Gospel Story Finder

My friends and I could hardly wait for the weekend to come so we could hit the ski slopes. We were 15 years old at the time and all good skiers.
One Saturday, we had been skiing for about half the day on some pretty steep slopes. The weather was crisp. The sky was blue. All around us there was beauty, and we were having fun on the ski jumps.
As we were coming down one of the jumps, my friend Chris slipped and fell on one of his skis. His bindings popped out, and he took a hard fall. Chris took off his glove, and we were both alarmed to see blood dripping from his arm. As Chris rolled up his sleeve, I could see that he was badly cut. I asked for one of our friends to find the ski patrol.
I helped Chris take off his sweater and removed my cotton shirt with long sleeves and made a tourniquet above the deep cut. At the same time I was prompted by the Holy Ghost to have Chris hold his arm up above his head.
The ski patrol finally arrived, but they did not know that Chris had cut a main artery in his arm because the tourniquet was so well placed that it had stopped the bleeding.
Chris was rushed to the hospital. When the doctors discovered the damage to the main artery, they said Chris would have bled to death if the tourniquet had not been placed on his arm the right way and his arm held above his head.
The accident had happened fast, so I had to act quickly. I told Chris that I had been prompted by the Spirit to do the right thing. I later realized I had also followed instructions from my first-aid training as an Eagle Scout.
That evening Chris’s parents called my home and thanked me for saving their son’s life. I hope to always remember to listen to the still, small voice that directed me at that crucial time.

One experience that helped me learn this lesson took place when Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles visited our mission, together with the three other missions in Santiago. There were over 1,000 missionaries gathered in our chapel where my husband had been asked to conduct the meeting. Elder Holland entered the chapel, took the seat next to my husband, leaned over to us, and said, “Okay, here’s what we are going to do. Sister Wright, you will speak first and represent all of the mission presidents’ wives here. Then President Wright will follow.”
I honestly didn’t hear the rest of the agenda. It had never occurred to me that Elder Holland would ask me to speak, so I had made no preparations. I prefer time to prepare to speak, time to gather my thoughts a little at least, but I would be speaking immediately after the opening hymn and prayer.
As my thoughts began to swirl, I felt the sudden desire to share my message in Spanish. However, though we were a year into the mission, and I had worked very hard to learn Spanish, I was still struggling with the language, and I was definitely not fluent in it. The translator was available to me if I spoke in English, but this was a Spanish-speaking mission, and I really wanted to speak in Spanish. Speaking would be a hard thing for me to do in English; speaking in Spanish felt like a giant leap. So amid the sound of 1,000 missionaries singing “Called to Serve” (Hymns, 249), I took a deep breath, confessed my inadequacies to my Father in Heaven, and pled for help to be rescued by the Spirit.
I told Heavenly Father that I had no idea what to say or how to say it in Spanish, but I promised Him that I would open my mouth and do my best, having faith that He would fill it (see Moses 6:32). In that moment, I felt a peaceful assurance come over me. After the prayer I rose to the pulpit and began to speak. Words I had pondered before came back in that needed moment, even in the foreign language I was struggling to communicate in. I sat down after my short three-minute talk, still feeling at peace but unsure about how effectively I had communicated.
After the meeting, the brother who had translated for Elder Holland approached me and said, “Sister Wright, I had no idea you spoke Spanish so well!” I replied, “I don’t.” He assured me that I hadn’t made any mistakes.
I am sure that none of those missionaries remembers anything about my short message that day. But for me it was a life-changing experience. I learned to put my trust in Heavenly Father and the Savior, that They could and would strengthen me despite my weaknesses when I was willing to take a leap of faith. If I had chosen the safe route and used the translator, I might never have learned how They rescue us when we open ourselves to letting God prevail.2

