Gospel Story Finder

One day I was talking to a friend, who is not a member of our church, and we almost got to the point where we started putting each other’s churches down, but I didn’t want it to get to that point, so I just bore my testimony and stopped. A few weeks later I got some pamphlets and magazines in the mail from her. I could have kept them so that I would know what some writers think about our church, but I didn’t. This experience made me want to be more prepared when things like this happen.Alexandria M., 15, Oregon

Some years ago when I was serving as a bishop, a family in our ward experienced a crisis when the father lost his job. I was concerned about their well-being, and I visited their home to counsel with them and to offer Church assistance. Interestingly, they were reluctant to respond to my offer of temporary assistance, and so I took the matter to the ward council. In a spirit of loving confidentiality, I shared with them my concern for this wonderful family and asked for their ideas as to how we could bless them.
Our Relief Society president volunteered to visit with the mother to ascertain their temporal needs and to work with them in obtaining any commodities they needed—which, of course, was her responsibility according to the program of the Church. Within a couple of days, she had accomplished what I had been unable to accomplish, and the family humbly and gratefully accepted commodity assistance. The elders quorum president counseled with the father of the family—which, of course, was his right and duty—and worked with him on ways to find a job. Our Young Men president noticed that the family’s house was in desperate need of painting, and he arranged for his priests to work with the high priests group to paint the house.
During the course of my conversation with the parents, I discovered that they were heavily in debt and were in arrears on their mortgage. Following approved welfare guidelines, I inquired about the ability of their extended family to help but received little information. Our Relief Society president, however, was able to learn that the mother had a brother who was wealthy.
“There’s no reason to contact him,” the mother said. “We haven’t even spoken in years.”
I understood her dilemma, and yet I felt it was important to follow the order of the Church. And so I counseled with her and eventually received her permission to contact her brother, who lived in a distant city. I called him and explained the difficult circumstances in which his younger sister was living. Within three days he arrived in Salt Lake City and helped get his sister’s financial affairs in order. Meanwhile, our elders quorum president helped her husband find a steady job with a good income.
More important, however, was that they were closer and more united as a family. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that tender moment of reunion between the mother and her brother after years of estrangement. Although her brother had become alienated from the Church, there was an immediate spirit-to-spirit bonding. As a result, the brother eventually returned to full activity in the Church and renewed his relationship with his family.
All of this happened because of the inspired work of a faithful ward council functioning according to the program that God has outlined for His children through His servants.

Our Scout troop traveled to Cape Hatteras on North Carolina’s Outer Banks for a surf fishing adventure. Arriving at mid-afternoon, we set up camp and then drove to the beach to fish.
We found a nice stretch of beach at the end of a driveway that wound through high sand dunes. Confident from my years of driving a trailer, I proceeded down the winding pavement and parked. We retrieved our fishing gear, rigged surf rods, cut bait, and eagerly hiked to the beach, hoping to catch the large bluefish and channel bass that roam the surf.
The excitement and labor of surf fishing made us lose track of time. I began to think about the van, trailer, and long, winding driveway. With no room to turn around, I knew we would have to back out. This is easy in daylight, but daylight was quickly fading.
As I backed out, I could not see if my wheels were on safe, firmly packed gravel or the loose, sinking sand that would easily swallow an axel. Facing the possibility of a stranded vehicle 10 miles from camp in the dark, I knew it was time to pray for guidance. After we prayed, I tried to maneuver. Then one of the young men said, “Let’s all take out our flashlights and stand along the safe ground. Just follow our lights, and we’ll get you out.”
There soon was a string of lights shining in the darkness. It was easy to back up. As I progressed down the pitch-black driveway, the lights moved on, marking the safe path. Soon I was nearly at the highway entrance and feared that the trailer might back onto the dark highway instead of the safe shoulder. Again, the young men reminded me, “Just follow our light.” They guided me safely onto the shoulder, and then they all boarded the van. About an hour later we were eating hot soup around the campfire.
Two days later, at fast and testimony meeting, I was reflecting on the actions of our young men. There could have been hundreds of them trying to guide me, but only those holding up the light could actually help. I thought of Jesus saying: “Therefore, hold up your light that it may shine unto the world. Behold I am the light which ye shall hold up—that which ye have seen me do” (3 Nephi 18:24).
I bore testimony of our valiant and wise young men and the lesson they had taught me. I reminded them to keep the light of Christ burning brightly so they can guide those stranded on the sand dunes of life looking for that light that leads to safety.

1. Bobby knocked on his sister Alicia’s door. “Will you help me button my white shirt? I want to look just like the bishop.” Alicia smiled as she helped him. “You will look just like the bishop,” she said.
2. Bobby went to his brother Chris. “Will you help me tie my tie? I want to look just like the bishop.” Chris tied Bobby’s tie and said, “You will look just like the bishop.”
3. Bobby saw his sister Sarah fixing Laura’s hair. “Will you help me tie my brown shoes?” Bobby asked. “I want to look just like the bishop.” Sarah tied his shoes. “You will look just like the bishop,” she said.
4. “Don’t forget your suit coat,” Laura said. She helped him put his arms in the sleeves of the coat. “You will look just like the bishop.”
5. Bobby saw Mom looking in the mirror. “Mom, will you comb my hair? I want to look just like the bishop.” Mom sprayed Bobby’s hair with water and combed it. “You will look just like the bishop.”
6. Bobby stood at the front door. “Are we ready to go?” Bobby asked. “I want to be on time, just like the bishop.” “Don’t forget your scriptures,” Dad said. “You will need them to look like the bishop.”
7. Bobby picked up his scriptures. “Am I ready?” he asked. “You look just like the bishop,” Dad said.
8. At church, Bobby sat reverently as he waited for sacrament meeting to start. Then he saw a hand stretched out in front of him. It was the bishop! The bishop shook Bobby’s hand. “Is that you, Bobby?” the bishop asked. “I thought it was me!”

