Gospel Story Finder

The first thing Zayne Callahan can remember is living in the basement of an orphanage in China. He had been there since he was a baby. Zayne later learned that he was kept in the basement so people who came to the orphanage to adopt children wouldn’t see him.

“I was considered an embarrassment because I was born with spina bifida,” Zayne says. Spina bifida is a birth defect that made his legs weak and prevented him from walking normally. “I wasn’t able to go to school or hardly even learn the Chinese language because the people at the orphanage didn’t think it was important to teach a child with a disability.”

Zayne was seven years old when John and Wendy Callahan—his future parents—first saw him on a videotape of Chinese children waiting to be adopted. When the photographer passed the camera over Zayne briefly, he smiled and waved. That action won the hearts of his future parents who recognized his brave, strong, intelligent spirit.

That was five years ago. Now, Zayne is a deacon in the Lolo Ward of the Stevensville Montana Stake. When he turned 12, he wanted to fulfill his priesthood responsibilities by passing the sacrament. That was a big challenge for a boy who must use crutches to walk.

Originally, Zayne tried to pass the sacrament while balancing on his crutches. When that didn’t work, he decided to use his wheelchair instead. Now Zayne passes the sacrament by placing the trays on his lap and wheeling down the aisles.

Zayne works hard to fulfill his other priesthood duties too. An older member in his ward says she was impressed when the young men went to her home to pick up rocks as a service project. She found Zayne sitting on the ground putting rocks into a wheelbarrow. He had laid his crutches down because they were in the way, but his disability didn’t stop him from serving just like the other boys.

According to his father, Zayne doesn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself. If he wants to do something, he figures out a way to do it. He played a lead part in the school production of Red Riding Hood. He was the head wolf and led a pack of wolves onstage, his crutches keeping time to the music. He is also an accomplished violinist and pianist. While playing his violin, he has to sit on a high stool rather than stand like most violinists, but that doesn’t distract from the beauty of his music.

No matter where Zayne goes or what he does, people notice his good example. One classmate summed it up by saying, “He’s that boy with the big smile.”

In a day or two we all boarded a little steamer for Copenhagen, the capital of Denmark. Because I wasn’t a member of the Mormon church, I didn’t sing and feel as happy as the rest of them, but I could both hear and see they were so happy. I remember well one of the hymns: “Oh Babylon, oh Babylon, we bid thee farewell; we’re going to the mountains of Ephraim to dwell,” (Hymn No. 344, “Ye Elders of Israel.”) Of course it was in Norwegian. We arrived in Copenhagen the next day after staying on the steamer all night. There was no place to lie down, so I crawled up on some sacks of grain and found me a place to sleep. While I was up there and had me a good sleep, my parents and some of the rest of them were nearly frantic. They had searched for me until they had given me up. They knew it was against my will to go, and they did not say so, but from the way they acted when I came down, they must have thought I had jumped overboard. It brought joy to their souls when someone told them they had seen me and that I was all right. They could not believe it until they saw me. If I had never brought joy to their souls, I did on that occasion.

I had done well as our high school quarterback and was also the captain of the basketball team. I enjoyed the victories and learned from the defeats, but for the first time in my life I failed when I started playing football at BYU. I struggled in football, and I questioned myself: “Did I make the right choice?” I had to answer: “Yes, I made the right choice; I had a confirmation.” But the harder I tried, the worse it got. Through it all, I turned to prayer and leaned on the scripture: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Proverbs 3:5–6).
After I went through more hard knocks, challenges, and tests, everything came together, and we started winning football games. With that success, I learned to trust the coach, my teammates, and myself as I gained confidence and became accountable for my responsibilities.
From those experiences, I came to know the power of prayer. You can come to know the power of prayer in your life. You need to know that Heavenly Father and our Savior, Jesus Christ, are willing and ready to help you, but you have to go through the process of finding an answer. I promise that if you seek earnestly and humbly, you will find answers to your questions.