“Oh no, not again,” I thought, as I saw the familiar face walking toward me in the hallway of my college dorm. “What this time?”
Angela [names have been changed] had accosted me in the hallway before, and each time I talked to her she left my stomach tied up in knots. I had been investigating The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for a month, and Angela had taken it upon herself to prove that I was making a big mistake.
Angela invited me to her dorm room for a talk, and I accepted warily, knowing from past experience that she would not leave me alone until I’d heard what she had to say.
“How are you feeling about the Mormons at this point?” she asked me, as I sat on her bed, folding my arms defensively.
“Fine. Actually I think what they believe is quite beautiful. I haven’t decided if I believe it yet …”
“Beautiful?” Angela choked on the word, her face turning red. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go on. Not after what I’ve found out about the Mormon religion.”
She handed me a pamphlet filled with lies and twisted truths about the Church. “Read this,” she confided, “and you’ll never want to talk to those missionaries again.”
I read it and the other things well-meaning people gave me to try to show me “the truth” about the Church. I always ended up feeling confused and sick to my stomach. How could I ever know what was right? The missionaries seemed so peaceful about what they believed. Yet Angela was convinced they were wrong. How could I find my own testimony of what was true? And why did there seem to be silence from the heavens when I prayed about my questions?
I believed the missionaries instead of the clever words of those who opposed the Church. Then I acted upon that belief. I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When I rose up out of the waters of baptism, a warm feeling of peace enveloped me. I knew the Holy Ghost was telling me that what I was doing was good. I had found the truth. Even though I faced much opposition from my parents and friends, I was able to stand strong because of the testimony I had received from obeying the commandments of God.

“Pizza face!”
I winced and sunk down into the bus seat, trying to disappear. The 20-minute ride home from school every day was pure torture for me. Lance and Sean always took the seat right behind me, and thought up as many names for me as they could. My face, full of acne since the fifth grade, provided them with such entertainment that they acted like I should be proud to receive so much verbal creativity.
I would run home from the bus stop, sit in the corner of my room with a blanket over my head, and cry. This experience was detrimental to a young girl’s self-esteem, but after a few months the boys moved on to some other poor soul with a visible affliction.
My self-esteem seemed to recover at the same rate my acne cleared—slowly. By high school a pimple was rare for me. On the other hand, both Lance and Sean, whom I still avoided, had acne problems of their own. They were much more withdrawn and had few friends.
“Serves them right,” I would think. “Now they’ve got exactly what they made fun of me for.” I felt inclined, even entitled, to some revenge of my own.
My chance came one day when Sean and I were alone in a large school hallway. He didn’t see me walking his way, and when I judged he was close enough for maximum damage, I said in a most disgusted way, “Pizza face!”
He winced, hung his head, and quickened his pace. As I watched him fleeing my torment, looking so alone in the huge hallway, I was astonished at what I felt. I had expected to feel triumphant. Instead I felt guilty and small.
Revenge had seemed like the clear answer for me, but standing there in the hall, I realized that revenge was empty. I felt worse than I’d ever felt in my life. I wanted to apologize. I learned my lesson that day: revenge is not the way to heal your inner injuries.

SRI LANKA—Manoj Kumar Perera met a man that would change his life forever. Was it a coincidence or providence?

Tourists love to see the sites of beautiful Sri Lanka such as religious monuments, elephant orphanages, beautiful landscapes and safaris. Kumar is in the travel business, scheduling trips for tourists and business travelers alike. Some of these trips he personally chauffeurs and has opportunities to meet a variety of people.

In 2013, Kumar had just finished a tour at a hotel by Crescat shopping mall in Colombo, Sri Lanka. He noticed a gentleman standing there waiting and asked if he needed a ride somewhere. The man said “yes, if you can help me.” The man told him it was his first time to Sri Lanka. His name was David Berrett, president of the India Bengaluru Mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Minutes later Kumar dropped him at the church. President Berrett seemed surprised how easily he navigated so he asked for Kumar’s phone number before they parted ways.

Two minutes later, President Berrett called Kumar and asked if he could pick up his wife at the same hotel and bring her to the church. Again, impressed with his services, he decided to make Kumar his regular Sri Lanka driver. Over time, President and Sister Berrett became good friends with Kumar and his family.