The reality of the virus hit me even more when my little family came down with flu-like symptoms. I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s just the seasonal flu that usually goes around,” but we ended up getting tested as a precautionary measure. Our results came back positive: my husband, my 18-month-old daughter, and I all had COVID-19.
The news of our positive results affected us mentally, especially for my husband and me. It felt like our symptoms grew worse and that our recovery took longer the more we dwelled on the fact that we were infected with coronavirus. Focusing on our sickness built up more fear, which crippled us mentally, emotionally and spiritually—we had no room for faith. After two weeks of being down with the virus, we realized that we weren’t showing faith in Jesus Christ because we let fear in the way by focusing on being sick. So, to counteract that, we started shifting our focus to the Saviour and the power that comes from acting on our faith in Him.
The minute we chose to have faith in Jesus Christ and to act on it, our mentality and attitude began to change, and our actions started to align with our faith. We prayed with real intent and kept expressing in our prayers that we have faith in Jesus Christ and in His ability to heal us physically. We started reading more of the scriptures and quoting scripture around the house and to each other.
We started to be a lot more optimistic, and we continued to build on hope. We didn’t feel any more fear or worry. We were happier around the house and enjoyed each other’s company. When we really started to show our faith in Jesus Christ by doing these things, we noticed that our recovery started to pick up and we were able to fully recover shortly after.

As a new missionary in Japan, I had a hard time understanding anyone, let alone getting to know them. It was difficult to learn to love people I didn’t even know, especially when I couldn’t understand what they were saying. But I made an effort to show my love for them, and I appreciated their efforts to reach out to me.
Each week, my companion and I received a loaf of homemade bread from a sister in the ward named Sister Senba. She showed her love for the missionaries by baking homemade bread and writing small but heartfelt notes.
I was touched that someone cared about me. I felt impressed to show my gratitude to her in some small way. I wrote her a note expressing how grateful I was for her and the sacrifices she and her family made to help the missionaries. We became friends, and I began to think of her as my “mother away from home.”
Months passed. Early one Wednesday morning I received a call from my mission president, who asked me to transfer down to Okinawa. When I hung up the phone, I was filled with the most bittersweet feeling. I dreaded having to say my good-byes. Each phone call to tell members of the ward I would be leaving on the following day made my heart hurt. Saying good-bye to the people I had come to love so much was more difficult than I had imagined it would be.
As I finished these calls, I noticed that the only one who had not answered the phone was Sister Senba. I was sad I would not be able to say good-bye to a member who had become so close to my heart.
The next morning two other missionaries and I left for the airport. When we arrived at the ticket counter and tried to buy tickets, the workers told us that our cards had been declined. We did not have any money to pay for the tickets, and the flight was leaving in 10 minutes! The three of us were in a panic. We were about to miss the flight and be stranded at the airport for the day.
But all of my panic turned to comfort when I turned around and saw Sister Senba walk into the airport. I was shocked that she was there because she hadn’t known what time our flight was. As she scrambled over to us, she smiled and gave us all bread to bring onto the plane.
As we explained to her that we were going to miss our flight, she became saddened. None of us knew what to do. Then Sister Senba began rummaging through her purse, looking for something that could help us. She jumped happily into the air when she found a small envelope in her purse in which, weeks ago, she had placed ¥50,000—the exact amount of money we needed. She gave us the money, and we were able to get our tickets in time. We thanked her with every ounce of gratitude our souls could muster, said good-bye, and rushed onto the plane.
After the plane took off, my fellow missionary turned to me and said, “Isn’t she amazing?! That was a miracle!”
I then realized how truly miraculous it really was. He then said, “What does your note say?” I saw he was reading a note that was with the bread Sister Senba had given him. As I realized I had one too, I pulled out the note and read a small piece of paper personally addressed to me, which immediately made my eyes swell with tears. It said, “I love you! Please don’t forget me! I will never forget you!”
At that moment I felt the Spirit more strongly than I ever have before. Sister Senba’s example taught me how important it is to follow the promptings of the Spirit—no matter how small or strange the prompting might seem. Through these promptings we have the power to change lives for the better. I know it was not a coincidence that she came to the airport. It was a miracle.
Truly the Lord uses small means to bring about His work. How blessed we are as members of this Church to have His influence in our lives. Let us all remain worthy to receive these promptings and bless the lives of the children of God.

Jason Lee found that you’re never too young to be a space scientist. An experiment designed by the 19-year-old from Las Vegas was selected to be aboard the 1984 space shuttle.
Jason says he has been interested in science for as long as he can remember and has been working on this experiment for the past four years. After he submitted his idea, it was selected to make the trip into space. The area aboard the shuttle was made available to the Boy Scouts of America by a private corporation. Jason’s experiment is one of 11 scheduled for the trip.
The purpose of Jason’s experiment is to determine if data can be safely stored in space on magnetic floppy disks. He also had to design a special box to carry the disks. The four disks he is sending into space may come back shattered, erased, or jumbled, or they may be intact. Jason will make that determination after the flight.
Jason is a member of the Las Vegas 35th Ward.