1. Talya sat in the back of the Primary room and watched the other children prepare for their program next Sunday. Because she was only visiting her grandma for a week, she was not going to be in the Primary program.
2. Talya liked watching the other boys and girls practice their scriptures and talks.
3. One little girl, Rachel, stepped to the microphone. She stood there silently. She could not remember what to say.
4. Rachel burst into tears. She was scared to stand and speak in front of so many children.
5. Talya knew Rachel needed a friend. Even though she did not know Rachel very well, Talya went to the front of the room and gave her a big hug.
6. After Primary, Talya told her grandma about Rachel. “Is Rachel one of your friends?” Grandma asked.
7. “No, but she looked so sad,” Talya said. “I wanted to help her feel better.”
8. Grandma gave Talya a big hug and a smile. “I’m glad you could help Rachel,” she said.

In World War II, I was in a military hospital in Africa for a few days with a respiratory infection. The hospital was staffed with native orderlies who were to keep the hospital clean, change the beds, and generally be of help to the patients. Because of the prevalence of malaria and its carrier, the mosquito, we slept under large mosquito nets which hung from the ceiling and covered the whole bed. One night as I went to bed I slipped my wallet under my pillow and drifted off to sleep.
Some time later in the night I was awakened and startled to feel some hands slipping under my bedclothes. I suspected that a thief was after my wallet. I instinctively grabbed one of the hands and switched on the light. My wallet slipped out from under the pillow. To my surprise, I held the arm of the native boy who was the orderly assigned to clean my room. All he said in defense of his action was, “Don’t worry. I am a disciple.” He could tell from the look on my face that I did not understand. In further explanation, he said simply, “I am a disciple. I am a Christian. I do not want your purse. I was only tucking the mosquito netting around your bed to protect you from the mosquitoes while you slept.” I came to know that this young man was not only a Christian, he was a disciple.

I used to live in Tokyo, Japan, quite near the Tokyo Temple. Whenever I got in a taxi cab in Tokyo, rather than giving my home address, I would say, “Latter-day Saint Temple, please.” Usually, the first response from the cab driver would be a look of bewilderment. I would then say, “You know, the beautiful building across from the Arisugawa Park, the one with the gold statue of the angel on top?” Once they knew where to go, then came my next question: “You must know who the Latter-day Saints are; you see the missionaries on their bikes with helmets and white shirts all the time, don’t you?” Every cab ride led to a discussion about the Church.

I want you to know that I really appreciate the effort that goes into making this the best magazine for youth. I especially enjoyed the article “Preparation for Power” in the May 1983 issue because it reminds me of how thankful I am for the priesthood. Almost five years ago, my dad was seriously injured when he was struck on the head by a 2,000-pound grain drill. He was unconscious in the hospital for three days and sustained a tremendous memory loss. The doctors realized that their efforts weren’t helping his condition, so my mom called in the elders to give him a blessing. Three weeks later he was out of the hospital and could remember everything he knew before the accident. The only thing that was different was that he could no longer taste or smell things. I’ll always be grateful for the power of the priesthood because I know it was that blessing that saved my father’s life.
Cindy RustSpringfield, Oregon

Although Bernadett doesn’t hear from her family, she is grateful for letters from branch members—especially the youth—back home. And she has a lot of support around her in the mission. Her first zone leader was the missionary who had baptized her in Dunaújváros a year and a half earlier! “When he baptized me, he was a beginner missionary,” she says. “Now I was a beginner, and he was more experienced. I felt very proud to be able to work at the same time with him.”

