Gospel Story Finder

With sorrow we have read of young men and those not so young who bravely die, who give their lives upon the altar of freedom. In a hurried moment, one such took in hand a pencil and a scrap of paper and wrote to a worried loved one: “Soon we go into battle. The enemy is well fortified; loss of life will be great. Mom, I hope I live, but I’m not afraid to die, for I’m right with God.”

His mother received the precious note. On the same day another message arrived; “We regret to inform you that your son has been killed in action.”

Friends visited, loved ones comforted, but peace came only from him who called Nazareth his home.

Lidia trudged up the long farm lane, not even turning to wave to her friends still on the school bus. Her mind was too heavy with her problem: What can I possibly find between now and tomorrow morning to take to the class auction? As if a new language, a new school, and new friends were not difficulties enough, now she would have to go empty-handed to the auction.
Her problem was instantly forgotten, however, when she opened the cottage door and saw a letter on the floor. Mr. Williams, the owner of the farm where her parents both worked, must have pushed it under the door. It bore an official-looking return address, and it had a Red Cross emblem in the upper left-hand corner. She knew that she would have to be patient until her parents came home for supper; then she would read it to them. Without the advantage of school, which Lidia had in this new country, her parents’ knowledge of English was still scanty.
If only the letter contained some good news about her uncle! Lidia propped the envelope up against the only ornament on the bureau, a little blue glass pony. As her fingers touched the figurine, she prayed fervently that it would soon be reunited with its mate, the one that used to sit by its side in their house in Poland. When they had sadly made plans to leave their beleaguered country and go to America, not knowing when—or even if—they might meet again, the two Jelinek brothers had each taken one of the glass ponies, praying that they would be together again one day.
Mr. Williams, who admired the pony one day and was told the story, had written to the Red Cross, asking for information. Surely this letter would tell them that Uncle Jan was now in this country too!
Lidia snapped out of her reverie and got out pots for the vegetables that her mother had prepared earlier. As she set the table, she looked on all the cupboard shelves. There was nothing that she could take to the auction sale tomorrow! Not a trinket, not a spare dish, nothing. There were only the bare necessities that the Williamses had kindly provided for them. The auction, with its proceeds going to the Junior Red Cross, was an annual affair in the country school, but it was a new experience for Lidia. She dreaded being the only one in her class not to add some object to the collection on Miss Pearson’s desk.
The door suddenly opened, and Lidia rushed with the letter to greet her parents. And while they waited apprehensively, she stumbled through the unfamiliar phrases as she read the letter to them. Then, as she came to the closing sentence, she slowly read these discouraging words: “We are sorry that we have found no trace of your brother. However, be assured that we will keep trying …”
“I’ll wash,” Father said quietly, “then we’ll eat supper.”
After the usual prayer of thanks for food and shelter, Father told of a sick cow that was now getting well; Mother had helped Mrs. Williams clean the attic of the rambling old farmhouse.
“And how was school, Lidia,” Father asked.
The girl kept her eyes on her plate as she answered, “Fine, Father. Fine.”
“But you are very quiet,” Father pursued. “You have trouble at school?”
“No, no trouble.”
“So?”
“Well, there’s an auction at school tomorrow, and I should take something.”
“What is an auction?” Mother asked.
“Oh, everybody takes something, then the teacher asks for bids, and the one who bids the highest buys the book or whatever. The money goes to the Red Cross.”
“That is good,” Father said, nodding. “The Red Cross helped us many times. Here, take this.” Fishing in his pocket, he drew out a crumpled dollar bill.
“No thanks, Father,” Lidia said, pushing it away. “I have money of my own from weeding. But we are supposed to take something that can be sold.”
Father’s eyes looked around the room. “There is so little here.”
Lidia’s face crumpled. “I know,” she blurted. “There’s nothing I can take—nothing in this place!” She hung her head to hide her smarting eyes and wished that she had kept her words in check.
The girl waited for a rebuke; instead, her father got up slowly and went over to the bureau. He stood a minute, then he came back with the glass pony in his hand. “Take this,” he said quietly.
Lidia’s eyes widened. “The pony?”
Father nodded.
Lidia fingered the smooth blue glass and touched the dark eyes. Nobody spoke. She was touched by her father’s offer, and she sensed that her smiling, nodding parents were thinking back to happier days when there were two little ponies standing together on the top of a piano.
In the morning, the glass ornament sparkled on Miss Pearson’s sunny desk, and it brought the highest bid of one dollar. Nancy Crane, its new owner, wrapped it carefully in tissues and put it in her lunch pail.
At supper that night, Lidia described the sale and told her parents that Nancy said that she would take good care of the pony.
“It’s good,” Father said, smiling, “that the pony helps the Red Cross in a very small way.”
While Lidia was wiping the dishes after supper, a knock on the door startled them. Looking past her father at the open door, Lidia saw her schoolmate Nancy. With her was a tall man.
“Hi, Lidia,” the girl called. “This is my father, and we’ve come to see you about the glass pony.”
As they sat around the table, Nancy’s father took the glass pony out of his pocket, set it on the table, and began explaining: “I couldn’t believe it when Nancy brought this home. Your Lidia had told her that it was but one of a pair and that you left the other in Poland.”
“Yah,” Mr. Jelinek replied, “with my brother.”
“Well, folks,” the other man paused dramatically. “I’ve seen the mate to this pony.”
Lidia saw Father’s hands clench tightly, and Mother’s hand cover her mouth. “You are sure of this?” Father whispered.
“As sure as my name’s Walt Crane. I saw it only a few months ago.”
“How, Mr. Crane?” Lidia asked. “I mean, who had it?”
“A young fellow came asking for work. I didn’t need any extra help, but I knew that my cousin in Grand Falls did, so I drove him there. I saw the mate to this pony when I helped him settle in.”
“This place, is it far?” Lidia asked.
“About a hundred miles. Listen, folks, come home with me, and I’ll phone my cousin. As best as I can recollect, that young man did look like you, Mr. Jelinek. He must be your brother.”
The Jelineks were almost too happy to talk as Mrs. Crane and Nancy took them back home—Uncle Jan would be with them again tomorrow!
Lidia gave Nancy another grateful hug, then said thoughtfully, “It’s really funny. Just yesterday a letter from the Red Cross said that they had not found Uncle Jan yet but that they’d keep trying. And it was actually through the Red Cross auction today that we have found him!”
Nancy had happy tears in her own eyes. “My grandma always says, ‘God often works in mysterious ways.’ And I guess that it must be true. I’m just glad that I could help Him this time.” She slipped the glass pony into Lidia’s pocket. “Keep it, Lidia. Soon they’ll be a pair again.”