One new member of the Church tells how effective a part of the missionary effort the Gospel Essentials course can be:
“I used to talk about religion with a member of the Church who worked at the desk right next to mine, and it came to the point where I was asking him questions every time we had a break. He was very patient, and if he didn’t know the answer, he’d bring a book or magazine.
“I learned a lot of different things on different subjects, but I didn’t know how to put it all together. He was glad to talk to me anytime, but after a while, it was like I was running out of things to ask at the same time when I felt like I had so many things to ask. It was frustrating.
“Then one day, he said to me, ‘Listen, why don’t you come to church with me next Sunday? There’s a Sunday School class there that will give you a pretty good overview of what we believe—better than I can. Why not go a few times, and if you can tie in all these ideas together, great; if you can’t, you’ll at least know you tried. Okay?’
“I went, and it was really educational for me. I know I made a spectacle of myself during the first two classes, because I kept saying things like ‘Ohhh, yeah, I see!’ and ‘That’s right; sure it is!’ over and over. I started to see a plan in the whole thing, and it was beautiful. I think I was three or four jumps ahead of the missionaries when they started teaching me.”

A respected business leader once encouraged Elder Stevenson to “learn, earn, and serve.” In 2004 the “serve” part of that equation was tested when Elder Stevenson and longtime business partner Scott Watterson were both called to serve as mission presidents. They felt they needed to explain to various stakeholders and customers why they were temporarily leaving their company. One by one they visited them.
“When we described our call and that we would serve for three years without compensation from the Church, they respected the goodness of that,” he says. They left the business in the hands of a trusted executive team, and it prospered.

My name is Armando. I am from the Antananarivo Madagascar Stake. I want to testify to you that reading the scriptures and doing Duty to God really brings blessings to us and to those around us.
I remember one Monday in our family home evening I felt that it was an occasion for me to bear my testimony about the Book of Mormon. I had chosen previously that this would be the action I would take to follow the pattern in the booklet. I testified especially to my father, who had been inactive for months, to let him know what I know about the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. Soon after it seemed my father started to gain more faith again, and the next Sunday he started coming to church again. He met with the bishop and began to focus more on doing his duty. I realized that following the Fulfilling My Duty to God booklet had brought blessings to my family. I know that it prepares us to become effective missionaries, worthy bearers of the priesthood, diligent leaders, and good fathers to take our families to the temple. I know we will be successful in our lives if we do our duty to our Heavenly Father.

Dave reached the boat and squatted in the dirt beside it. I wonder who put the boat back, he thought. I wonder how they found him and how they knew where to put the boat. He thought of how that had been his idea, to build the boat, and how he had shown Rod how to do it. Now that was something Rod wasn’t good at—he had wasted a lot of good lumber trying to build his share of the boat. Dave remembered what Rod had said when Dave had mentioned it once: “I’m not too good at this, and I need to learn. What if you die or something? There wouldn’t be anyone here to show me how to build things. I need to learn.” And then he had laughed and shoved Dave, and they had started wrestling. That was another thing Rod was good at. Dave could beat him almost all the time when it came to pure grapple; but if beat meant pin, Dave was the sure loser.

I wonder what Rod’s doing right now, Dave thought, and then he began to whistle softly to himself. He was a little afraid. The quiet night, black and starless, the black and quiet lake where his best friend had drowned the night before, the thoughts of spirits and ghosts—he began to whistle the tune to “Magdalena Katalena” very softly to himself. But as he did, he thought to himself, I’ll bet Rod wasn’t afraid last night. And then he thought, as he shoved the boat out into the lake and jumped in after it, wetting only one leg and that only to the ankle, that it all wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t fair.
He turned his back to the front of the boat and began to row in deep and heavy strokes. It isn’t fair, he thought to the rhythm of his work, that Rod should have to die when he was so capable and so happy and so spiritual—how could a guy like that drown anyway?
He rowed on out to the spot where he heard that Rod had drowned and sat back in the boat and looked up into the sky. It was as black as the water beneath him, but the water scared him. If it could get Rod, he thought, what would it do to me? And he saw in his mind Rod’s face, white in wet blackness, a pale oval beneath the boat, clawing up to air but never finding it. Dave tried to shut the vision from his mind. He thought of the roadshow earlier that year, in the spring, when Rod had played the turnip and Dave had been the dwarf. Rod had been in Dave’s garden, a turnip almost as large as the gardener. They had laid him on Dave’s kitchen table up there on the stage, and Dave had brought out a knife to cut through his red and whiteness.
No, Dave thought to himself and sat up in the boat. You’re really morbid, aren’t you, Peters? So he tried to see Rod somewhere else, and where he saw him was at a special stake meeting as one of the youth speakers. “I’ve been assigned to speak on why I’m going on a mission,” he had begun, and Dave had groaned. What an awful way to start a talk, he had thought. But he did have to admit one thing: even if Rod wasn’t the best speaker in the world, when he spoke people listened because they knew he meant every word of what he said.
Dave gripped one oar by its end and squeezed it hard. What happened here last night? he thought. How could you let yourself drown? It’s unfair! And then Dave finally leaned over the edge to look into the clear black water. He thought of the legends that always circulated around the town in the summer that the lake was bottomless—and that giant prehistoric fish had been seen by skin divers again that spring.
The lake had been where Dave and Rod spent their free time. That blackness was a deep blue during daylight hours, the kind of blueness whose color by itself invited one to enter. Dave could see Rod, standing on the bow of the boat, clad in cut-off jeans and no shirt, saying, “See ya later, pilgrim!” and then jumping in. He could stay underwater longer than anyone else Dave knew.
He dipped his hand into the water. It was terribly cold, the kind of cold, he thought, that could cramp a person’s muscles in a moment. Why had Rod jumped in? Dave wondered. He knew better. He should have been more careful. They had lots of plans together—plans that would make him be careful. Like Ricks College next fall, where they would room together in the dorms; like the missions they had planned. Rod would be glad to see him make it. Dave remembered the long talks they had had about missions and girls and the gospel and their parents. They had shared fears and doubts. But later Rod became set and firm, his doubts gone. He knew where he was going. And he always knew the right things to say to help Dave make up his mind to do what he knew he should do—even though it sometimes took a lot of discussing before those right things came out.
Dave looked back up at the sky—there were stars out now; the clouds had parted some—and he felt the lump growing in his throat again, and thought, Don’t be stupid. Crying won’t bring him back. And he thought, I’ll bet Rod wouldn’t cry over you. He’d just smile and touch your hand at the funeral and whisper, “Take care, buddy. See ya before too long.”
But those thoughts didn’t help, and Dave’s throat swelled until he felt he couldn’t really breathe, and the white puffs that had been coming from his mouth and nostrils nearly stopped for a moment. And then the hurt pushed itself up and out his eyes so they glistened in the darkness and his breath caught, then rushed out, then caught again, and his eyes glistened.
And he lay back in his rowboat and sobbed in the dark over the lake.
“Why did it have to be you, Rod?” he said out loud. “You were the good one, the strong one. I won’t do much good here. But you were good; you could even milk with gloves on—” and then he smiled through his tears and laughed a little even while he was crying.
“Rod would think you’re a pretty dumb guy,” he said to himself. Then he whispered. “We were pretty good friends, weren’t we, Rod?”
He leaned over the edge of the boat. The white puffs of air floated over the water. They were coming more freely now. Heavenly Father, he said in his mind, Rod was a pretty good guy, and I’m sure you were proud of him. You know we were close friends—best friends—and I’m really missing him. I think we did everything together. I’m feeling kind of alone.
Then he closed his eyes tight, and felt the cold tears on his cheeks, and thought. All I ask of thee is to help me become the kind of person Rod was. I want to see him again.
Dave sat up straight on the boat’s crossbar. He and Rod had had a boat race once. A neighbor had loaned them his boat. They were going to go two out of three, but they didn’t need to. Dave won the first two races. They had laughed and teased each other, and then Rod had jumped out of his boat and swam in four or five quick strokes over to Dave’s boat and started rocking it till he had swamped it.
We haven’t had a good tussle like that for a long time, Dave thought.
And then he said, half aloud, “Beat you to shore, Rod.” He started rowing as hard as he could, puffing out the white air until his lungs felt raw. Getting a little out of shape, aren’t you, Peters, he thought to himself. Maybe you ought to go out for basketball this winter.
The boat hit the bank and he clambered out, getting both feet wet and not caring. He pulled the boat up completely onto the bank and left it there without looking back. His house was over a mile from the bank, and his folks might be getting worried, he thought. He took off in an easy run, singing under his breath, “Her lips stuck out like two big weiners; she used them round the house like vacuum cleaners. Oh, Magdalena Katalena Hoopensteiner—” his white breath clearing the way through the black night before him.

