hour when I rounded a curve in the road and saw a car stopped ahead of me in my lane.
Many thoughts flashed through my mind. I thought about switching on my right blinker to signal to the traffic behind me that I wanted to change lanes, but the blinker didn’t work. I thought about braking and turning to the right, but a truck was traveling parallel to my car. And to my left was a long, muddy shoulder.
Not knowing what else to do, I stepped on the brakes. Despite the wet, slippery road, my car stopped a few meters behind the car in my lane.
As I got out into the rain and signaled to the other cars and trucks that came around the curve, I thanked Heavenly Father that I was safe. I also asked his forgiveness for not listening to the warning he had sent to me.
I had been taught a lesson on listening to the promptings of the Holy Ghost that I will never forget.

On a May morning in 1843 some of the Apostles were meeting in Joseph Smith’s office in Nauvoo. Opposition to the Church was building in Illinois, and persecution of the Saints was increasing. Yet at this difficult time, the leaders called four men to leave their families, travel far from their homes, and serve missions in the Sandwich Islands (Hawaiian Islands). They were the first missionaries called to a non-English-speaking mission field. The four men—Addison Pratt, Noah Rogers, Benjamin F. Grouard, and Knowlton F. Hanks—were set apart on May 23 by Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball, Orson Hyde, and Parley P. Pratt.
The missionaries first traveled east to New Bedford, Massachusetts, where they hoped to find a ship going to their mission area. When they couldn’t find one, they booked passage on a ship traveling to the Society Islands (French Polynesian Islands) in the South Pacific. They set sail on October 9, 1843.
After they had been at sea only a few weeks, Elder Hanks, a young man who had suffered from ill health, died and was buried in the Atlantic. The three remaining missionaries continued on. Their voyage took them east across the Atlantic, around the Cape of Good Hope, across the Indian Ocean, along the southern coast of Australia, and into the Pacific.
The first island reached by the ship was Tubuai in 1844. When the natives there pleaded with the missionaries to stay, Addison Pratt left the ship to teach these people who had shown them kindness and hospitality. Serving there alone for many months, struggling to learn the Polynesian language, he baptized sixty out of a population of two hundred and organized the first branch of the Church in the South Pacific. To this day, the Latter-day Saint community on Tubuai is a strong one.
Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to the leeward islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.
The people of Anaa, on the other hand, came to greatly love Elder Grouard. He was the first white missionary of any kind to come to their island, and many of them accepted the truth he taught. He baptized over six hundred natives, organized five branches, and called local officers to serve. He wrote to Elder Pratt and asked him to come to Anaa, as there was too much work for him to do alone.
Elder Pratt responded to his companion’s invitation, and a conference of the Church was held on Anaa with over eight hundred in attendance. At this time Addison Pratt decided to travel back to Church headquarters to request more missionaries to help in the work in the South Pacific. Leaving Elder Grouard behind, he traveled first to California, then to the Salt Lake Valley, arriving in September 1848, one week after his wife and four daughters had arrived from Winter Quarters.

In 1974, when I was just 17 years old I was called as the seminary teacher in the Maipú Branch in Santiago, Chile. In the beginning, I had 16 students.
The branch boundaries covered a lot of territory in those days, and some of the students had to travel long distances to come to seminary. I had to walk 25 blocks to get to the old, unheated house where we met. But I was very excited about my calling, and that old house seemed to me the most beautiful place in the world. As we started our course in Church history, everything seemed to be going smoothly and enthusiasm was high.
Then autumn came. As the temperature dropped, participation dropped, too. A reactivation campaign was set up to motivate the students to keep coming. The effort succeeded for a time. But as winter followed fall and it became increasingly colder and more difficult for the students to attend, fewer and fewer attended regularly.
After a time, there were only three. It was a disappointment. I did lack teaching experience, but I had faith and a testimony, and I continued to prepare for each lesson with zeal and dedication. As I walked to class each day, I prayed almost every step of the way, feeling very close to my Father in Heaven. By the time I arrived at the classroom, I was filled with the Spirit and felt as happy as if many students were there.
At other times, I lacked confidence and wondered if I should go on. One such occasion was during a district meeting when a roll call of seminary students was taken for each branch. When the name of the Maipú Branch was called, only two of us reported present: one student and myself. Everyone laughed! It felt like a slap in the face, and I wanted to ask our leaders to let us stop holding the class. However, the sweet influence of the Spirit soon came over me and urged me to continue. I determined to endure to the end.
When seminary graduation ceremonies were held, three participants from the Maipú Branch were awarded certificates of achievement. Only one of them, Pedro Baillón, was in attendance to receive his certificate. But it didn’t matter. By then I understood that there was a deeper purpose in my service, and I knew that the year held great meaning for me, as it did for Pedro.
I have never forgotten Pedro Baillón. Nor have I ever forgotten one of the most spiritual periods of my life.

