Gospel Story Finder

I work at a summer camp. Kids come for five days, and we do lots of educational activities with them. We cut and decorate wood cuts from real logs, play in the stream and learn about aquatic life, find and collect wildflowers, go on hikes, learn about the mining history of the town, and lots of other super fun stuff.
At the end of the week, we do an activity called “affirmations.” The kids sit in a circle and close their eyes. They take turns getting up and tapping other kids on the shoulder as the counselors say different things like “This person helped me feel welcome,” or “This person helped me cut wood.” At the end of the activity, we say, “This person has potential,” or “This person has a bright future.” Then the counselors tap every single kid.
One week, as I was tapping the kids and saying awesome things about them, I felt the Spirit witness to me that they were all children of God. I didn’t even know all of them that well, but I felt such love for them. It was a really neat experience that witnessed to me that everyone we interact with really is a child of God. He really does care about each of us.
Stephen J., Utah, USA

Three-year-old Elizabeth watched as her mother arranged the ceramic nativity set on the low table in front of the sofa. Her mother had made the set many years earlier. Each year she told the children that she had painted each figure. Then she reminded everyone to be very careful because the figures could be easily broken.
Elizabeth loved to look at the figures, especially that of the baby Jesus. One day, she picked it up and held it reverently.
Mother walked into the living room at that moment. “Elizabeth, those pieces are breakable,” she gently reminded her.
Elizabeth carefully replaced the figure. “I know, Mommy.”
Each day, Elizabeth was drawn to the nativity set. She frowned when she noticed that the camel couldn’t see the Christ child. She moved the camel closer to the manger. Then she saw that the Wise Men, shepherds, and other animals couldn’t see Jesus either. She set the manger in the center of the table with all the others surrounding it.
She smiled. That looked much better.
When Mother saw what Elizabeth had done, she explained again how special the nativity set was and then replaced the figures in their original places.
The next day, Elizabeth stared at the nativity set. Once again, she set the baby Jesus in the center with Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, Wise Men, and animals looking on.
When Mother walked into the room and saw the nativity set, she wasn’t happy. “Elizabeth, I told you—”
“Don’t you see, Mommy?” Elizabeth asked. “Everyone wants to see the baby Jesus.”
Tears rolled down Mother’s cheeks. “I see, Elizabeth. I finally understand.” She kissed the top of Elizabeth’s head. “We’ll leave it just as it is.”
In the years that followed, the nativity set was always grouped as Elizabeth had arranged it. Jesus was in the center, where everyone could see Him.

From the time I received the first birthday dollar from my grandmother I was taught to save one dime to return to the Lord as tithing. Tithing settlements were something I always looked forward to. I loved to watch the bishop put a check mark by the words “full-tithe payer” and know that the Lord was pleased with me.
I’d never held much of a job growing up, and most of my income came from baby-sitting. I kept my tithing in a separate envelope until I remembered to take it to church. Often six months worth of tithing went with me to tithing settlement.
When I got my first job after high school, I decided to open a checking account so that I would have easier access to my money. Unfortunately, I didn’t open a savings account for my tithing, and I hadn’t formed the habit of paying it on a monthly basis. But I lived at home and spent very little money, so I didn’t worry much about it.
I loved working as a nurses’ aide at the local hospital, and by the first of December I decided to apply for admission to the nearby junior college. I counted what I had in the bank and was excited to confirm that I had enough money for housing and tuition for the next three semesters if I finished working the rest of the month.
So I went to the college, made a down payment for my housing, and paid my tuition. The rest of the housing money was due when I started school the first week of January.
It was then that I realized I had forgotten to take into account the tithing that was outstanding when I balanced my books. What was I going to do?
When my tithing settlement appointment came, I was still unsure how I would handle my situation. It was the first settlement I had attended without my family, and as I sat waiting for my turn, I was tempted for the first time in my life to not pay a full tithe. After all, I reasoned, I’d always paid a full tithe before. What would just this one year matter? Besides, I could always make it up during next year. And my family wouldn’t be there to hear me pronounce the words “part-tithe payer.”
All the stories I’d ever heard about people paying their tithing and still being able to meet bills came to my mind. But they don’t apply to me, I thought. I’m in this situation because I put myself here. I just simply have to choose. Do I want to pay a full tithe, or do I want to go to college?
I still wasn’t sure until the bishop looked me in the eye and asked, “Does this amount represent a full tithe?”
“It doesn’t now, but it will,” I answered as I took out my checkbook and wrote a check for the 80 dollars I owed. Peace flooded over me, and I knew I had made the right choice.
After praying about my situation, I decided to go ahead with my plans for college. I went to the housing office, and I was given a two-week extension. Then I went looking for a job. I found one in the cafeteria, but I wouldn’t be paid in time to meet my obligation.
On the last day of the extension I went to the mailbox and found a check made out to me from the hospital. It was for 90 dollars for the accrued sick and personal-leave days I had not taken. I had no idea it was coming. I now had enough for my tithing and the 80 dollars I owed at the housing office.
This time I paid my tithing first.