The prospect of two years without warm sand and blue-green waves ahead of me sent me surfing with my friend Gaven. At the end of the summer I’d be leaving for my mission in Iceland.
As Gaven and I carried our surfboards down a steep slope, we saw that an offshore wind was shaping six-foot waves into smooth, hollow barrels, beautiful to surfers’ eyes.
At the foot of the hills, cliffs dropped 50 feet down onto a narrow beach. We followed an eroded gully down the bluffs and easily climbed the last ten feet to the sand. Leashing our surfboards to our legs, we paddled out through kelp beds to the distant surf line.
I got in some of the best surfing of my life that day. The air and water sparkled clear and warm, and salt spray felt fresh on our faces. Seabirds wheeled and cried constantly, and the rides were long, fast, and perfect. Gaven and I stayed until after sunset.
As the twilight began to fade, my friend caught a last ride to shore. I looked at the horizon, which promised yet another set of extra-large waves, and waited for one more. I was rewarded by a last long, pounding ride.
I began the long paddle back, but a current pulled against me, and light faded to almost nothing. I finally reached the cliff’s base and discovered that the tide had risen much higher than I’d expected and now covered the beach. Waves rolled in and crashed directly against the cliff I had to climb. At first I shrank from the foaming water and tried in vain to discover an easier way; then I finally got up the courage to try.
The climb up was nothing like climbing down had been that afternoon. Then the cliff had been dry and high above the surf. Now it was slick as sushi, and white water roiled around me as I climbed.
Just short of the safety of the gully, I could go no farther. One last handhold lay just above my right hand, but I couldn’t reach it. That hand held my heavy surfboard, which a leash still attached to my leg. If I dropped it to the water, the waves would catch it and pull me off the rock. I needed my left hand to hold me in place. I was truly stuck.
Gaven, who had already reached the cliff top, suddenly appeared above me. For a moment, my foolish pride told me not to accept the hand he offered. “I’ve come so far on my own,” I thought. “I can make it myself.” But then I gratefully handed him the surfboard that burdened me, and with my right hand freed, I grasped the last handhold and reached the top.

“Ouch!” Nate cried. “That hurt.”
Meg looked over at her little brother. Mom had brought them to their favorite playground for the afternoon. Nate was digging in the sand near the swings. Now two girls playing near him were throwing toys at him.
“That’s not very nice,” he said. “Please stop.”
The two girls just laughed and kept throwing toys and sand.
Meg was upset. Nate hadn’t done anything to the girls. He had been playing by himself. They should be nicer to him.
Meg looked for Mom. She was talking with other adults on the other side of the playground. Meg worried that by the time she got Mom to come help, Nate would be really hurt.
Meg decided to take care of it herself. She walked over and stood between Nate and the girls. The girls looked surprised. They stopped throwing toys.
“That’s my little brother,” Meg told the girls. “You should be nice to him.” Then Meg had an idea. “What if we play together? Do you know how to play freeze tag?”
One of the girls smiled and said, “That’s my favorite game!”
As the girls ran off toward the field, Nate turned to Meg. “Thanks for helping me. You’re a great sister.”
Meg smiled and hugged him. She was glad she had been able to help her brother.