The rickety bus slowed just enough to let us swing out the open back door. Lurching forward once again, it careened around the corner and was gone in an instant. We stood alone on the highway, Ciudad de Dios on one side and Urbanización San Juan on the other. It seemed a forsaken place to me that December day in Lima, Peru, three days before Christmas. A humid wind blew the sand into grainy little whirlwinds, and the ever-present Lima overcast was still with us although it was nearly summer. It was my first Christmas away from home, and I felt empty and alone. I had been singing carols to myself for days trying to catch the mood but to no avail. I missed the snow and the crisp Utah winter air. Lima’s mugginess didn’t help at all.
We trudged along past row after row of cement tract houses, all in various stages of construction but occupied nonetheless. Dogs barked at us from their rooftop guard stations, and children tagged along at our sides. Arriving at the Manco home, we knocked on the door and Sister Manco answered.
A three-foot bramble bush stood ridiculously in the middle of the bare cement floor in the living room. We oohed and aahed appropriately. I smiled slightly, remembering the beautiful firs and pinion pines at home, but had to appreciate Sister Manco’s good intentions. Her home would be happy this Christmas Eve. But just down the street where the Nostadez family lived, it would be a different matter.
Brother Nostadez was a trolley conductor who had been out of work since July when his union struck. The government had settled the issue by tearing up the tracks, and Brother Nostadez had been without a job ever since. We had baptized the entire family, except two underage daughters, only the night before. Although I knew they were glad to be in the Church, I also realized that it would be a meager Christmas for them this year.
All at once I knew what had to be done. If I couldn’t celebrate the kind of Christmas I so longed for, at least the Nostadez family would have a good one. My companion Elder Slack agreed, and we enlisted the aid of a member friend, Estrella Costa, to buy things she thought the family might enjoy. We involved the Manco family by asking them to deliver the gifts at just the right moment on Christmas Eve, hoping to teach them something about caring for others at the same time. Estrella had brought the gifts she chose to our apartment.
Still, as I surveyed the fare, I wasn’t completely satisfied. The silly little useless toys, the oranges, apples, and fun surprises that are so much a part of holiday giving were missing.
Hurriedly I set out with Elder Slack in tow to explore the open market across the highway in Ciudad de Dios. Although appallingly filthy, Ciudad de Dios was vibrantly alive. The rhythm of humanity literally pulsated through its streets. A thousand vendors sought to sell their wares. Here was fruit fresh from the jungle: papayas the size of cantaloupes, watermelons, pineapples, figs, several kinds of bananas, mangos, and oranges of every size and variety. We bartered for a dozen of the latter. Huge sides of beef, lamb, and pork were scattered among hogs’ heads and cows’ stomachs, all hanging from enormous hooks for better view. Fresh fish from the famous Peruvian fisheries gaped at us with mouths opened wide. Live animals were sold to be taken home and raised for later butchering. Turkeys, chicks, ducklings, and baby guinea pigs scampered nervously in their pens. Next came sundries. Black market shampoo, soaps, and razor blades were spread on blankets on the ground or in the now-familiar make-shift stalls. There was a section with shoes and clothes of every description. At last came the toys.
I don’t remember what we bought, and it’s really not very important. I do know that we had a marvelous time trying everything before deciding. The vendor waited patiently, enjoying our enthusiasm. I vaguely recall marbles and combs. Yes, we bought combs for all, and a large basket to put everything in.
The shoppers in the marketplace that day carried off their business in a more lighthearted manner than usual. The bartering that is so much a part of Latin life was good-natured and friendly. One usually sees a number of heated arguments among those driving hard bargains, but not today. Shoppers and vendors alike seemed genuinely pleased to do business together. Negotiations were concluded with large smiles and holiday greetings. Everyone in “City of God” was happy that day. They had little and yet they were happy, anticipating the celebration of the birth of Him who was their Savior also. That strange, bustling marketplace made me feel the spirit of Christmas for the first time that holiday season. At last I understood why this tenement was called “City of God,” and no other name could have been more appropriate.
The Latin people celebrate this holiday like none other. Nearly everyone attends midnight mass. After that the fun begins. Fireworks burst everywhere, not just overhead. Rockets zip up and down streets, sidewalks, between one’s legs, and out of windows. Firecrackers of every caliber roar a mass salute that would rival a squadron of 747’s taking off in formation. The next morning a pungent haze overcasts the city, a smokey memorial to the Yuletide celebration, a mushroom cloud Latin style.
Time was short. We quickly bought wrapping paper and dashed back to the Mancos where mother and children helped ready the presents for delivery. I carefully instructed young Paco in the finer points of subbing for “Papa Noël.” “Leave the basket on the front porch, knock loudly, and run. Hide nearby to make sure the basket is taken in before returning home.” They mustn’t discover any connection between the gifts and their new-found faith. We wished the Mancos a “Feliz Navidad” and rushed home to prepare for our own festivities.
We made four or five calls on wonderful families that night, all of whom implored us to share their midnight feast. A carefully planned schedule brought us to the home of a convert employed by a U.S. airline where we observed a sort of Anglo-Latin Christmas culminating in an enormous banquet. After exchanging gifts, we finally dragged back to our apartment.
During the course of the evening I often mused on the events transpiring out in San Juan. I imagined Paco stealing up to the door, leaving the basket with great commotion, and escaping to the safety of nearby shadows. Brother Nostadez answers the door and, finding nothing, shakes his head in disgust at such an annoying prank on Christmas Eve. It is little Teresa who spies the basket on the porch and dashes through her father’s legs, hoping for a glimpse of Papa Noël. Hearing the disturbance, the rest of the family rushes to the door. Sister Nostadez whisks the basket into the house with her excited children in hot pursuit.
Across the street, Paco flattens himself in the sand, stifling uncontrollable laughter at Brother Nostadez who is suspiciously scanning the neighborhood for the perpetrator of the deed. He makes one more careful sweep and then backs through the door, slamming it behind him. As if loosed by a starter’s pistol, Paco is up and sprinting for home to report the success of his adventure.
Inside the house, little girls squeal with delight when dolls emerge from the basket. Ten-year-old Hilario is quietly enraptured with his first pocket knife. And Brother and Sister Nostadez contemplate the happy scenario, amazed at this unexpected answer to Christmas prayers uttered for the first time.
Each Christmas Eve for 12 Christmases my thoughts have returned to that singular event in my life. I know that it’s possible that the outcome was not at all as I envisioned it. And it is that uncertainty that keeps the experience so alive and vibrant in my memory. For the imaginings of that night’s events by far transcend any actuality I might have experienced in person. And so on each Christmas Eve I think, and ponder, and dream of miracles that I never witnessed but that I know to have transpired.
It was my first Christmas away from home and family—a young missionary in a strange land among strange people with strange customs. It was a time of learning and teaching and giving in secret. It was the time I first learned of, felt, and understood the true meaning of the spirit of Christmas.