One in particular, though, seemed a real mystery: E.G. Jones gave a beautiful talk on prayer at the Salt Lake City Eleventh Ward Young Women’s Association in 1882, printed in the Woman’s Exponent. The discourse was poignant and reflected a deep personal relationship developed with Heavenly Father through prayer.

But who was this E.G. Jones? She didn’t leave any personal papers that we could unearth. With the assistance of a volunteer, Chere Clarke, and a family historian, Judy Wight, we started on a trail of census records and discovered Ellenor Georgina Jones, living in the Salt Lake City Eleventh Ward in 1870. With a name, date, and location of birth, we traced Ellenor from Nashville, Tennessee, to Cincinnati, Ohio, born into a multiracial family and raised in the South during the practice of slavery and hostility toward free blacks.

She and her family became acquainted with the Church in Tennessee in the 1840s, and she was baptized in 1844. Ellenor moved back and forth between California and Utah and married three times, having children with her first two husbands. We found a letter she wrote to Brigham Young, seeking a meeting with him. She was a member of the Eleventh Ward Relief Society, and the minute book records her comments in meetings. She participated in temple ordinances for herself and her family members and donated to temple funds.

Ellenor left footprints of her commitment to the Church and her covenants. She had important doctrine to teach us about prayer, and we need to listen.

The immigrant’s youthful eyes shifted to Mosiah Twiggs, the big, bearded Mormon who had rescued him that fateful night. Waves of love and gratitude rolled up the shores of Lao Moy’s sore heart and washed away his tears.
Mosiah, too, had been ensnared by dreams of gold, so he left the Salt Lake Valley settlement in ’49 to fall prey to the same misfortune that had beset so many others—empty pockets and broken dreams.
After his father’s death, Lao Moy had agreed without misgivings to return with Mosiah to Salt Lake City, feeling a loyalty to the soft-spoken stranger who had risked his life to save someone he didn’t even know.
It had been a hazardous journey by wagon from the goldfields of California to the Salt Lake Valley, and they had encountered countless perils. But Mosiah’s promise that the God of Israel would protect them had planted the seeds of a testimony in the boy’s heart. Lao Moy wondered about this man who dutifully paid 10 percent of his earnings to his church for tithing.
Yet standing in the way of Lao Moy’s spiritual progress was that old bitterness born in the goldfields. It crouched like a great beast over his peace and challenged his moments of newfound joy. He had long wished to rid himself of it, to strike out against it, but something or someone always seemed to stand in the way.
Mosiah gazed curiously in the direction of the boy’s unbroken stare. “Autumn leaves die beautifully, don’t they, Lao Moy?” he said, his face lifted into the leaf-spattered wind.
“Yes,” answered Lao Moy, his hurtful thoughts suddenly scattered by his guardian’s grand vision. Autumn was indeed a beautiful time of year, especially in the canyons. Lao Moy’s eyes raced up the huge, yellow red chasms with renewed excitement. He loved these mountains. Mosiah had told him many times about them. How the erosion of long ages had cut deep canyons. How huge glaciers, descending with unyielding power, had broken loose and carried countless boulders, many of goliath size, down the immense mountain furrows. It was these isolated blocks, called erratics, that provided the supply of building stones for the Salt Lake Temple.
In these canyons, Mosiah, Lao Moy, and many other faithful Saints worked tirelessly to divide the boulders with hand drills, wedges, and low-power explosives. The rough blocks were then transported by oxteam—four yoke required for each block—and every trip was a difficult three- or four-day journey to the temple site some twenty miles away.
Mosiah touched Lao Moy’s shoulder and brought him out of his reverie. “I’m going to set off the blast, Lao Moy,” he cautioned, and then shouted a warning to the nearby workers. Mosiah lit the fuse and sprinted with Lao Moy for cover.
Two other workmen held a team of oxen. One of them was fourteen-year-old Corey Atwood. Corey, a tough, stout boy, had long taken pleasure in cruelly funning Lao Moy because of his broken English, his long queue (braid), and his quiet and obedient ways. It was often Corey who kept Lao Moy’s bitterness alive, but the Chinese boy had held it all inside, even when the troublesome Corey had once grabbed Lao Moy’s queue and threatened to cut it off with a knife.
The blast erupted like the sound of cannon fire over a Virginia cottonfield, and the big piece of granite split in two. Cheers went up, and Mosiah scrambled up the rocks to view his accomplishment. Lao Moy started up, too, but was soon held fast by Corey, who held onto his queue.
“What’s the matter, Lao Moy,” he chuckled, “somebody got your tail?”
Suddenly something exploded inside Lao Moy with no less force than Mosiah’s dynamite blast. He turned and struck Corey in the face so hard that the big boy was lifted off his feet and thrown backward in front of the team of oxen. The wide-eyed Atwood looked as surprised as Lao Moy. He wiped at the blood on his mouth and started to lift himself up when a clap of thunder suddenly boomed. As the already spooked oxen lurched forward, Lao Moy sprang for Corey and rolled him out of the path of pounding hooves and grinding wheels.
For a long moment the two boys just lay there, staring at each other. Finally, a smile broke across Corey’s dusty, blood-smeared face. Lao Moy smiled back, and all the old bitterness in his heart seemed to melt away like ice in a summer sun. A new peaceful feeling assured him it would not return.
Lao Moy was forty-five years old when the Salt Lake Temple was finally dedicated on April 6, 1893; Mosiah, seventy-six; and Corey Atwood, forty-seven. Corey sat close beside Lao Moy as President Wilford Woodruff offered the dedicatory prayer. A friendship had grown between them, a friendship as strong as the temple granite they had helped to cut. And like that granite, it would last forever.