In the late 1940s, Elder Spencer W. Kimball, an Apostle since 1943, suffered a series of heart attacks. During the convalescence that followed, he stayed with friends in New Mexico. A Church magazine article later recounted an incident that occurred while he was there:
“One morning during this recuperative period, Elder Kimball’s bed was discovered empty. Thinking that he had taken a morning stroll and would be back in time for breakfast, his attendants went about their duties. But when he hadn’t returned by 10:00 a.m., they began to worry. A search began.
“He was finally discovered several miles away under a pine tree. His Bible lay next to him, opened to the last chapter of St. John. His eyes were closed, and when the search party came up to him he remained as still as when they first caught sight of him.
“Their frightened voices aroused him, however, and when he lifted his head they could see traces of tears on his cheeks. To their questions, he answered, ‘[Five] years ago today I was called to be an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, and I just wanted to spend the day with Him whose witness I am.’”13

Valentine’s Day was always a wonderful time for me. Back in the early 1920s when I was a child, we delivered valentines by sneaking up to a person’s house, placing the valentine in front of the door, and then kicking the door hard and running away. The person in the house would then run out and try to catch the messenger. Even though we were supposed to escape, we liked getting caught because the recipient of the valentine would always invite us back to the house for refreshments.
I was getting ready to deliver my valentines one year when Mother suggested, “Roy, don’t you think it would be nice to leave one for George?”
“But, Mother …” I protested, my voice trailing off. I didn’t want to tell her the truth—that I was afraid of George. He was a boy who appeared to be about my age. He did not attend school with us because he was mentally disabled. No one ever talked to or played with him because he seemed strange. He looked unusual—his face appeared to be flat, and he had a hard time walking. He acted differently, too. As my two brothers and I passed his house on our way to school, he would come out and try to communicate with us in grunts. Frightened, we would avoid him by hurriedly crossing the street to stay as far away as we could. As we passed by, we often noticed his mother taking him back into the house. He seemed sad whenever this happened.
Mother seemed to read my mind. “Son, I know you’re afraid, but that boy needs a friend. Will you do it?”
I reluctantly agreed. As my brothers and I walked down the street to George’s house, we decided that I would be the one to deliver the valentine. Nervously I lifted the latch on George’s front gate and approached the house, not knowing what to expect. Gathering all my courage, I stepped onto the porch, laid the valentine down, banged my foot against the front door, and then fled with all the speed I could muster.
As I ran through the gate and up the road, I glanced back and saw George’s mother opening the door. She looked down to see the valentine on the porch.
“Please, come back!” she called.
My brothers, who were waiting on the sidewalk, returned with me to the house. We entered the front room to find George dancing around clutching the valentine to his heart, tears streaming down his happy face. George’s mother grabbed all three of us, hugged and kissed us, and invited us into the cellar to pick out the biggest red apples we had ever seen.
From that time on, my brothers and I found it easy to be a friend to George. My mother had taken advantage of a great opportunity to teach us how to love our neighbor.