In late 2020, a group of women from the Como Ward Relief Society of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints organised a collection of various items to donate to the Lifehouse project. The Relief Society motto—charity never faileth—invites women to seek out and help those in need, so the members gathered suitable contributions over a period of two months.
Steve Klomp, the president of RTLWA expressed his appreciation to Relief Society member Geri Campbell for the donations which were delivered in “bootloads” via her car. He said he was “particularly impressed with how the Church has the ability to organise and mobilise its members when there is a community project or a need to be filled.”

“Whew!” Jenny fell back onto the chair and looked at the boxes around her. Moving to a new house was a lot of work! But it was kind of exciting too.
She could see her new neighborhood through the window, including a steeple that poked up from above the houses nearby. Jenny’s family didn’t go to church very often, but now there was a church building right down the street.
Maybe now we’ll go to church more, Jenny thought.
When Sunday came around, Jenny and her family went to their new ward for the first time. In Primary, Jenny saw a girl she had met in school that week.
“Hi, Karen,” Jenny said, feeling a little shy.
“Jenny!” said Karen. “I didn’t know you were in my ward.”
“We moved into a house down the street,” Jenny said.
Karen asked Jenny to sit by her. Jenny was glad to have a friend at church.
The next Sunday, Jenny woke up and put on her favorite dress. She combed her hair and ate breakfast as fast as she could. She was excited to go to her new ward again. But then she saw that the rest of her family were still in their pajamas.
“Aren’t we going to church?” she asked Dad.
“No, not today,” Dad said. “We got a bit of a late start. We’ll try to go next week.”
Jenny was used to missing church, but this time felt worse than usual. She wouldn’t get to go to Primary or see Karen.
At school on Monday, Karen and Jenny were talking about their weekends. “I missed you at church yesterday,” Karen said. “Were you sick?”
Jenny’s cheeks turned red. “No,” she said. “I wanted to go, but my family didn’t.”
“Oh. Well, if you ever want to come to church and your family isn’t coming, you can sit by my family.”
Jenny smiled. “Thanks.”
The next Sunday, Jenny’s family went to church. But the Sunday after that they didn’t want to go. Jenny thought about what Karen had said and decided to give it a try.
So after her parents said it was OK, Jenny walked to the chapel. Her heart was beating fast as she looked inside. Then she saw Karen waving to her.
“I’m glad you came!” Karen whispered, scooting over to make room on the bench.
It feels good to be here, Jenny thought.
From then on, Jenny started going to church every week, even when her family didn’t. Pretty soon going to church was the best part of her week!
And Jenny started feeling different during the week too. She felt happier, and she was nicer to her brother and sisters. It was easier to stop watching videos or to change the channel when something bad came on.
One Sunday morning when Jenny came out of her room, the rest of her family were dressed in church clothes.
“We thought we’d come with you today,” Dad said.
Jenny liked being a good example. Her family didn’t go to church every Sunday after that, but they did start going more and more often. And that made church even better.

José Mesaville told what it was like to be the first convert in Granada. The rest of his family was not at all interested in anything two young North Americans might have to say about religion, but José accepted a strange book called the Book of Mormon and read it. To his amazement he found that he believed what he read. “When I read the part in Third Nephi about the visit of the Savior to America, I knew with a special surety that it had really happened. I decided to be baptized, but I was only 18, and at that time I was still legally a minor. My parents wouldn’t give me permission, so I couldn’t become a member. Shortly after my conversion, the missionaries left Granada. They later came back for a month or two, but for the greater part of three years I lived without the Church. But although I did not have the Church or the gift of the Holy Ghost, I did have the gospel to guide me, and I tried to live as the elders had taught me. When my father found out about the law of tithing, he tore up all my Church books because he thought the principle was a form of thievery. So I had only the Bible and the knowledge I carried in my heart until a returned missionary later sent me more books from the United States. These I had to leave in a hotel where I worked or at the home of a family I had interested in the Church. Finally my father softened his attitude, and I was able to read them at home. I quit smoking and drinking, lived the law of the fast, and did my best to comply with all that I had been taught.
“Before long I came to wonder if I had any friends. Those who had been my best friends made fun of me. I refused to take offense, however, but kept treating them as friends no matter how they treated me. Little by little they began to grow accustomed to my beliefs. Now when we are out together, they ask for beer for themselves and a soft drink for me without my saying anything.”
In 1976 the missionaries returned to Granada to stay. José was now legally an adult, but out of deep respect for his parents, he still asked for their permission to be baptized. “My mother said that I was now an adult and must make my own decisions. She said she thought that this was all youthful foolishness, but that if it wasn’t true, I would grow tired of it with time. I suppose she was right because I certainly haven’t grown tired of it.”
José was baptized in a nearby lake. There was no chapel in those days, and Church meetings were held in the elders’ living quarters. “At first the meetings consisted of two elders and me. The services didn’t last long because we only had one speaker. Later we moved to our present location, and more members began to join the Church. It causes me pain to say that some of them have left the Church already. They didn’t give enough of themselves, and the only way to stay strong is to give of ourselves.”