Oripa lives in the Fiji islands. A few years ago she wanted more than anything in all the world to join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Her big sister was a member of the Church, and Oripa asked her parents if she could be baptized too, but they refused.
Finally, however, when Oripa was ten years old, her prayers were answered. She was so happy when she was confirmed a member of the Church she just couldn’t stop crying tears of happiness. Oripa knew that our Heavenly Father would bless her.
Oripa worked hard and did her best at home and at school. All the children of Fiji in class 6 were given their intermediate examination. When the tests were graded, Oripa had the highest mark of any child in her grade in all of Fiji.
That night when her big sister came home, she kissed Oripa and congratulated her for doing so well on the test. When her proud parents asked Oripa about the examination, she explained that she knew this was a blessing from our Heavenly Father because she had joined His Church.

The Savior’s love, which shines through this Christmastime experience of President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, can brighten our lives all year long.
One winter day as Christmas approached, I thought back to an experience from my boyhood. I was eleven. Our Primary president, Melissa, was an older and loving gray-haired lady.
One day at Primary, Melissa asked me to stay behind and visit with her. The two of us sat in the otherwise empty chapel. She placed her arm about my shoulder and began to cry. Surprised, I asked her why she was crying. She replied: “I don’t seem to be able to encourage the Trail Builder [now Blazer] boys to be reverent during the opening exercises of Primary. Would you be willing to help me, Tommy?”
I promised her I would. Strangely to me, but not to Melissa, that ended any problem of reverence in that Primary. She had gone to the source of the problem—me. The solution was love.
The years flew by. Marvelous Melissa, now in her nineties, lived in a nursing [home] in the northwest part of Salt Lake City. Just before Christmas, I determined to visit my beloved Primary president. Over the car radio, I heard the song “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” I reflected on the visit made by wise men those long years ago. They brought gifts of gold, of frankincense, and of myrrh. I brought only the gift of love and a desire to say “Thank you.”
I found Melissa in the lunchroom. She stared at her plate of food, teasing it with the fork she held in her aged hand. Not a bite did she eat. As I spoke to her, my words were met with a blank stare. I took the fork in hand and began to feed Melissa, talking all the time I did so about her service to boys and girls as a Primary worker. There wasn’t so much as a glimmer of recognition, far less a spoken word.
Two other residents of the nursing home gazed at me with puzzled expressions. At last they spoke, saying: “She doesn’t know anyone, even her own family. She hasn’t said a word in all the time she’s been here.”
Lunch ended. My one-sided conversation wound down. I stood to leave. I held her frail hand in mine, gazed into her wrinkled but beautiful countenance, and said: “God bless you, Melissa. Merry Christmas.”
Without warning, she spoke the words: “I know you. You’re Tommy Monson, my Primary boy. How I love you.” She pressed my hand to her lips and bestowed on it the kiss of love. Tears coursed down her cheeks and bathed our clasped hands. Those hands, that day, were hallowed [made holy] by heaven and graced by God. The herald angels did sing. Outside the sky was blue—azure blue. The air was cool—crispy cool. The snow was white—crystal white.
How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.*
The wondrous gift was given, the heavenly blessing was received, the dear Christ entered in—all through the doorway of love.
(See Ensign, October 1996, page 7.)