My testimony that this is the true Church began in my childhood. One of my earliest memories is of a conference meeting. A man was speaking whom I did not know. I knew only that he was someone sent to our little district in the mission field by someone who held the priesthood. I do not know what he said. But I received a powerful, certain witness before I was eight, even before I was baptized, that I was hearing a servant of God in the true Church of Jesus Christ.
In my teen years, I felt the power of priesthood quorums and of a loving bishop. I still remember and can feel the assurances that came when I sat in a priests quorum next to a bishop and knew that he had the keys of a true judge in Israel.
That same witness came early in my life on two Sundays. In each case I was present on the day that a stake was organized. Seemingly ordinary men whom I knew well were called as stake presidents. I raised my hand on those days and had a witness come to me that God had called His servants and that I would be blessed by their service and for sustaining them. I have felt that same miracle countless times across the Church.
I saw that those stake presidents were lifted up to their callings. I have seen the same miracle in the service of President Monson as he received the call to preside as the prophet and President of the Church and to exercise all the keys of the priesthood in the earth. Revelation and inspiration have come to him in my presence, which confirms to me that God is honoring those keys. I am an eyewitness.
I bear you my solemn witness that this is the true and living Church of Jesus Christ. Heavenly Father will answer your fervent prayers to know that for yourself.

As soon as Brother Hansen said the closing prayer in church and the girls started handing out flowers to the mothers, I knew that we had forgotten. I looked down the bench at my brothers, Alma, Jarom, and Jared. Alma shrugged his shoulders. Jarom looked back at me with a sad frown on his face. Jared, who’s just two and a half, whispered, “What’s wrong, Aaron?”
“It’s Mother’s Day,” I muttered.
As we walked out of the chapel, I poked Alma with my elbow. “What are we going to do?” I asked him.
Alma shook his head, but I could tell that he was thinking hard.
Just then Dad touched me on the arm. “Aaron, Mom and I have a meeting for a few minutes. Do you boys want to wait here until we’re finished?”
Our house is just a little way from the ward, so I said, “We’ll walk home.”
“And we’ll take Jared with us,” Alma added.
Alma took Jared by the hand, and I took Jarom, and we headed home. Alma and Jared walked faster than Jarom and I, so by the time Jarom and I made it to our bedroom, Alma had all his money dumped out on the bed.
“Get your money,” he told Jarom and me.
It wasn’t long until all our money was piled in the middle of Alma’s bed, even Jared’s twenty-eight pennies.
Alma dropped to his knees, spread the money out, and started counting. He scratched his head and chewed his tongue a lot. Finally he scraped all the money into one big pile and announced, “There’s seven dollars and eighty-nine cents.”
“Is that a lot?” I asked.
Alma nodded.
“How much is it?” Jarom asked.
Alma tugged on his ear. “It could buy about twenty candy bars.”
“I want a candy bar,” Jared said.
“How much gum?” Jarom wanted to know.
“Maybe twenty-five or thirty packages. Or if we got it out of the gum-ball machines, we could each get a couple of pockets full.”
“I want some gum,” Jared said.
“Are we getting Mom gum or candy bars?” Jarom asked.
“I don’t think Mom would like candy bars or gum for a present.”
“What would she like?” Jarom asked.
“A dress or a purse or perfume or stuff like that,” Alma said.
“Are we going to buy junk like that?” I asked.
“Well, Aaron, it’s Mother’s Day. We have to get her something that she likes.”
“I think we ought to get her something good,” I growled.
“Yeah,” Jarom said. “If we get a purse she might not want it. Then she’ll just put it in the closet, and it won’t be any good to anybody. But if we get a lot of gum, even if she doesn’t like it, we can chew it for her.”
“I think that we can get a pretty good dress for five dollars,” Alma said. “With all our money we might even be able to get her some gum and candy bars too.”
“Let’s get the candy bars first,” Jarom grumbled. “Then if we have enough money, we can get a dress or something.”
“We can’t get her anything today,” I said, suddenly remembering. “Today’s Sunday. We don’t buy things on Sunday.”
We all looked at each other and sat down on the edge of the bed to think.
“I know,” I called out. “We can still give her the money, and tomorrow she can buy whatever she wants.”
We took the money, dumped it into an envelope, licked the flap, and closed it. Alma got a crayon and wrote, “To Mom from the boys.”