When Thierry was called to serve a mission in the Cote D’Ivoire Abidjan Mission he had never read the Book of Mormon. His bishop encouraged him to read it cover to cover before commencing his mission. For three months, Thierry went every day to his ward building to read, ponder and pray about the Book of Mormon. This experience of daily study resulted in his taking into his mission a strong testimony of the book. He has said, “the greatest tool that we have to bring people to the light of the gospel and gather scattered Israel is the Book of Mormon.”

Summer Saturdays are special times for my brothers and me. After eating an early lunch, we usually take a large jug of water and drive with our dad to the Gila Indian Reservation a few miles south of our home in Tempe, Arizona, to look for dust devils. There, on dry fields that don’t have any crops growing on them, giant swirling columns of dust regularly form and march across the landscape. We like to run into them and release colored balloons or smoke bombs, while our dad takes pictures of them. These pictures help him understand how whirlwinds are created and how they grow and finally disappear.

Illustration by Trent Gudmundsen
On the surface, my childhood was very normal.
We went to church and attended all of our Church meetings and activities. I went to school and played with my friends. As a teenager, I did all the things that normal teenagers do. I hung out with my friends and was in the choir and drama club. I went to prom. But there was a very dark secret underneath that happy, normal exterior.
From the time I was about two years old, I had been a victim of sexual abuse by my two older brothers. They also abused my sisters. We were too young to understand what was happening, but as I grew older, I began to understand a little. I felt dark and dirty whenever I was in the presence of my brothers.
After attending a Young Women class where they taught about morality, I understood the meaning of virtue and chastity. I listened to my leaders plead with me and the others in my class to stay morally clean.
I wondered, “How could I be morally clean?” As far back as my memories could go, I had been a victim of sexual abuse. I couldn’t help but wonder what the Lord thought of me. Was I a virtuous young woman? Was I worthy to date the righteous young men in my ward and school? Did the abuse I had suffered make me unworthy of a temple marriage?
I thought a lot about it. It didn’t make sense to me that I would be considered unvirtuous when what happened to me was not my choice. Why shouldn’t I be able to feel virtuous? Was I unworthy of the Lord’s love? Did I require repentance?
I honestly did not know. I felt that I was not to blame, but at the same time, I felt dirty and degraded and totally humiliated. I couldn’t get the courage to tell my parents or anyone else. I did try several times, but I felt too embarrassed and I didn’t know how to say the words. I just tried to forget that it was happening.
When I was 15 years old, my little sisters found the courage that I lacked. They talked to a counselor at school. A short time later, one of my brothers was arrested and sentenced to three years in prison. But still, for years afterward, I suffered with the same fears that I wasn’t virtuous or worthy.
Eventually, one day I got the courage to go see my bishop. He explained that the Lord does not hold me accountable at all for the sexual acts that were forced on me as a child and young woman. He assured me that it was not at all my fault. I stood blameless before the Lord. I was still virtuous!
With some counseling from professionals and help from my bishop, I have been able to leave the abuse—and the pain and suffering it caused—behind me. Now I really do have a happy and normal life. I was married in the temple to a righteous man, and we are raising our family happily.
Sometimes the past will intrude on my thoughts, however, and I can remember the anguish that I felt as I pondered my worthiness.
I wonder how many other young people are out there in a situation like the one I was in, feeling ashamed and humiliated, wondering about their virtue and where they fit in God’s plan.
To these young people I want to say, the Lord loves you.
His heart aches for you.
He knows that you are not to blame.
He knows that you are truly virtuous.
He will help you find the courage and strength to live your life with happiness.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Trevan woke up and turned off his alarm clock. Eight days until my baptism, he thought. That meant his interview with the bishop would be soon. But what if I’m not ready?
That night the missionaries came over for dinner. Taco night was Trevan’s favorite, but it was always more fun with the missionaries. They could even play a game of scripture charades after dinner—as long as Trevan and his sister listened to the lesson first.
“Tonight we have a message about baptism,” Sister Carlisle said.
Trevan jumped in his seat. “I’m getting baptized next week!”
“That’s great!” Sister Carlisle gave him a high five. “Are you excited?”
“I guess so, but I’m kind of worried about talking to the bishop,” Trevan said. “What if I don’t know the answers?”
“It’s OK to be nervous,” Sister Kemp said. “But I bet you know more than you think. Why do you think it’s important to be baptized?”
Trevan wasn’t sure. “To be obedient?”
“Right!” said Sister Kemp. She held up a picture of Jesus. “Baptism is so important that Jesus was baptized, even though He never sinned. When we’re baptized, we make covenants, or promises, with Heavenly Father.”
“Do you know what promises you’ll be making?” asked Sister Carlisle.
“I think so!” said Trevan. “We learned this at home evening last week, right Mom?”
Mom nodded. “We can remember our covenants by remembering the word ‘take.’ Can you remember what the letters stand for?”
Trevan looked at his sister Cassidy for help. “T stands for taking His name upon us,” she said. “A, always remembering Him.”
“I know the next one!” said Trevan. “K is for keeping the commandments.”
“You got it,” said Mom. “And E is for enduring to the end.”
“That means following Jesus my whole life. And repenting when I make mistakes,” Trevan said.
“Awesome!” said Sister Carlisle. “And when we keep those promises, do you know what Heavenly Father promises to give us in return?”
“Uh, blessings?” Trevan asked.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Heavenly Father promises to forgive us when we repent. He also promises that the Holy Ghost will guide us.”
Trevan nodded. It was starting to make more sense.
Sister Carlisle pulled out a notebook. “If you’re nervous about the questions the bishop will ask you, we can go over them together.” She turned a few pages and read the first question. “Do you have faith in and a testimony of the Savior Jesus Christ?”
“Yeah,” said Trevan. He relaxed as Sister Carlisle read the other questions. “Those are easy,” he said when she finished.
“They are,” Sister Carlisle said. “But it’s still important for the bishop to ask them. He wants to make sure you feel ready to make covenants with Heavenly Father.”
At the end of the lesson, Sister Kemp shared her testimony. “I know Heavenly Father loves us because He hears and answers our prayers.”
“I know that too!” said Trevan. “This morning I prayed that Heavenly Father would help me know if I’m ready to be baptized.”
“And how do you feel now?” Sister Kemp asked.
“I don’t feel so worried anymore,” Trevan said. “I feel ready!”