Illustration by Dilleen Marsh
I was baptized when I was 19. Many of my family and friends did not accept my decision to join the Church, but that didn’t stop me. Two weeks later, I started my second year of college. When I got back to campus, I became nervous about my new faith.
I started to worry that I wouldn’t have the courage stand up for my religion. I felt alone. I had never met a member of the Church at college, and I didn’t know where to find a meetinghouse, or if there was even a ward or branch nearby. I prayed to Heavenly Father for courage. I prayed I would have confidence to stand up for my newfound beliefs.
A few days later, I helped some people move in. I met a young man named Brian and we became friends. We were walking through campus one day when he asked me what my plans were for Sunday. I told him I was going to church.
“Oh, what church do you go to?” he asked.
Despite the anxious feeling in my stomach, I straightened up tall and said, “I go to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I was proud of myself! I was also nervous about how Brian would respond. Just then, I saw the missionaries. Before Brian said anything, I told him I would be right back. I ran over to the missionaries. They were happy to meet me and gave me all the details I needed to get to church the next day.
I went back to Brian and explained what had happened. I also shared a little bit about the Church with him, and we continued walking without much difference, except I now had a spring in my step. I also felt the warmth and peace only the Spirit can bring. I had been worried about being alone and not knowing where to go to church. But I believe that those missionaries arriving at that exact spot at that time was Heavenly Father’s way of blessing me for declaring my faith.
More than 10 years have gone by, and since that day I have never been afraid to say, “I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints!”

Melinda, from Idaho, a young pioneer of our day, wrote about how hard it was for her to have the courage to leave her friends when they were seeing a movie that was popular but clearly against her standards. “Some may think, ‘It’s just a movie, what’s the big deal?’” she said. “But it’s the little things that turn into big things. It’s not easy to do, but the Lord will help us,” she insisted. And when she left, others followed her. That’s pioneering.

He had been home about seven months when he ran into “Sister Morgado” at a multistake dance. Ulisses had served as her zone leader for a time, and the two spent the evening catching up and sharing mission stories. Three weeks later, they began dating.

Rosana Fernandes Morgado was eight when her older sister, Margareth, began taking her to church. Eventually, the two faithful young investigators received permission from their father to be baptized, but each had to wait until she was 17. Rosana attended church for nine years before receiving permission to be baptized.

Ulisses lived in northern São Paulo, and Rosana lived with her parents in the city’s southern sector. Travel across the sprawling city took two to three hours by bus and subway. Fortunately, Margareth and her husband, Claudio, lived near her parents’ home.

“When Ulisses came on weekends to date Rosana, it was tough for him to return home so far at night,” recalls Elder Claudio R. M. Costa, General Authority Seventy, of his future brother-in-law. So, he and Margareth invited Ulisses to spend the night at their home after his dates. “We adopted him for a while,” Elder Costa adds.

“He would sleep on the couch in our living room,” says Sister Costa. “We were recently married, so we didn’t have extra blankets. But he would cover himself with an old curtain we had. He was happy because he could see Rosana again the next day. He was good to my sister, and my parents liked him very much.”

Ulisses and Rosana were married in the São Paulo Brazil Temple on October 30, 1982.