In a branch with many recent converts, the girls have had several opportunities to fellowship new members and to do missionary work. After Elizabeth had been a stake missionary for about a year and a half, one of her Cambodian friends from elementary school began investigating the Church. Missionaries asked Elizabeth to attend the discussions to support her friend, Phally Chhim. Elizabeth happily agreed, and a few months later Phally was baptized.

When I was 16, my mom allowed me to meet with the missionaries but told me I could never get baptized. I laughed. I didn’t need her to tell me that. I already knew I didn’t want to be baptized.
I first met the missionaries only to be polite. A friend asked me if I would be interested in talking with them, and I agreed because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
I kept meeting with the missionaries but didn’t take their lessons seriously, because I knew baptism wasn’t an option for me.
When the missionaries eventually invited me to be baptized, I said my mom wouldn’t allow it. My friend’s dad suggested we fast and ask Heavenly Father to help soften her heart.
I wasn’t convinced that fasting would change my mom’s heart, but I agreed to try. My friend’s family, the missionaries, and I all fasted for my mom to allow me to be baptized.
Shortly after our fast, my mom and I were having dinner together. Out of nowhere, she turned to me and said, “You know, if you want to get baptized, that’s your decision.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d heard.
She repeated herself. “You can get baptized.”
I was terrified. I could no longer use my mom as an excuse not to be baptized. I actually had to make the decision on my own. I started listening to the missionaries with an open mind.
When I started listening to the missionary lessons with real intent, I began to feel God’s love. It came as a feeling of peace and reassurance. Because of the love I felt for Him, I couldn’t bear the thought of being unclean before Him. I was willing to give up everything that was not in line with the commandments of God.
I remember thinking, “I wish I could redo my life.”
So when my friend casually mentioned that baptism was like being born again (see Mosiah 27:25), I could barely contain my excitement. I knew what I needed to do.
I was baptized and have since served a mission in Canada to help other people find the same joy I found in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
The joy I felt when I got baptized wasn’t a one-time feeling. I still feel that peaceful, clean feeling every time I pray for forgiveness.