“But we have to do something for her today, too,” I mumbled. “Today’s Mother’s Day, not tomorrow.”
“I’m hungry,” Jared whined.
“That’s it!” Alma grinned. “We’ll fix a Mother’s Day dinner.”
Jarom and I looked at each other and then at Alma.
“I don’t know how to fix dinner,” Jarom said sadly.
“We can do it,” Alma said with a grin. “We’ll have the best Mother’s Day dinner ever.”
Jarom, Alma, and I changed our clothes, then we helped Jared change his. While Alma and Jarom worked on his bottom end, pulling off his shoes and pants, I worked on his top end and jerked off his shirt. It was pretty hard work because Jared thought that we were playing a game. But we finally got the job done.
A few minutes later we were all in the kitchen. Alma pulled open the fridge door, and we looked inside.
“Mom was going to have fried chicken and potatoes,” Jarom said.
“Do you know how to make fried chicken?” I asked Alma.
“No, but we don’t have to fix fried chicken. This is going to be a special dinner. We can fix anything we want.”
“I like peanut butter sandwiches,” Jared said.
“You don’t have peanut butter sandwiches for Sunday dinner,” I protested.
“Sure we can,” Alma said, still grinning. “Peanut butter sandwiches are good for you. Mom said so.”
“What do you want?” I asked Jarom.
He ran over to the pantry, stared at the shelves stacked with cans, and brought out a big can of pork and beans.
“I want baloney in it,” I said, grabbing a package of it from the fridge.
“OK,” Alma said, “but let’s hurry and fix everything before Mom and Dad get home.”
I helped Jarom open his can of pork and beans, and we dumped them into a bowl. Then we took the baloney slices, tore them into pieces, and mixed them in with the pork and beans.
Jared got out one of Mom’s loaves of bread, Alma cut it into slices. He got only eight slices out of the whole loaf.
“Aren’t the slices just a little thick?” I asked.
He laughed and shook his head. “Dad likes them thick.”
“But this is for Mother’s Day,” I pointed out.
“Well, we’ll just have to make open-face sandwiches and put on an extra layer of peanut butter.”
“What’s for dessert?” Jarom wanted to know, as Jared and Alma started digging out gobs of peanut butter and spreading it on the bread.
“Yeah,” I said, “we have to have dessert, especially on Mother’s Day.”
Jarom ran to the pantry and came back with two cans of applesauce.
Alma looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Looks good to me.”
“I want banana slices in it,” I said.
“And I want marshmallows in it,” Jarom insisted.
“All right,” Alma agreed, “but hurry!”
I dumped the applesauce into a bowl, then took two bananas and cut them up, dropping the chunks into the applesauce. I dumped half a bag of little marshmallows into it, too, then ran to get a spoon. When I got back, Jared was already stirring everything with his hands.
“Let’s set the table, now,” Alma called, putting the peanut butter sandwiches on the table. “Since this is such a special day, let’s use paper plates and cups and plastic spoons so that Mom doesn’t have to do the dishes.”
“We could do the dishes,” I said.
“Then let’s use paper plates for sure,” Jarom mumbled. “Then nobody will have to do the dishes.”
Just as I finished putting the plastic spoons on the table, we heard Mom and Dad pull up in the car. “Let’s hide,” Alma whispered. “When they come in, we’ll jump out and yell ‘Happy Mother’s Day!’”
Jared hid behind the couch, Alma and Jarom hid in the closet, and I ran into the bathroom and lay in the tub. We heard the front door open and close and Mom say, “It surely sounds quiet. I wonder what the boys are doing.”
“Maybe they went over to the Cauleys,” Dad suggested.
When Mom headed for the kitchen, we all ran out screaming, “Happy Mother’s Day! Happy Mother’s Day!”
Mom jumped and Dad laughed and grabbed Jared and put him on his shoulder.
“Who fixed dinner?” Mom gasped, looking at the food on the table.
“We did,” Alma said, beaming.
“And it’s the best dinner ever,” Jarom said with a grin.
“Probably even better than dinner at a restaurant,” I bragged.
“I helped,” Jared shouted, wiggling out of Dad’s arms. “Let’s eat,” he added, pushing his high chair up to the table.
After we sat down, Alma exclaimed, “Oh, we forgot something!” He jumped down from his chair and ran into our bedroom. A few seconds later he dropped the money envelope onto the table—CLUNK!
Mom took one look inside and gasped, “Oh, you shouldn’t have. It’s all your money.”
“But it’s Mother’s Day,” I cried, “and nothing’s too good for you, Mom.”
“I’m hungry,” Jared shouted, banging on the high chair with his spoon. “Let’s say the blessing.”
“Was it a good Mother’s Day dinner?” Jarom asked when we were all finished.
Mom came around the table and gave us each a hug and a kiss. “That’s the very best Mother’s Day dinner that I’ve ever eaten,” she told us.