Recently I received a letter from a fine young man in the missionary training center in Provo, Utah. The story of his commitment, in essence, goes like this:

“Swimming has been one of the most important things in my life, and my family has made incredible sacrifices in order for me to excel. I can remember getting up at 4:00 A.M. every morning, along with my dad, who would take me to my workout. And every afternoon my parents would come and pick me up. It was very expensive going to championship meets in many parts of the country, but somehow, my parents always managed to help me attend.
“Well, I did quite well, and last year I qualified for the Olympic trials. I had been swimming on the University of Arizona swim team, and had some of the fastest times in the country. At the same time, I was trying to decide about a mission.
“I only had one year of eligibility left, and in that year I would be captain of the swim team. Two years of a full-ride scholarship were also available to me if I stayed. If I left to serve, I’d lose them. While I was swimming over ten miles a day in preparation for the Olympic trials, however, I decided to send in my mission papers.
“Soon I found myself in Austin, at the trials. My team was among the most elite to go, and about eight of us had times good enough to make the Olympics. Things didn’t go well for me, though, and I failed to make the team. The goal I’d worked for all my life, the goal my family had come from across the country to see me achieve, was now out of reach. I wanted to jump right back in the pool and start training for the 1992 Olympics.
“Then I remembered I’d sent in my mission papers. How could I leave a loser, though? My coach told me he knew I could break the records I wanted in the next year, and that if I left, I would be throwing away everything I’d worked all my life for.
“The following week was agonizing. I was pulled in many directions. I talked to my leaders and prayed and prayed. Finally, I had the overwhelming feeling that now was the time to go on my mission. You don’t argue with the Spirit.
“I’m on my mission now. I have no regrets about this choice, and I’m happier than ever. Sure, it’s been tough, but when you lose your life in Christ, you find it. I know what it’s like to have potential to do something and not quite make it. It’s a small taste of torment. I don’t want this to happen when I face my God at Judgment Day. It takes commitment.
“We must decide now, I believe. I didn’t ask myself every morning if I wanted to go to practice or to sleep. I decided beforehand, and there was no choice to be made when morning came. We have to be committed. But to be committed 100 percent, we need the help of the Lord. You need to have the discipline and commitment to do the things you’ve promised, long after the emotion under which you made the commitment has died.”

Some years ago, it was my privilege to visit Morocco. As part of that trip, the group I was with traveled at high speed in five of the king’s limousines across the beautiful Moroccan countryside to see some ruins in a distant desert. As we topped the brow of a hill, we noticed that the limousine in front of us had pulled off to the side of the road.
An old shepherd, attired in long, flowing robes similar to those worn in the Savior’s day, was standing near the limousine, talking with the driver. I noted a small flock of fifteen or twenty sheep nearby. The king’s vehicle had struck and injured one of them, and the driver was explaining to the shepherd the law of the land. Because the king’s vehicle had injured the old shepherd’s sheep, he was now entitled to one hundred times its value. However, under the same law, the injured sheep must be slain and the meat divided among the people. My interpreter hastily added, “but the old shepherd will not accept the money. They never do.”
Startled, I asked him why.
“It’s because of his love for each of his sheep,” he explained.
It was then that I noticed the old shepherd reach down, lift the injured lamb in his arms, and place it in the large pouch on the front of his robe. He kept stroking its head, repeating the same word over and over again. When I asked the meaning of the word, I was informed that “he was calling it by name. He is their shepherd, and good shepherds know each of their sheep by its name.”

Many years ago, my parents decided to recarpet the house. The night before the new carpet arrived, my mom asked my brothers to remove furniture and rip out bedroom carpets so the new carpet could be installed. My then seven-year-old sister, Emily, was already asleep. So, while she slept, they quietly removed all the furniture from her room, except the bed, and then tore out the carpet. Well, like older brothers sometimes do, they decided to pull a prank. They removed the rest of her belongings from the closet and off the walls, leaving the room bare. Then they wrote a note and tacked it to the wall: “Dear Emily, we moved. We’ll write in a few days and tell you where we are. Love, your family.”

The next morning when Emily did not come for breakfast, my brothers went to find her—there she was, sad and alone behind a closed door. Emily reflected on this experience later: “I was crushed. But what would have happened if I had just opened the door? What would I have heard? What would I have smelled? I would have known I was not alone. I would have known I really was loved. The thought never even crossed my mind to do something about my situation. I just gave up and stayed in my closet crying. And yet if I had simply opened the door.”