After a while, and as his schedule permitted, Kumar decided to attend church at the local branch. Seeing something different and good there he decided it would be good for his children. They enjoyed it and a few months later were baptized members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Unfortunately, all such carefree adventures soon came to an end when our paying passengers arrived from the United States for the scheduled raft trip. We had to disappoint them because a serious drought had made the raft expedition impossible. Instead, we decided to motor up the Cuyuni (Ku-you-knee) and Chicunan (chee-kuu-non) rivers in a 30-foot dugout canoe, hike over a mountain range, and then float down the Carrao River past Angel Falls, the highest falls in the world.
As we motored up into the jungle, dragging the heavy canoe bodily upstream over rocky rapids, I prayed for protection from rocks, electric eels, and piranhas. The river got lower and lower. Soon we had to get out and push, pull, and dig for clearance in the sand as we waded through the dark, infested waters from deep pool to deep pool. The going was so slow that we began to wonder if we would make it. The scenery, however, was beautiful, and we saw an incredible array of wildlife—everything from capuchino monkeys to caimens (a kind of crocodile) to orange-breasted falcons to giant click beetles—and a whole army of other jungle citizens of the feathered, furry, and scaly kinds.
All the hard going put us two days behind schedule. Worse, in the process of pulling, pushing, and straining the canoe up the almost dry river, I tore a major muscle in my back. The pain was almost unbearable. We finally made it to the crossing, a mountain range covered with jungle. Everyone had his own load to carry, so I had to carry my own 80- to 90-pound load. I couldn’t take any pain killers or I could never have gotten over the range. So I hung in the back of the group and cried with pain the first day. The next morning I got up earlier than anyone else and had Terry help me on with my pack. All alone I marched up the small creek bed we were using as a trail. The pain was the worst I’ve ever experienced. I sang hymns to myself and prayed the whole way up. I was in such pain that I couldn’t stop to take my pack off or bend over or anything. So I trudged on. Shortly my prayers were answered. My back became numb. My leg stopped bleeding, and before I knew it I was over the mountain, lying on the river beach. I know that my Heavenly Father eased the pain and lifted me with energy to march up over that hot, steep, 2,000-foot mountain with seeming ease and comfort. The rest of the trip the passengers, all non-Mormon, called me Moses as I hobbled around with the help of a large wooden staff. They asked why I didn’t drink coffee or rum, and that gave me a chance to tell them about the Church.

Several months ago we were having family scripture study. My two-year-old grandson was sitting on my lap as we read. I was in full-blown grandma mode, relishing the visit of my son’s family.

With our scripture study complete, I closed my book. My grandson knew that it would soon be bedtime. He looked up with his eager blue eyes and spoke an eternal truth: “More scriptures, Nana.”

My son, a good and consistent parent, warned me, “Mom, don’t be a weak link. He is just trying to get out of going to bed.”

But when my grandson asks for more scriptures, we read more scriptures! More scriptures enlighten our minds, nourish our spirits, answer our questions, increase our trust in the Lord, and help us center our lives on Him. “Remember to search them diligently, that ye may profit thereby.”3

Lindsey Walch and Carson Evers, two 17-year-olds from the Santa Cruz California Stake, had to decide what the Sabbath meant to them. When challenges came, they made their decision and found greater understanding and peace.
Lindsey has played competitive soccer since she was nine years old. She enjoyed playing at a high level of competition, but at one point she felt she needed a break, so she entered a lower-level league. Eventually, however, she began craving a challenge again, so she tried out for a team at a higher level that played on Sunday.
“While I was trying out, my dad told me, ‘You really have to think about this right now,’” she says. “So I was thinking about it.” She recognized how the decision to play on Sunday could affect her spirituality. “I knew that I wanted the Church to come first. So I decided that it was really the best thing for me to not play on Sundays.”
The decision was difficult because she loves her sport, and like most good athletes, she loves to play with the best in order to stretch herself. In addition, the higher the level you play at, the more likely you are to play in college.
“I was talking to the coach,” she says, “and he said that I would have to play on Sundays. I told him that I couldn’t play on the team, and it was really hard for me because I wanted to play at that higher level. And I just felt really bad.”
A few weeks later one of Lindsey’s friends told her about a high-level team she played on whose coach was more flexible. “I went and talked to him about it,” she says, “and he said that I could just play on Saturdays.”
Lindsey says that keeping the Sabbath day holy makes a huge difference in her life. “This is a day that Heavenly Father wants us to keep separate, to keep for Him,” she says. “I think it calms you down. If I have one day just to rest, it really helps me out.”
And there are other blessings. “It’s nice just to think,” she says, “because sometimes you don’t have time to really think about what’s going on in your life and what all the stress is and everything. You don’t really have time to think about Jesus Christ because you’re so worried about other things that are going on right now. I think Sunday really helps me with that.”
When she was 15, she used her time on Sunday to work on goals for her Personal Progress. “Every Sunday I would do two or three of the goals,” she says. “I was able to get done with it a lot faster, and it actually worked out really well.” In this way, she met her goal of receiving her Young Womanhood Recognition medallion.
Now that she has earned her award, she continues to use her Sabbath day to draw closer to Heavenly Father by attending church, reading scriptures, being with her family, and resting from school, soccer, and stress.