During the early part of those nine years, there was one Latter-day Saint family in Delhi, the Shortlefts, who worked in the U.S. Embassy. I traveled to Delhi for sacrament meeting in their home. In 1962, Elder Richard L. Evans (1906–71) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles visited us, and in 1964, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles came. I remember placing a garland on Elder Hinckley and handing over my pot of saved tithing, which I had been accumulating for many years.
Unfortunately, these moments of fellowship—though helpful—were infrequent, and while in India I was devoid of the constant fellowship of other Saints. This troubled my heart. As the years wore on, lonesomeness was taking a toll on me, and I saw no future for me in India. I longed to have the priesthood and live among the Saints.
When I felt it was time to be closer to the Saints, I discontinued my law course and immigrated to Canada. When I landed in Edmonton, Alberta, I went to the nearest ward. I met Bishop Harry Smith and immediately felt a sense of belonging and fellowship in that ward. I visited the Cardston Alberta Temple, even though I could not receive my endowment yet.
I wanted to visit Salt Lake City and surprise my good friends Elder Kimball and Brother Lamar Williams. Finally, in the spring of 1969, eight years after my baptism, I visited Salt Lake City and met with Elder Kimball. He was delighted and spent the rest of the day with me.
While in Salt Lake City, I went to a salon for a haircut. I shared my testimony with the barber, who was a convert himself. One gentleman, waiting for his turn, overheard me and told me about his travels to India. He paid for my haircut, invited me to dinner, and drove me to Brigham Young University. I was impressed by the campus. I mentioned that I wanted to continue my studies here but could not afford it. The man offered to pay $1,000 for my tuition. I was surprised and immensely grateful.
Brother Dipty (left) with Paul Trithuvadass, another pioneer Church member from India, on Temple Square in Salt Lake City.
I joined the social work program at BYU. In 1972, after graduating from BYU, I moved to Salt Lake City to pursue a master’s degree from the University of Utah. Later I moved to California, USA, where I earned a PhD in clinical psychology, taught courses on how to stop domestic violence, and authored a book. I am now retired and live with my wife, Wendy, in Nevada, USA.
There was a time when I went through much personal strife, challenges, and tribulations. My focus on the gospel and the blessings of the temple helped me overcome many of life’s challenges.
I often look back at my journey from being a “jungle boy” in rural India to being where I am today and know that my life and faith are truly miracles. The Lord’s embroidery of my life is more beautiful than I ever expected. How wonderful it was to have the Lord’s anointed prophet Spencer W. Kimball school me and walk with me at key times in my life’s journey.
I often think back to my time with President Kimball. He would invite me to his family camping trips, picnics, and Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Even then I knew that he truly was an Apostle and prophet of the Lord Jesus Christ.
I met President Kimball one last time while he was very ill. But he still smiled at me and hugged me. He was my first LDS contact, and I knew he would never let go of me.
I am thankful to God for our prophets and the restored gospel. Our Church is the divine model the world needs today. Because of the Church I was able to gain an education and grow as a person. I am grateful for that day when I knew prayer was real and that I was willing to listen to the still, small voice and investigate the Church. I am grateful that I allowed the Lord to shape my life. I know that if we seek His kingdom, everything else will be added to us (see Matthew 6:33).