My sister made an assumption based on what she saw, but it wasn’t a reflection of the way things actually were. Isn’t it interesting that we, like Emily, can become so weighed down in sadness or hurt or discouragement or worry or loneliness or anger or frustration that it doesn’t even occur to us to simply do something, to open the door, to act with faith in Jesus Christ?

In another instance, a Laurel class president determined that she was going to fulfill her responsibility to activate a girl even though her leaders felt the situation was almost hopeless. Her bishop told her that because of some problems in the home and for other reasons, there was very little chance this girl would ever come to church. The other class members laughed when they learned helping this girl come back to church was to be one of the goals of their class president.

Nevertheless, she was determined to befriend this girl and enlisted the help of a neighbor girl as well. They began by saying “Hi” whenever they saw her and always stopping to visit for a minute. Then they started finding reasons to visit her. She was selected to be a member of the Booster Club for her high school wrestling team. The Laurel class president took her a flower and a note expressing congratulations. This process went on for three or four months. Finally, one Sunday the girl accepted an invitation to come to Sunday School. The next week she was there again, and that week she also attended Mutual. Because of her courage and faith, a young Laurel influenced one of her peers to take the first step toward activity in the Church.

I was working the night shift at the hospital when I first heard about the gospel. Some of the workers began discussing religion one night, and of course each one thought his church was true, although each believed in different doctrines. I knew they couldn’t all be right, but I said I didn’t think it mattered which church you belonged to, as long as you believed in God and Christ.
I had been active in a protestant faith for fifteen years and tried to live all the teachings of the Bible as I understood them. One day our minister said that God did not reveal himself through prophets anymore, but only through scripture. When he said that, the Spirit spoke to me so loudly that it almost seemed as if others could hear it too and said, “That’s not true.” I didn’t know what that meant, so I didn’t mention it to anyone.
Then, in our hospital conversation, one brave nurse dared to say that the Mormon Church was true because it had a prophet at the head to guide it. “A prophet in this day and age?” I thought disdainfully, and I let her know I didn’t believe it.
“I can prove it,” she said. And she brought me a book to read—the Book of Mormon. I was amazed at what I read, and as I continued I felt a burning in my bosom just as I had when I read the Bible. When I read Moroni’s exhortation to ask God the Eternal Father if the book was true, I decided I would do just that. I never really thought that the Lord cared enough about me to let me know. I just asked because I believed in God and Jesus.
That night in a dream the Bible and the golden plates were brought before my face. The plates were shining so bright they were like the sun. I began to understand in my dream that both were true, but that the plates were more true and more pure. When I awoke it was with a testimony. Then the nurse gave me the Doctrine and Covenants to read, and when I had finished it, I knew I wanted to be a member of the church that had received so many truths in this dispensation.
I attended a Latter-day Saint service, not knowing how I would be received as a black woman in a church that was, for all I knew, all white. I went only because I knew it was true. But everyone was very friendly, warm, and loving.
I took the six missionary discussions from two lovely lady missionaries, but then my husband wouldn’t let me be baptized because he couldn’t understand the changes in my life. Now I was torn inside, knowing where Christ’s true church was, and not being able to join it. About eight months later I decided I would not attend my former church anymore. I would fast and pray and contribute to the Latter-day Saint church, even if I was never baptized.
After about a year, on a fast Sunday, my husband told me he would approve my baptism. That day and the day of my baptism were two of the happiest days of my life. I’ll always be grateful for the nurse who gave me a Book of Mormon. She started me on the path to eternal life, and I know that if I am faithful and endure to the end, I will have a place in His kingdom.

For example, a young woman describes how she stays on the covenant path: “I once had a classmate ask me for help. I didn’t think much of it, just gave her the help she needed. But afterward, the Spirit reminded me that by helping bear her burdens, I was keeping the covenants I made when I was baptized (see Mosiah 18:8–10). I am grateful for the opportunities Heavenly Father gives me every day to choose to walk the covenant path.”