Instead, I joined a neighborhood team with lots of friends. We had a great time the first year and were successful, but the second year the team struggled and sometimes lost focus on the game. I became frustrated. I put my best effort into every game, but we almost always lost.
After one very bad game, Coach Hashem, whose team was doing well, approached me on the soccer field. He asked me how things were going. I said, “Not so good.” I told him I missed my old teammates. Hashem coached with a great deal of skill and always seemed to get the most from his players.
“How would you like to be a guest player for our team when we go to the next tournament?” Hashem asked.
“I would really like that!” I responded excitedly.
“Great!” Hashem said, smiling. “I need to ask you one question though. Can you play on Sundays?” My stomach muscles tightened. I suddenly felt sick. I remembered what had happened that last time this question had been asked.
I looked at my mom. I looked at my dad. They too waited for my answer. I looked at Hashem.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t play on Sundays,” I said. “Will that make a difference?”
Hashem stood there for a moment. He had seen the expression of hope on my face fade quickly as I had answered his question.
“No, that’s OK,” Hashem responded. “We probably won’t get to the Sunday finals. We’d love to have you play with us.”
Soon I started practicing with Hashem’s team. The team played with a great deal of intensity, and they welcomed me back. I loved playing with them.
We didn’t win all of our games at the tournament, but we all tried our hardest, and we had a good time. Soon I became a permanent member of Hashem’s team. Though they knew I didn’t play on Sundays, they still appreciated me for what I added to the team on the other game days.

Illustration by Allen Garns
Our vacation was ending. Over waffles that morning, we planned how to make the most of our time at the hotel before enduring the five-hour drive home. My husband decided to take our three young daughters for a final escapade in the pool. I would take advantage of a treadmill in the workout room.
The treadmill I chose faced a wall-sized window overlooking the swimming pool. Shortly I saw a family, my family, make their way to the pool. Towels, shoes, and T-shirts flew everywhere as the girls excitedly prepared to jump into the water. Normally I would be following behind them, gathering up clothes and shoes and, quite honestly, being a bit annoyed by it all. Instead, I saw this family from the outside looking in, as though the giant window before me was a movie screen. As my feet pounded a rhythm on the rotating belt beneath, I watched.
I saw how happy everyone was, laughing and playing together, and I thought about the times I had become discouraged by the petty arguments that inevitably arise in a family, by the uneasy feeling that, despite my best effort, I was failing to teach my children to love each other. But as I watched, I saw people who were happy together. I discovered that I wasn’t failing to teach them to love one another; I was just failing to notice that they could.
I watched one of the girls jumping from the pool’s edge over and over again into her daddy’s arms. I thought about all the big jumps she would make throughout her life and hoped she would trust Heavenly Father to catch her each time. I knew that with each jump she was learning to trust and that being part of our family was a safe way to learn that trust.
Another daughter sought to perfect a swimming skill. I saw how her family’s encouragement kept her trying. There would be times in her life when she would need that same support in the face of more difficult challenges.
And then I watched as our third daughter was accidentally bumped into the pool. Upset and angry, she sputtered her way out of the water and into a chair. Immediately her family noticed she was missing. I watched each one lovingly encourage her to rejoin them. She eventually did, and I thought of her future, of all the times she would be hurt and feel like giving up. I hoped she would always find in the love of her family the strength to endure.
Suddenly, the realization hit me: our families can be a key to our ability to learn, understand, and live the gospel. Nephi noted that “by small means the Lord can bring about great things” (1 Nephi 16:29). And so it is with families. Yes, parents struggle. But every effort to teach and train and love, no matter how small, matters.
My little movie drew to a close. As I turned off the treadmill and watched my family gather their clothes, I felt renewed determination to keep going, to keep doing all the little things that I sometimes worry don’t make a difference.