It was a Christmas when my three older sisters were 12, 10, and 7 just after my father, a young engineer, had accepted a transfer from Schenectady, New York, to Los Angeles, California. On Christmas Eve, my mother made preparations for the traditional Christmas dinner the next afternoon. My sisters took turns trying to keep me and my three-year-old brother from playing baseball with the shining Christmas tree ornaments. Mother found time to tend our new baby sister.
Amid the bustle of the Christmas Eve excitement, my father was preoccupied. His thoughts kept returning to the used bicycle hidden carefully in the garage rafters. Next to it lay the boxes holding two brand-new, shining black, matching three-speed bikes which he had purchased for my two older sisters. The budget strains of Christmas had prevented Dad from buying a third black three-speed for Leanne. Instead, he set about restoring the old single-speed, fat-tired bike the older two no longer rode. Scouring pads and elbow grease made the rusty spokes shine. The inner tubes were patched, and a new coat of paint erased the battle scars of collisions and neglect. A replacement set of handgrips made the handlebars look almost new.
My father realized Leanne would probably recognize the old war horse, but he was sure she could be happy just having her own bike. And in a year or two, when she outgrew this one, he would be able to buy her a brand-new one. Leanne had already received a big share of hand-me-downs from her older sisters. Many of her clothes, toys, and books had been previously used.
This Christmas Eve, as my mother tucked all of us in bed, Dad commenced his marathon toy and bicycle assembly projects. When he finished the new, black bicycles, he placed them side by side near the Christmas tree. He then carefully rolled out and placed the rejuvenated old bike next to the new ones. The stark contrast of the old half-sized, blue, thick-tubed bike against the sleek, black beauties made the revamped two-wheeler suddenly look small and old-fashioned. Dad reconsidered. Had he made a mistake in trying to redo the old bike for Leanne? Would she feel slighted? Leanne was too young to understand the economics of family finances, but she would be quick to spot this injustice perpetrated by Santa Claus: new bikes for her sisters, the old war horse for her.
A gradual panic swept over Dad as he realized he’d slipped up. Better run to the store and buy a matching bike, quick! But on Christmas Eve? It was already 11:30 P.M., and the stores would probably be closed. A few hurried telephone calls confirmed the worst. Everything was closed.
My grandmother, who was visiting for the holidays, tried to comfort Dad. “Don’t worry, Ray. She’ll love the bike. You’ve made it look just like new.”
Dad was not comforted. He kept imagining the disappointed look on Leanne’s face as she recognized the old hand-me-down. Though it was very late when he finished the last stocking and exhausted as he was from his assembly projects, Dad did not sleep well that night.
Early Christmas morning, we were poised in our annual positions in the hall—all in a row, youngest to the oldest. It was still dark outside, but we were already hopping with that special excitement of children on Christmas morning. Dad was in the living room making the movie camera and lights ready to record our grand entrance. Finally he yelled, “Okay, come on in,” and we blazed through the doorway like a shot. In a matter of minutes, the beautiful array of packages and ornaments was transformed into a mountain of strewn boxes, wrappings, and ribbons. My older sisters spotted their black beauties, gave them the once over with due praise and admiration, and moved on to the Christmas tree to locate more presents. Amid the chaos and clutter, Leanne stood firmly next to the old blue bike. She was touching every part and talking aloud, “Look, it has new grips and new paint! A brand-new seat! Just look at those pedals, and it’s my very own, my very own bike.”
Leanne didn’t seem to notice there were other presents for her under the tree. She stayed near the bike and repeated the same speech several times, though no one was listening, no one, that is, except my father. He stood silently on the other side of the room, oblivious to the rest of the children, the movie camera held low at his side, listening to Leanne. Tears of joy streamed down his face as he witnessed this perfect acceptance of his imperfect gift.
It has been a long time since the black beauties were worn out and discarded. Even the old war horse was sent to the glue factory years ago. But the image of my father’s tear-streaked face on Christmas Day reminds me still of the warmth of a Christmas gift well given and well received.

At times the need for mercy can be found close to home and in simple settings. We have a four-year-old grandson named Jeffrey. One day his fifteen-year-old brother, Alan, had just completed, on the family computer, a most difficult and rather ingenious design of an entire city. When Alan slipped out of the room for just a moment, little Jeffrey approached the computer and accidentally erased the program. Upon his return, Alan was furious when he observed what his brother had done. Sensing that his doom was at hand, Jeffrey raised his finger and, pointing it toward Alan, declared from his heart and soul, “Remember, Alan, Jesus said, ‘Don’t hurt little boys.’” Alan began to laugh; anger subsided; mercy prevailed.

As a young boy, George Albert Smith was very ill with typhoid fever, a disease that killed many people at that time. The doctor advised his mother to give him coffee to drink, but George refused it. Instead, he asked for a priesthood blessing from their ward (home) teacher. The next morning, when the doctor arrived, he found George Albert in the yard, playing. “I was grateful to the Lord for my recovery,” he said. “I was sure that He had healed me.”