During my second Christmas as a full-time missionary, my companion and I were visiting a recently baptized member and her family. After a great Christmas dinner, we shared with them a Christmas message.
We asked the family to draw pictures of things that reminded them of the season, such as stars, presents, nativities, and Christmas trees. We then read some scriptures, including 2 Nephi 19:6: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder; and his name shall be called, Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.” We sang “Once in Royal David’s City” (Hymns, no. 205), watched a movie about the Nativity, and bore testimony of Jesus Christ.
It was a Christmas in simple circumstances, away from our families and the usual Christmas celebrations, but as we bore testimony of the Savior, I felt a deeper love and appreciation for Him and His birth than I had known before. I realized it would be my last Christmas in full-time missionary service to my Heavenly Father, but I understood that His Spirit could testify to me of His Son wherever I was.

One day a girl in my kindergarten class was being mean to me. I didn’t know what to do, so I talked to my mom about it. We agreed that it was better to not be mean back, which would only make me feel worse. We decided that I should be extra nice to her. I made a card that I planned to give to her with a fruit snack during lunch on our field trip the next day.
When I gave her the card and fruit snack, she was so happy that it made me happy, too. I felt like I was the one who got the present! My mom said that that feeling is the Holy Ghost. Even though a few days later the girl was mean again and gave chocolate candy to all my friends at recess but not to me, I remembered the lesson I had learned. I am glad that I know it is better to choose the right and be kind to others, no matter how they treat me.

Elder Taiichi Aoba of the Seventy, who resides in a small mountain village in Shikoku, Japan, was asked to teach a class at a youth conference. “Stand Ye in Holy Places” was selected as the theme of the conference. After considering the theme and what to teach, Elder Aoba decided to use his vocation as a teaching tool. His work is making pottery.

Elder Aoba relates that his classroom of youth really sprang to life when they saw how he was able to almost magically transform the shape of the clay in his hands to plates, bowls, and cups. After his demonstration, he asked them if any of them would like to give it a try. They all raised their hands.

Elder Aoba had several of the youth come forward to try out their new interest. They assumed, after watching him, that this would be quite simple. However, none of them were successful in their attempts to make even a simple bowl. They proclaimed: “I can’t do this!” “Why is this so hard?” “This is so difficult.” These comments took place as the clay flew all around the room.

He asked the youth why they were having such difficulty making pottery. They responded with various answers: “I don’t have any experience,” “I have never been trained,” or “I have no talent.” Based on the result, what they said was all true; however, the most important reason for their failure was due to the clay not being centered on the wheel. The youth thought that they had placed the clay in the center, but from a professional’s perspective, it wasn’t in the exact center. He then told them, “Let’s try this one more time.”

This time, Elder Aoba placed the clay in the exact center of the wheel and then started to turn the wheel, making a hole in the middle of the clay. Several of the youth tried again. This time everyone started clapping when they said: “Wow, it’s not shaking,” “I can do this,” or “I did it!” Of course, the shapes weren’t perfect, but the outcome was totally different from the first attempt. The reason for their success was because the clay was perfectly centered on the wheel.

“A miraculous, but longer-term, experience happened on a trip to see the old Church museum in Salt Lake City. I thought it was neat to see a lock of Joseph Smith’s hair and the mummies, but afterward, when Mother and Dad went shopping, I chose to stay in the car. I was sitting there kind of bored and happened to see some pamphlets we’d picked up on Temple Square. One of them was the Joseph Smith story. I didn’t have anything to do, so I picked it up and read it. It was a wonderful experience. I had heard the Joseph Smith story before at home and at Primary, and I had believed it. But as I sat there in the car alone and read it, I had a spiritual experience as powerful as any I’ve had as an adult. The Spirit testified to me that what Joseph Smith was telling was true, and I had a greater love for Joseph. I wished that I had lived when Joseph Smith lived because I wanted to help him. I wouldn’t have apostatized, as some of his friends did.

Though some friends were openly critical of Tiffani’s investigation of the Church, Catlin was genuinely curious. When Catlin started asking questions, Tiffani simply invited her to come to church and see for herself. Catlin left the meetings that first Sunday with a copy of the Book of Mormon and an appointment to meet with the sister missionaries. Catlin’s testimony grew steadily, and soon she wanted to be baptized. On March 3, 2007, Catlin was the first of the five to be baptized and confirmed.