I am a member of the Church because of a five-year-old member missionary.
When I was young, my mother was searching for a church to answer all her questions. We attended a different church each week, but none of them satisfied Mom. Finally she gave up.
My best friend at the time was Sandy Guthrie. We played together nearly every day. One Saturday evening she asked me if I would like to attend church with her the next day. I asked her which church she belonged to, thinking I had visited them all. She told me it was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
It was a church I had not attended, and I agreed to go. Unfortunately, when I asked Mom, she said she had other plans that Sunday.
The next week Sandy invited me again, and once again I asked Mom. She had another excuse, and I wasn’t allowed to go.
Being a good missionary, Sandy didn’t give up. She suggested I get up on Sunday morning and get ready by myself before asking my mother if I could go. I thought it was a great idea. If Mom didn’t have to make a special effort to help me get ready, she might be more willing to let me go.
On Sunday morning I put on my best clothes and woke up Mom. This time she flatly refused. She offered no excuse and left no room for bargaining. She simply said no. So I did what most five-year-olds would do. I cried.
I suppose the tears and my desire and determination touched my mother, because she agreed to let me go on the condition that she go with me.
Mom and I attended church with Sandy and her family that morning. Mom felt the Spirit very strongly and knew immediately we had found the true Church. That evening the missionaries taught her the first discussion, and she agreed to be baptized.
More than 20 years have passed since then. When I tell my own two children this story, I draw a chart showing everyone who joined the Church because Sandy invited me to come with her. There are more than 100 people on the chart. Many of them, like me, not only accepted the gospel but also served full-time missions and helped bring others to the knowledge of the truth. The chart proves that one child’s dedication to sharing the gospel can bless the lives of many people.
I don’t know how many others Sandy invited to church or how large her complete chart might be. I do know that I am more grateful to her than I can say. I also know I can’t repay her. But I can follow her example and share the gospel whenever and wherever possible—just in case I meet another family looking for the truth.

Photograph by Christina Smith
My friend had depression and anxiety and felt really bad. She would often get excluded from my friend group and sit by herself. I didn’t know whether to go along with what my friends were doing or to be with this friend who wasn’t feeling well and who had sat by herself.
That’s when I decided that I had to sit with her. My other friends were giving me weird looks because they were mad at her, but I went and sat with her, and we cried together as she told me about her problems. After that, she started feeling much better, and I was able to show her both the love that I had for her and the love that God has for her.
Being a disciple of Jesus Christ is about sharing the love that He has for us with others. It’s about love, service, and developing the same qualities that He had when He was here on the earth. That day, when I felt compassion for my classmate, I felt like a true disciple of Jesus Christ.

No one knows when emergencies will strike. I am somewhat familiar with the case of a man who was highly successful in his profession. He lived in comfort. He built a large home. Then one day he was suddenly involved in a serious accident. Instantly, without warning, he almost lost his life. He was left a cripple. Destroyed was his earning power. He faced huge medical bills. He had other payments to make. He was helpless before his creditors. One moment he was rich; the next he was broke.

Since the beginnings of the Church, the Lord has spoken on this matter of debt. To Martin Harris through revelation He said: “Pay the debt thou hast contracted with the printer. Release thyself from bondage” (D&C 19:35).
President Heber J. Grant spoke repeatedly on this matter from this pulpit. He said: “If there is any one thing that will bring peace and contentment into the human heart, and into the family, it is to live within our means. And if there is any one thing that is grinding and discouraging and disheartening, it is to have debts and obligations that one cannot meet” (Gospel Standards, comp. G. Homer Durham [1941], 111).
We are carrying a message of self-reliance throughout the Church. Self-reliance cannot obtain when there is serious debt hanging over a household. One has neither independence nor freedom from bondage when he is obligated to others.
In managing the affairs of the Church, we have tried to set an example. We have, as a matter of policy, stringently followed the practice of setting aside each year a percentage of the income of the Church against a possible day of need.
I am grateful to be able to say that the Church in all its operations, in all its undertakings, in all of its departments, is able to function without borrowed money. If we cannot get along, we will curtail our programs. We will shrink expenditures to fit the income. We will not borrow.
One of the happiest days in the life of President Joseph F. Smith was the day the Church paid off its long-standing indebtedness.
What a wonderful feeling it is to be free of debt, to have a little money against a day of emergency put away where it can be retrieved when necessary.
President Faust would not tell you this himself. Perhaps I can tell it, and he can take it out on me afterward. He had a mortgage on his home drawing 4 percent interest. Many people would have told him he was foolish to pay off that mortgage when it carried so low a rate of interest. But the first opportunity he had to acquire some means, he and his wife determined they would pay off their mortgage. He has been free of debt since that day. That’s why he wears a smile on his face, and that’s why he whistles while he works.
I urge you, brethren, to look to the condition of your finances. I urge you to be modest in your expenditures; discipline yourselves in your purchases to avoid debt to the extent possible. Pay off debt as quickly as you can, and free yourselves from bondage.
This is a part of the temporal gospel in which we believe. May the Lord bless you, my beloved brethren, to set your houses in order. If you have paid your debts, if you have a reserve, even though it be small, then should storms howl about your head, you will have shelter for your wives and children and peace in your hearts. That’s all I have to say about it, but I wish to say it with all the emphasis of which I am capable.
I leave with you my testimony of the divinity of this work and my love for each of you, in the name of the Redeemer, the Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