In 2011, while I was serving with my husband as mission leaders in beautiful Curitiba, Brazil, my phone rang during a meeting. Rushing to silence it, I noticed the call was from my father. I quickly left the meeting to answer: “Hi, Dad!”
Unexpectedly, his voice was filled with emotion: “Hi, Bonnie. I need to tell you something. I’ve been diagnosed with ALS.”
My mind swirled with confusion, “Wait! What is ALS?”
Dad was already explaining, “My mind will stay alert while my body slowly shuts down.”
I felt my whole world shift as I began to wrestle with the implications of this grievous news. But on that unforgettable day, it was his last sentence that found a permanent place in my heart. My dear father said with urgency, “Bonnie, never give up an opportunity to testify of Christ.”
I have pondered and prayed over Dad’s counsel. I have often asked myself if I fully know what it means to never give up an opportunity to testify of Jesus Christ.
Like you, I have occasionally stood on the first Sunday of the month and borne a witness of Christ. Many times I have testified of gospel truths as part of a lesson. I have boldly taught truth and declared the divinity of Christ as a missionary.
Yet this plea felt more personal! It seemed as though he was saying, “Bonnie, don’t let the world overtake you! Stay true to your covenants with the Savior. Seek to experience His blessings every day, and be able to testify through the Holy Ghost of His power and presence in your life!”
We live in a fallen world, with distractions coaxing our eyes and hearts downward instead of heavenward. Much like the Nephites in 3 Nephi 11, we need Jesus Christ. Can you imagine yourself there, among people who had experienced so much chaos and destruction? What would it be like to hear the Lord’s personal invitation:
“Arise and come forth unto me, that ye may thrust your hands into my side, and also that ye may feel the prints of the nails in my hands and in my feet, that ye may know that I am … the God of the whole earth, and have been slain for the sins of the world.
“And … the multitude went forth … one by one … and did see with their eyes and did feel with their hands, and did know … and had witnessed for themselves.”
These Nephites eagerly went forward to thrust their hands into His side and feel the prints of the nails in His hands and feet so they could witness for themselves that this was the Christ. Similarly, many faithful people we have studied in the New Testament this year had anxiously awaited Christ’s coming. Then they stepped from their fields, workbenches, and dinner tables and followed Him, pressed upon Him, thronged Him, and sat with Him. Are we as anxious to witness for ourselves as the multitudes in the scriptures? Are the blessings we seek less needful than theirs?
When Christ physically visited the Nephites at their temple, His invitation was not to stand at a distance and look upon Him, but to touch Him, to feel for themselves the reality of the Savior of humankind. How can we draw close enough to gain a personal witness of Jesus Christ? This may be part of what my father was trying to teach me. While we may not enjoy the same physical proximity as those who walked with Christ during His earthly ministry, through the Holy Ghost we can experience His power every day! As much as we need!
The young women around the world have taught me so much about seeking Christ and gaining a daily, personal witness of Him. Let me share the wisdom of two of them:
Livvy has watched general conference her entire life. In fact, in her home they traditionally watch all five sessions as a family. In the past, conference for Livvy had meant doodling or drifting into the occasional unintended nap. But this past October general conference was different. It became personal.
This time, Livvy decided to be an active recipient. She silenced notifications on her phone and took notes of impressions from the Spirit. She was amazed as she felt specific things God wanted her to hear and do. This decision made a difference in her life almost immediately.
Just days later her friends invited her to an inappropriate movie. She reflected, “I felt the words and spirit of conference return into my heart, and I heard myself declining their invitation.” She also had the courage to share her testimony of the Savior in her ward.
After these events she stated, “The amazing thing is, when I heard myself testify that Jesus is the Christ, I felt the Holy Ghost confirm it again for me.”
Livvy did not skip like a stone over the surface of conference weekend; she dove in, mind and spirit, and found the Savior there.
And then there is Maddy. When her family stopped attending church, Maddy was confused and not certain what to do. She realized something significant was missing. So at age 13, Maddy began attending church alone. Even though being alone was sometimes hard and uncomfortable, she knew she could find the Savior at church and she wanted to be where He was. She said, “In church my soul felt like it was at home.”
Maddy held onto the fact that her family had been sealed together for eternity. She started bringing her younger brothers with her to church and studying scriptures with them at home. Eventually her mom began joining them. Maddy told her mom of her desire to serve a mission and asked if her mom could be ready to attend the temple with her.
Today Maddy is in the MTC. She is serving. She is witnessing of Christ. Her example helped lead both of her parents back to the temple and back to Christ.
Like Livvy and Maddy, as we choose to seek Christ, the Spirit will witness of Him in many different situations. These witnesses of the Spirit occur as we fast, pray, wait, and continue forward. Our closeness to Christ grows through worshipping frequently in the temple, repenting daily, studying scriptures, attending church and seminary, pondering our patriarchal blessings, worthily receiving ordinances, and honoring sacred covenants. All of these invite the Spirit to enlighten our minds, and they bring added peace and protection. But do we honor them as sacred opportunities to testify of Christ?
I have attended the temple many times, but when I worship in the house of the Lord, it changes me. Sometimes while fasting, I find myself simply going hungry, but other times, I feast on the Spirit with purpose. I sometimes have mumbled prayers that are repetitive and routine, but I have also come eager to receive counsel from the Lord through prayer.
There is power in making these holy habits less of a checklist and more of a witness. The process will be gradual but will grow with daily, active participation and purposeful experiences with Christ. As we consistently act on His teaching, we gain a testimony of Him; we build a relationship with Him and our Heavenly Father. We begin to become like Them.
The adversary creates so much noise that it can be difficult to hear the Lord’s voice. Our world, our challenges, our circumstances will not get quieter, but we can and must hunger and thirst after the things of Christ to “hear Him” with clarity. We want to create muscle memory of discipleship and testimony that will bring into focus our reliance on our Savior each day.
My father has been gone for over 11 years now, but his words are alive in me. “Bonnie, never give up an opportunity to testify of Christ.” I invite you to join me in accepting his invitation. Look for Christ everywhere?I promise He is there! True joy rests on our willingness to come closer to Christ and witness for ourselves.
We know that in the last days, “every knee shall bow, and every tongue confess” that Jesus is the Christ. I pray this witness will become a normal and natural experience for us now—that we will take every opportunity to joyfully testify: Jesus Christ lives!
Oh, how I love Him. How grateful we are for His infinite Atonement, which has “made eternal life a possibility and immortality a reality for [us] all.” I testify of our Savior’s goodness and great glory in His sacred name, even Jesus Christ, amen.

Illustrations by Katie McDee
What a great Easter Sunday! But you know what would make it even better?
Chocolate!
Not until after lunch.
We made a new friend at church today!
His name’s Theo.
He’s really cool!
I think he’s home alone right now. His dad had to go to work.
I think Jesus would want us to invite him to come here.
Can we invite him? Please?
We have plenty of food!
That’s a great idea. Let me call his dad.
Happy Easter, Theo!

When I was about 10, my older brother had a serious health problem. The blood in his hands was not circulating properly, and they hurt very badly. At that time, my family lived in a small town on the border of Brazil and Argentina. The medical facilities there were not very good, so my mother and my brother traveled to the big city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, to see the doctor. Because my father had to work during the day, my baby brother had to stay with another family. So every day I went to visit him. And every day I prayed for my older brother.
The doctors told my mother they needed to amputate (cut off) my brother’s hands. Mother refused. “No, I know the Lord will take care of my son,” she said. One night after my mother and brother had returned home, he was in great pain. I shared a room with him, and I remember him crying because his hands hurt so much. While he cried, Mother knelt by his bed, praying. The next morning, I saw him sleeping peacefully. Mother was also asleep, still kneeling at his bedside. We were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but Mother had great faith. Eventually my brother’s hands did get better. He lost the tips of some of his fingers, but he did not have to have his hands amputated.
Mother also had great courage. And she taught us to be of good cheer. She told my brother that even though he had lost part of some fingers, he still had everything else. So my brother did not get discouraged. His first job was as a typist. Today he is an attorney.