Faith has always been a source of strength for me, especially as a single mother. My faith helped me find peace, patience, and hope when life felt overwhelming. The stories in the Book of Mormon inspired me to keep moving forward, knowing that I could overcome challenges with God’s help.
Lately, the word faith has stood out to me in my Book of Mormon studies. In Alma, the faithful Church members turned to the Lord because they knew their lives depended upon Him. As the wars ended, they were grateful to God for safely delivering them from their enemies. However, not long after God blessed them with safety and prosperity, they quickly forgot where those blessings came from.
“Yea, and we may see at the very time when he doth prosper his people… yea, then is the time that they do harden their hearts, and do forget the Lord their God, and do trample under their feet the Holy One—yea, and this because of their ease, and their exceedingly great prosperity” (Helaman 12:2).
The Book of Mormon shows us that pride will cause us to lose faith. As God’s children are blessed and no longer in distress, they tend to forget God. They believe they no longer need Him.
President Russell M. Nelson counseled us to “think celestial!”
“Thinking celestial means being spiritually minded. From the Book of Mormon prophet Jacob, we learn that ‘to be spiritually minded is life eternal’ [2 Nephi 9:39].
“When you make choices, I invite you to take the long view—an eternal view. Put Jesus Christ first because your eternal life is dependent upon your faith in Him and in His Atonement. It is also dependent upon your obedience to His laws. Obedience paves the way for a joyful life for you today and a grand, eternal reward tomorrow” (“Think Celestial!,” Liahona, Nov. 2023, 12).
Faith comes to us through the gift of the Holy Ghost, and we receive the gift of the Holy Ghost by obedience to God’s laws and commandments. Sin destroys faith. Prayer and repentance will keep faith strong.
We read in 3 Nephi 5:3 that certain Nephites and Lamanites held firm to their faith: “They did forsake all their sins . . . and did serve God with all diligence day and night.” How they stayed strong when others were losing their faith is found in 3 Nephi 6:14: They were “converted unto the true faith; and they would not depart from it, for they were firm, and steadfast, and immovable, willing with all diligence to keep the commandments of the Lord.” They remained strong because they made a covenant with the Lord, and that covenant was more important to them than their own life.
Through the Book of Mormon, we learn that faith is strengthened by obedience, righteousness, repentance, seeking the Savior’s influence, serving God diligently, becoming firm and steadfast, keeping the commandments, and keeping our covenants with God.
There were many years in my life when I was a single mom, caring for five children at home and teaching 25 or more children at school. I knew the only way I could do this was with the help of the Lord. I hung on to the iron rod like I had never done before, combined with prayer and temple service. As I did this, I witnessed the hand of God in my life in many ways, great and small.
I know that as we seek to study and learn the lessons in the Book of Mormon, our faith will increase, and as difficult times arise, we will have the faith to get through them.