Such a man was Paul Tingey. Just a month ago I attended his funeral services here in Salt Lake City. Paul grew up in a fine Latter-day Saint home and served an honorable mission for the Lord in Germany. A companion of his in the mission field was Elder Bruce D. Porter of the First Quorum of the Seventy. Elder Porter described Elder Tingey as one of the most dedicated and successful missionaries he ever knew.

At the conclusion of his mission, Elder Tingey returned home, completed his studies at the university, married his sweetheart, and together with her reared their family. He served as a bishop and was successful in his vocation.

Then, without much warning, the symptoms of a dreaded disease struck his nervous system—even multiple sclerosis. Held captive by this malady, Paul Tingey struggled valiantly but then was confined to a care facility for the remainder of his life. There he cheered up the sad and made everyone feel glad. Whenever I attended Church meetings there, Paul lifted my spirits, as he did all others.

When the World Olympics came to Salt Lake City in 2002, Paul was selected to carry the Olympic torch for a specified distance. When this was announced at the care facility, a cheer erupted from those patients assembled, and a hearty round of applause echoed through the halls. As I congratulated Paul, he said with his limited diction, “I hope I don’t drop the torch!”

Brethren, Paul Tingey didn’t drop the Olympic torch. What’s more, he carried bravely the torch he was handed in life and did so to the day of his passing.

Spirituality, faith, determination, courage—Paul Tingey had them all.

In 1998 my family moved to the Netherlands. My siblings and I attended the American School of The Hague. My mom couldn’t drive us in the mornings, so we rode the bus and train to get to school. My older sisters attended early-morning seminary and left an hour earlier than my younger brother, Shaun, and I. We made it to school easily for the first half of the year, but then the bus routes changed because of construction.
One day we were waiting for our bus when I saw one with a different number but the same destination. I thought the number didn’t matter much, so we got on the bus. After about 20 minutes, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Shaun and I noticed we were nowhere near our school, and we both felt very lost and afraid.
We got off the bus, and I said a prayer in my heart, asking Heavenly Father for comfort and help. I had been learning Dutch in school and realized I could ask someone for help. I asked around until I found a lady who spoke a little English. She gave us directions to catch the right bus to school. Soon we were headed in the right direction and feeling much better.
I will never forget the lost feeling I felt when I realized I was on the wrong bus. I know that the Lord helped me get back on track as He does constantly in our lives—not only physically, but spiritually. We all will feel lost in life’s decisions if we are not on the right track, but the Lord will always give direction and a way for us to get back on the path toward the right destination.

As soon as I returned from the Thanksgiving break during my freshman year of college, my roommate hung golden bells on our door and decorated our bulletin boards. The Christmas season was upon us. A ward dance and residence hall parties were sandwiched in between studies, and a new snowfall created a perfect canvas for the tinsel and colored lights.
Still, despite our decorations, being a freshman away from home for the first time left me feeling like something was missing. The idea of Santa Claus no longer held any excitement. A student budget limited Christmas gifts to the simple and practical. Where was the spirit of Christmas?
The Sunday before we were to go home for Christmas break, I arrived at sacrament meeting early. I was nearly alone in the chapel. After the business of the week before, it was a relief to just sit by myself and relax in quiet.
As I sat there, I noticed the priesthood holders had come in to prepare the sacrament table. Reverently, they spread the cloth on the table. It somehow seemed more white and clean than even the new snow outside. They then brought out the sparkling trays with the bread and water. Finally, they quietly unfolded another white cloth and laid it carefully down over the sacred emblems.
I watched spellbound. The impact of what I had seen hit me full force. This, I thought, is what Christmas is about. The baby in the manger was only the beginning. The real meaning of Christmas is in the sacrifice of the Savior—the Atonement.
Since that day, I have known where to find the spirit of Christmas any week of the year. It’s there at the sacrament table.