Eritai Kateibwi is making life better for the people of his homeland of Kiribati.
“People on my island have a strong bond to each other,” he explains. “The word ‘family’ is very important, and it drives me to help my own people.”
Eritai learned about hydroponic sustainability while attending Brigham Young University–Hawaii. He spent hundreds of hours developing that idea into a solution to take to his people.
In 2017, he returned to Kiribati and introduced innovative hydroponic gardening to families and communities in response to the challenges faced in accessing healthier food options. He explained that “it provided a healthy alternative to the processed foods that people were eating.”
Although Eritai continues to work on developing a sustainable hydroponics model on his home island, Marakei, his primary focus changed from hydroponics to construction with the mentorship and support of Jeff and Judy Brock.
They were serving as humanitarian missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Judy said, “Jeff loaded him up with tools and now Eritai is their go-to for all things construction.”
Her description of Eritai fits perfectly for the path his life has taken: “Eritai is now a leading local contractor and is working miracles,” she says.
Eritai says he feels happy and accomplished after overseeing the construction of a solar-powered Church building and missionary housing in Tabonibara, North Tarawa.
“I have never done anything as critical as this,” Eritai explained.
He told of answers to many prayers during the construction. He found it remarkable the way “every detail of the plans came together, and they were able to finish it so quickly despite setbacks with construction and weather.”
He is also working on a desalination project which is funded by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints working in collaboration with the government of Kiribati and the SUEZ Group.
“The mentorship provided by Elder and Sister Brock came full circle, as some years later they became project managers for the national desalination project,” says Ruth Cross, welfare and self-reliance manager for the Church in Kiribati and local coordinator for the desalination project.
“Eritai Kateibwi is a great example of hard work and determination built upon faith in God,” Cross continues. “Eritai’s deep sense of commitment propels the urgency of a shared vision to help people.”

Fifty years ago, Kathy and I met an impressive couple who had also been recently married in the house of the Lord. Life was promising. They had children. She was talented and full of faith. His work prospered. They kept their covenants.
Unexpectedly, the young woman developed serious health issues.
Their son recently shared these reflections with me:
“In my younger years, my sweet mom went through crushing periods of severe depression, bringing extended periods of difficulty in taking care of even her own needs. It was a new reality for both of my parents. Life would be different than they had anticipated.
“My dad had never experienced mental illness and sought the help of his Heavenly Father. I can’t count the number of times I walked in on him while on his knees, or the number of Sundays he was quietly fasting again. He served my mother—and served us—with incredible love, patience, and humility. He sought the influence of the Holy Ghost, hoping to love, act, and react as the Savior would.
“My mother was the love of his life. These seasons would be but a small moment. They were bound to one another forever. As they remained faithful, they would spend eternity together in health and happiness. That promise gave him a perfect brightness of hope.
“While many times my mother felt that her challenges created a burden for my dad, he saw it differently. He loved serving this incredible, precious daughter of God.
“As my mom bravely—and miraculously—overcame many of her health struggles, they experienced light and joy together: as a couple and as parents and grandparents.
“Later, in her 60s, she faced an entirely different set of trials, including breast cancer and neurological issues that impacted her ability to walk. Once again, she and my dad doubled down on their commitment to each other and their covenants with the Lord.
“They did it together through the final day of her mortal journey.”
Eternal marriage is an eternal journey.