Fifteen-year-old Andy Tuitupou’s feet left the court long enough to grab the rebound during basketball practice. Gliding through the air, Andy was confident—he was good-looking, popular, active in his teachers quorum in our Utah ward, and a member of the school basketball team. But when his feet touched the ground again, his life changed. His strong body crashed to the floor—never to walk again.
Surgeons pinned and cast Andy’s broken leg. Pain became his constant companion. Long days, determination, and patience seemed to bring only more suffering. Although Andy gave it his all, physical therapists weren’t able to help him learn to walk again.
In desperation Paul and Carolyn Tuitupou, Andy’s parents, took him to a hospital where skilled surgeons operated and found the source of Andy’s intense pain: bone cancer. Andy made the difficult decision to have the doctors amputate his leg. Whatever the price, he wanted to beat the cancer.
Several days after the amputation, Andy asked me—his bishop—if he could receive his patriarchal blessing. I wondered what a blessing would hold for a young man facing possible death. I rushed to my office to get a patriarchal blessing recommend. Then I jumped in my car and headed for Andy’s bedside, where I found him waiting patiently for his interview. I asked Andy where he was getting his obvious strength and peace. “From the things I learned in family home evening,” he answered without hesitation. Andy was worthy to receive a patriarchal blessing.
As I visited with him throughout the next few months, I saw him as a brother who loved his family, friends, the gospel, and life. Although his spiritual health was strong, his physical well-being seemed only to worsen. Chemotherapy treatments left him violently nauseated for four or five days each week.
All hopes of a cure were dashed when a tumor in Andy’s hip erupted. His lungs began failing as cancerous tumors started their deadly invasion. But Andy wasn’t content to watch life pass him by. With the help of a devoted Scout leader, Andy soon fulfilled the requirements for his Eagle Award.
During one of my routine visits with this young member of my ward, I felt prompted to set up a formal appointment for his annual priesthood interview on the next Sunday.
On Sunday I headed for the hospital and found Andy in agony with his eyes closed. Not wanting to disturb him, I quietly sat by his bedside. After several minutes of listening to Andy’s labored breathing, I heard him whisper, “Bishop, are you going to interview me?”
After a tender prayer, I began the interview.
“Andy, are you morally clean?”
“Yes.”
“Do you honor your priesthood?”
“Yes.”
Our interview was a spiritual feast. After I asked him all my questions, he had one for me: “Bishop, how many priesthood blessings can I have?”
“As many as you want,” I said.
A few days later, I awoke to a ringing telephone.
“Andy is pretty bad. Can you come over?” Carolyn Tuitupou asked.
When I reached my friend, he asked for a blessing and then said, “I want to go home.”
As his humbled bishop, I placed my hands on my young friend’s head and knew Andy was nearing the end of his mission on earth. I asked the Lord to please take Andy home if it was His will.
After the blessing, I held Andy’s hand and said to him, “It’s okay to go home, little brother; it’s okay to go home.”
Before he went home, though, he had a few things to finish. Andy’s pain subsided, and breathing became easier, enabling him to talk to each of his brothers and his sister privately. He expressed his love to each of them and challenged his brothers to serve missions.
When I talked to him again, I asked him what he wanted me to tell the youth in the ward.
“Tell them you don’t have to be ‘cool’ for your friends; real friends don’t care if you’re ‘cool,’” he said.
Andy called several special people on the phone to say good-bye. He called an aunt he was close to and wanted to challenge her to become active in the Church again. Afraid of offending her, he didn’t quite have the courage to do it.
I looked at Andy and knew I had one last calling for him.
“Andy, will you serve as a ward missionary?”
Andy smiled. “Yes.”
I once again placed my hands on his head. After I set him apart, I gave him his first assignment: “Andy, I want you to get on the phone and bear your testimony to your aunt.”
I left the room, and he went to work—an honorable missionary.
Throughout the day, friends and neighbors dropped by to see Andy. Because it is traditional in the Tongan culture to sing in front of the home of someone who is dying, a member of the ward organized a group to come later that evening and honor Andy by singing on the Tuitupous’ front lawn.
Midafternoon, Andy’s breathing became very labored. His father and I laid our hands on his head. Brother Tuitupou pleaded with Heavenly Father to allow his son to return home. Andy died in his mother’s arms.
Their front yard was soon full of ward members singing Andy’s favorite hymn, “Because I Have Been Given Much” (Hymns, number 219). Music surrounded the home, and the family wept as love filled their hearts.
Although the Tuitupou family said an early good-bye to their son and brother, they knew they had been given much: the chance to love and learn from Andy.

Elder Oaks faced a similar situation in 1984 following his call to the Twelve, as he again left a position and work that he loved as a supreme court justice in the state of Utah. However, this change was different.

In 1970, Elder Oaks reasonably might have thought he would return to his legal career following his service at BYU, which in fact he eventually did. But the call in 1984 was distinctive—a consecrated commitment of his whole soul and entire life to the Lord. The eternal importance and worldwide scope of his new responsibilities truly were overwhelming.

Elder Oaks described his innermost thoughts about this important transition:
“During this period of introspection, contemplating the way I would spend the rest of my life, I asked myself what kind of an apostle I would be. Would I be a lawyer who had been called to be an apostle, or would I be an apostle who used to be a lawyer? I concluded that the answer to this question depended upon whether I would try to shape my calling to my own personal qualifications and experience, or whether I would undertake the painful process of trying to shape myself to my calling.
“Would I try to perform my calling in the world’s ways, or would I try to determine and follow the Lord’s ways?
“I made up my mind that I would try to change myself to fit my calling, that I would try to measure up to the qualifications and spiritual stature of an apostle. That is a challenge for a lifetime.”1