Janie Sigoda stared at the strange hat and shiny red notebook on the table. She was still wondering what they were for when her father started the family home evening lesson.
“Did you know,” he asked the family, “that the Nephites kept records but that they didn’t always remember to write all the important things that happened to them?”
Janie forgot about the hat and notebook and bounced up and down on the couch. “Yes, Dad,” she said, “in Primary Sister Lind said that Jesus asked the Nephites why the story of Samuel the Lamanite hadn’t been recorded.”
“It sounds like you already know the story,” Dad said with a smile. “Can you find it too?”
Janie opened the family copy of the Book of Mormon and searched through Third Nephi. “Here it is!”
Her father began reading while Mom held the baby. Janie and her brother, Chris, cuddled with Dad in the big overstuffed chair so that they could read with him the Savior’s words about Samuel the Lamanite.
“You see,” he finished, closing the book and looking at each of them, “keeping records is very important to the Savior.”
Janie’s eyes went back to the notebook, and even before her father spoke again, she guessed what he would say.
“Do you all see this red notebook?” Dad held it high, and the baby tried to reach and grab it. “This isn’t just any old notebook,” he went on, letting baby Karen play with it a few moments. “It’s a special reporter’s notebook. We don’t want to miss great stories in our family record either.”
He picked up the funny hat and stuck a card with FAMILY REPORTER printed on it into the hatband. “Each month someone gets to be the Sigoda family reporter. Who will it be first—Mom, Chris, me, or Janie?”
“Oh, please let it be me,” Janie begged.
Dad winked at Mom, then smiled at Janie. Pulling her close, he put the hat on her head and handed her the shiny red notebook. “Here’s your gear, Miss Sigoda. Next month you can read your report of our family stories to us.”
The month passed with lots of stories to write. One Sunday they visited Grandma, and Janie made sure that she wore her reporter’s hat and carried her notebook. Grandma always had great stories. “Tell me something about Dad when he was a boy,” Janie asked her privately after dinner.
“Oh, your dad!” Grandma’s laugh twinkled in her eyes. “I remember the time our bishop asked the congregation to raise their hands if they wanted a new parking lot. Every person there but one raised his hand to vote yes. Then, when the bishop asked if anyone was against the new lot, your dad raised his hand high and called out, ‘I am, bishop. If you put in a parking lot, we won’t have anyplace to play basketball!’ The rest of the congregation laughed for ten minutes!”
That was a good story to report, but the best one Janie wrote was of when Chris was baptized. She worked hard to get all the details exactly right for the family records. She made sure to include the facts that Dad baptized Chris and that both grandfathers were witnesses to the baptism. And she carefully wrote down each word of Chris’s testimony after he was confirmed: “I want to thank Mom and Dad and my sisters for all that they teach me,” he said. “I know that this church is true and that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me.”
The month ended too soon for Janie. She read her stories on family night, wearing her reporter’s hat. She especially liked watching her brother’s face light up when she finished by reading all about his baptism.
“Janie,” Mom said, “Dad and I are proud of you, and I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus are too.”
Dad gave her a big hug, then said, “You’re the last person to hold the family record, and like the prophets in the Book of Mormon, you get to pick who keeps the record next. So, sweetie, who will it be?”
Janie looked first at her mom, then at her dad, then at Chris. She could see his eyes shining just as hers had shone the month before.
“Chris,” she said, “I give the record to you.” She handed the hat and precious red notebook to him. As Chris jumped up and down and put the reporter’s hat on, Janie smiled. She knew how he felt—being a family reporter was great.

As bad as things were at school, they were worse at home. With Dad gone and Mom working so many hours, my brothers and I were left in charge of the house, inside and out. To my horror, even though we were doing our best, we got anonymous notes about what a mess our yard was and what a disgrace we were to the neighborhood. I had to agree. Our home and yard did not look as good as the others. I was ashamed to invite friends over.

When I started early-morning seminary, things changed. They got better. I was introduced to someone I could relate to—someone who had problems worse than mine. The difference was that while I felt sorry for myself, he stayed close to the Lord and refused to complain. The person I’m talking about is Nephi.

Sister Mortensen, my seminary teacher, pointed out that no one escapes heartbreak or pain in life—not even Nephi. What made Nephi great was that he never lost hope or his testimony while he battled one problem after another. Nephi helped me realize that my biggest problem in life was not my parents’ divorce or my bright pants or things and people beyond my control. My biggest problem was my attitude, something I have complete control over.

Nephi’s family had their world turned upside down. Unhappy that their dad led them away from their home and possessions, Nephi’s brothers began to murmur and complain. Nephi, on the other hand, prayed for understanding.

Nephi’s brothers took a lot of their frustrations out on him. They hit him with a rod, bound him with cords, and even plotted to kill him. Hearing how violent they were toward Nephi made me realize how insignificant Mike and the bullies in my life were. What’s amazing is that while I felt nothing but contempt for those who were unkind to me, Nephi was patient and loving and “did frankly forgive them all that they had done” (1 Ne. 7:21).

While most of my friends didn’t say much about my family situation, one friend called to say her mother no longer wanted her to be friends with me. Her mom said people like me who came from families with problems were a bad influence. I burst into tears and after that spent many nights crying myself to sleep.

Nephi also admits to crying himself to sleep. He said, “Mine eyes water my pillow by night” (2 Ne. 33:3). The difference was that Nephi, during the day, continually prayed for his family, something that hadn’t occurred to me because I was too busy wallowing in my tears.

While Nephi came from a family with many problems, he remained true. His way of dealing with pain and anguish was to lean upon Heavenly Father.

Nephi never fell into Satan’s trap of thinking Heavenly Father’s love could be measured by how well things were going for him. Nephi proved that while we don’t always have a choice about the bad things that happen to us, we always have a choice about how we respond to these problems.

Nephi explained, “I did liken all scriptures unto us, that it might be for our profit and learning” (1 Ne. 19:23).