When two missionaries knocked on the door of Judy Marie’s home in 1996, they found a humble family, ready to listen to the gospel. “The missionaries spoke about the gospel, the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Book of Mormon,” she says. Although Judy Marie; her mother; her brother Javier, age 13; and her sister, Marie Carida, age 12, heard the discussions and accepted the gospel together, Judy Marie’s own conversion was a deeply personal experience. “When I prayed, Heavenly Father gave me answers,” she says. “It was very beautiful, and I felt the Spirit very strongly.”
Judy Marie compares the story of the tree of life in 1 Nephi 8 [1 Ne. 8] to her own conversion. “When the missionaries taught us about the gospel, they showed us the fruit and brought us out of the darkness,” she says. “I remember when Elder Joshua Carter baptized me and Elder Joshua Smith confirmed me. I felt I was born again, mentally and spiritually. I know I am a daughter of God.”

I would like to confess a time when I flunked. I had just finished my intern year in internal medicine at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland. I was a new resident and was working with a challenged intern. It was 2:00 a.m., and the intern was incapable of obtaining intravenous access for a critically ill patient. The intern had gone to bed and did not stay up to help. I meticulously placed a central line into the subclavian vein under the left collarbone.

After placing such a line, it is standard practice to obtain a chest X-ray to make sure that the procedure has not caused a complication. As the X-ray technician walked away down the hall after getting the X-ray, I checked on the patient before going downstairs to review the X-ray. To my horror, I saw that the central line that I had just so carefully placed had been ripped out of the patient as the technician had manipulated the hospital bed to get the X-ray.

On that hospital floor, at that time of night, there were just patients, several night nurses, and me. I let slip an expletive. One of the night nurses, Mrs. Paulee, who I did not know well, was shocked and said, in her quaint Baltimore accent, “Dr. Renlund! I never heard you cuss even when you were an intern.”

Well, that stung. After redoing the central line and reviewing a correctly obtained X-ray, I sought out Mrs. Paulee. I apologized and promised she would never again hear me cuss.

Without cutting me much slack, she simply said, “Well, I should hope not.”

Yellowman family
“People like being included. They just need to be invited.”
The home of Tom and Gina Yellowman, in Kirtland, New Mexico, is a place where friends and neighbors gather regularly for dinners. “But there’s a catch,” Gina says as she, her son, and her daughter prepare fry bread in the kitchen. “You can only come if you bring someone from your ward who hasn’t been attending church or someone, member or not, who needs a friend.”
She explains: “We kept meeting people who felt isolated. So we decided to have a barbecue where they could get to know others. For example, my niece came. She’s a high school volleyball coach, and a couple of her players and their families came too. Two of the girls on the team hadn’t realized before that they are both members of the Church.
“And there are people who live across the river on the reservation, but they didn’t know each other. When they came here, they figured out, ‘Hey, we’re neighbors,’ and now they have friends nearby who share the same standards, people they can turn to for help or just to borrow a potato because they live far from the grocery store. That was our goal—to bring people together so they can support each other.”

At the age of 14, I moved from the Bay Area of California, USA, to St. George, Utah. Traveling to a different state started as an exciting adventure, but once my family arrived and I started attending a new school, I quickly became lonely. My loneliness led to very unhealthy thoughts and feelings. I began to question whether my family loved me and even thought of suicide.
One Sunday I was really struggling and was wondering if there was even such a thing as love in the world. At church that same Sunday, my father spoke in sacrament meeting and told the congregation that if they had a question—any question at all—then they could ask God and He would give them an answer. That night, I humbly prayed before Heavenly Father as I never had done before. I told Him how lonely and sorrowful I was and told Him that I felt hopeless.
At this time, I felt that I only needed one question answered: “Heavenly Father, do You love me?” Although it seemed difficult to put this question in my prayer, I asked, desiring to know the truth with every beat of my heart. The answer came through the Spirit, and an overwhelming feeling of calm and peace filled my soul. To this day I cannot explain the depth of Heavenly Father’s love that I felt that night. Knowing that God loves me unlocked my testimony of everything else.