Second, humility. “Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” (Matt. 18:4.) How wonderful to hear the humble prayer or testimony of a child. I think of the young boy I heard relate the Joseph Smith story in great detail and bear his testimony in the Xhosa language in southern Africa as we met in a one-room African home in Cimizile.
We live in a world where men have largely turned away from righteousness and are self-seeking, gratifying their pride and vain ambition. We have the challenge to humble ourselves before God and become, in King Benjamin’s words, “as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon [us], even as a child doth submit to his father.” (Mosiah 3:19.)
All over the world, people of different races and cultures are overcoming traditions to accept the truth and submit themselves humbly to baptism. How inspiring to see them overcome hardship and affliction. I remember interviewing a fine young Shona man, a Church member in Zimbabwe, to be the first missionary from his nation. Although permanently on crutches because of polio, Elder Peter Chaya submitted happily to the call to serve.

For a while after I was baptized, I would stop going to church, then go back for a while, then stop again. But members of the ward visited me and invited me to come back. They told me the Church and the members missed and needed me. I decided to come back, and I’ve been active ever since. I realized how much I needed the Church. I can pray to Heavenly Father and feel good, and I can feel the Spirit. And so here I am!

Honesty begins when we are young. When I was 11 years old, I looked forward eagerly to my magical 12th birthday when I could become a deacon and a Scout. My mother helped me learn the Articles of Faith, the Scout Law and Motto, and other requirements so that I would have a good start when that special birthday arrived.
Since I had no sisters, my brothers and I were given some of the inside chores as well as outside ones, such as milking and taking care of the animals. One day Mother left me to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen while she attended to a sick neighbor. I agreed to do these duties but put off doing the dishes. Time ran out and they didn’t get done. In fact, they didn’t even get started. When Mother came home and saw the kitchen, she put on her apron and went to the sink. She spoke only three words, which stung worse than the sting of a dozen hornets. They were the first three words of the Scout Oath: “On my honor.” That day I resolved that I would never give my mother cause to repeat those words to me again.

The first few years of our marriage seemed nearly perfect. After my husband and I were sealed in the México City México Temple, we both graduated from the university and our first daughter was born. My husband had a good job and was called as bishop in our ward. Then we were able to move to Jalisco, a part of México where my grandparents had lived. We had always dreamed of rearing our children in a peaceful place, and Jalisco met the desires of our hearts. Our way of life, however, would soon change dramatically.
In Jalisco, our second daughter was born. Unfortunately, I suffered severe complications after her birth. We were able to meet the expenses from our savings, but then, two weeks later, my husband lost his job. With no income, we had to move from our house. Credit card bills, car payments, and rent were strangling us.
Eventually, my husband began to work nights as a taxi driver. Frequently his expenses exceeded his income, but his work did bring a little food to the table. Then the car broke down, and even that little source of income ended. We sold or pawned many of our possessions. At the same time, México underwent a serious currency devaluation, which added greatly to our financial distress.
My husband was emotionally and physically exhausted, so I got a job as a teacher in a bilingual elementary school. The work was hard, the salary small, and I had to leave my little ones in the care of a Church member. To save money, we moved to a cheaper place in a poorer section of town.
As I struggled to go to work, care for the family, keep up the house, and participate at church, I became very depressed. One terrible night I was so distressed I had to be hospitalized. After giving me a sedative, the doctor said, “You’re drowning yourself in your problems. That’s for cowards, and I don’t think that is what you are. Think about it.”
Her words resounded in my mind, and I closed my eyes, searching for something to give me courage. I reviewed my life. Yes, all our material possessions are gone, I told myself, but I am still alive, and I have a wonderful husband and two precious daughters. I remembered I had not been born to accumulate goods or to live in tranquillity. I had come to serve my family and others and to build the kingdom of God.
When I returned home, I prayed as never before. I pleaded with my Heavenly Father to strengthen me. I spoke with my bishop, and he told me, “The Lord will remove from your path that which is hurting you.” The following day I learned that I had been fired from my job without any explanation. That same day I learned I had been granted a scholarship to further my education. Being able to spend time teaching my little ones did a great deal to heal my spirit.

Since I joined the Church, I have been blessed a lot. I can do things now I never knew I could do. I can conduct music. I can teach children in Primary. I love them, and they love me too. I can sing in the choir. I even sang in the choir during the Sunday morning session of the dedication of the Washington D.C. Temple in August 2022. I never thought I would be in the temple with President Russell M. Nelson, singing for him. But it happened. It was a wonderful blessing to be in the presence of the prophet.