Mother had been living with me for almost five years. In love and gratitude I was glad I could care for her just as she had cared for me for so many years. But I missed her smiles and humorous comments. I longed to have her experience again the joy and excitement she had once felt when she went on rides with me. It hadn’t really mattered where we went. Mother never missed pointing out the flowers, the birds on the telephone wires, or the children playing.
I missed the companionship we had enjoyed as we peeled potatoes, snapped beans, or read together. I longed to share childhood experiences with her and tell her news about my siblings and her grandchildren. She had always enjoyed family dropping by, especially the grandchildren. But now her dementia had changed things. She really wasn’t sure anymore who I was, other than someone special who cared for her.
It had been a particularly difficult day with Mother. She gave me the usual blank stares when I tried to make conversation and distrustful looks when I tried to assist her. I was exhausted and frustrated as I sat down on the couch to think. I began to read aloud one of Mother’s journals in hopes that she might be entertained by it and perhaps remember a little. My efforts proved futile, but as I continued to read to myself, the memories surfaced in me.
In those pages Mother repeatedly expressed the joy she had felt when her family would visit and the void she had felt when they left. She wrote of how hard it had been for her when my father became ill and, after a long struggle, had left her a widow at the age of 59. She wrote of how she missed Father and of how she worried about my older brother, who was stricken with the same disease.
Mother wrote of happy, fulfilling experiences like teaching Church classes and participating in single adult activities. She wrote of the satisfaction she had received in going to Dilkon, Arizona, to teach the gospel once a week on the Navajo Indian reservation. This brought to my mind how she had always emphasized the importance of being dependable when someone was counting on you. Sometimes her entries were short because she had been helping someone; they reminded me of how she often took food or gifts to anyone she thought needed help or cheer. Many times in her entries she bore her testimony of the gospel.
I was especially touched by how she expressed the sorrow and worry she had felt when my daughter was born with Down syndrome and associated problems. Had she really spent almost a whole month feeding and caring for our other children as my husband and I went back and forth to the hospital while Debra Sue underwent open-heart surgery and related complications? Yes! And she had done it at age 70!
I remembered how she had always been there for me when I needed her. Through the years I learned that if she could not be with me in person, her faithful letters and prayers would sustain me.
That night, as I sang hymns to Mother to calm her to sleep, I had an overwhelming surge of love for my brave, always-sacrificing mother and deep gratitude for the words of her journal that had brought her back to me.

My family moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, when I was two years old. My parents were born in Germany and belonged to the Lutheran Church, but as I grew up, many of my friends were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
My friends and I were playing together one afternoon when one of them said, “We’re going to Primary. Would you like to come?” Primary was held on a weekday then. I went. I was interested in the lessons and being with my friends. I knew my teacher cared about me, and the Primary songs touched my heart.
After a few weeks, the Primary teacher asked me if I would like to learn more about the Church. She invited my parents to learn too. The ward missionaries came to our home. My parents chose not to join the Church, but they could see my desire and said I could be baptized. After my baptism, I continued to go to Primary with my friends but only occasionally attended Sunday meetings.
When I was 12 years old, my bishop said I was the right age to become a deacon. The bishop explained that Heavenly Father shares His power with the Church through the priesthood. If I kept the commandments, I could act for Jesus Christ—passing the sacrament, teaching the gospel, and someday giving priesthood blessings to help people who were ill or sad. I wanted to have the priesthood and become that kind of boy. I said I would come to Sunday meetings, trying very hard not to miss.
Soon I was prepared to become a deacon, and my parents came to my ordination. I remember the next Sunday, when I passed the sacrament for the first time. I was assigned to take the bread up to the bishop and then to the others on the stand. As I was walking up the stairs, the sacrament tray came detached from the handle, and the tray and the bread fell onto the floor. I felt as if everyone in the whole universe was looking at me. The bishop came over, put his arm around me, and whispered, “Let’s just pick up this bread and put it in the tray. Then sit down here until they’re through passing the bread, and you can pass the water.” Luckily, I passed the water without any problems. The bishop’s kindness and warmth helped me not to feel embarrassed. I felt a great love for him and was glad that he was my bishop.
When I was a priest, our quorum adviser promised us that if we would stop doing homework on Sunday and start studying the scriptures, our grades would improve and we would gain a testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith. I had a strong feeling that if I would accept my adviser’s challenge, I would be blessed all my life. My study of the gospel helped me learn that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God who restored the Church in the latter days.
Throughout my youth, my Church leaders watched out for me. Because my mother died when I was 15 years old and my father had a serious illness, I needed to work at night to earn money and go to high school during the day. I wanted to serve a full-time mission, but I didn’t know how I could save enough money for it. Then the elders quorum president of my ward told me that the quorum would help support me on my mission. I was happy and grateful that they would help me be a missionary. With their help, I served a mission in Brazil. Years later, my wife and children came with me to Brazil while I served as mission president.
I encourage you children of the Church to watch how your leaders live the gospel. In your wards and branches there are many Saints who believe in Jesus Christ and try to obey His teachings. By following their examples, you will grow to be righteous leaders yourselves. Cultivate your sense of right and wrong; pay attention to how you feel when you go to Primary. Invite your friends to church and to Primary activities. They too can learn of Jesus Christ and grow to love Him, as I did when I was a boy.