I began school again and started dating. I could see that I was progressing, but I felt that I would always view my mission with a little bitterness. Then a friend of mine reminded me that the Savior’s Atonement can heal all pain and bitterness. With His help I could be happy when thinking about my mission.
I knelt down and prayed to my Heavenly Father. I told Him about my pain and my efforts to be healed and comforted. I asked if He would take away the bitterness I felt. After my prayer, the Lord opened my eyes to see my mission from His perspective. Both my service and early return were a part of the Lord’s plan to help make me into who He wanted me to be. I could see the miracles that He had provided since I came home. It has been a hard path, but now I can look back on my early return home with peace, knowing that God has my best interests at heart.

After my parents were divorced, it was a hard time in my life. Going to church usually made me feel better, but it hurt me to hear talks on families because I didn’t believe I had one.
My mother was less active and remarried. My father was an atheist and lived with another woman. Both of them had children with their new partners, and I felt like a weight—an error—as if I didn’t count for anything.
So I began to pray, read the scriptures, meditate, and tried to keep going to church. But I couldn’t help but wonder: What would I do in the next life without my family sealed in the temple?
The answers didn’t come right away, but they did come. I looked up the definition of family and read scripture verses on the subject, and I started seeing the brighter side of things. Instead of thinking that I didn’t have a family, I learned that I could help bring God’s children into the Church as a missionary. I learned to exercise patience and to be a light. I tried to better myself. I also realized that without a family like mine, I may not have developed the faith that I have, and I wouldn’t value the law of chastity and the plan of salvation as I do now.
I’ve come to understand that I do have a family, and I am thankful for my new and larger family. It has been hard, but I don’t worry about what will happen to my family after death. I trust in God, and He knows why we aren’t sealed. He knows how much I love them and what’s best for me. We can’t understand everything, so it’s important to have faith in God to sustain us and help us know that everything will turn out OK.

When I was 15 years old I was in one of those Connecticut blizzards. I walked four miles through a wood into the open country, and I sought some place where I could hide from the storm and rest. There was but one house within a mile of me—that was the poor house [a place for needy and homeless people], which was about twenty-five rods* away. The man was moved upon to go up in his garret [attic] to get some pennyroyal [herbal medicine] to give to a sick woman, and he felt led to look out of the window. He saw me crawling into the hollow of a big tree. He knew what the result of that would be better than I did. He took his horse and sleigh and came to me, and when he got there I was asleep, and he preserved my life.

It was late November, and I was in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in a place called Desolation Valley. After a five-mile hike, my three friends, my dad and brother, and I arrived in camp around 4:00 P.M. The sun was slowly beginning to fall. The air was bitter cold to all of us, so we immediately went to bed.
I’m still not sure why, but at 1:00 A.M. we all woke up. Not long after, we heard a worried yell in the distance. The yell came repeatedly, moving closer until a panicked-looking man appeared. Two women in his party were lost when they became separated on their descent down Pyramid Peak, about three miles from our camp.
We had seen a few people that day, but none matched the women’s description. We all knew how cold it was and that dehydration, hypothermia, hunger, and fear probably prevented the women from making it back.
I had earned my orienteering merit badge, and I was also a lifeguard, so my first aid was up to date. Despite the time of night, we were willing and able to look for these women.
We put together a search plan, and the man said he thought we should go southwest to get around a huge ridge that would allow us to go up the south side of the ridge. The Spirit whispered to me at that point that we needed to go over the ridge. But I decided to just go along with the man’s plan.
As we moved along this ridge, I again felt impressed that we should go over the ridge. This time I told our group that we needed to go up. The man knew he couldn’t make it, so we told him to stay behind as we continued. I wasn’t tired as we reached the ridge’s summit, which I found odd considering what time it was and that we were at around 8,000 feet.
During a short rest, I again felt the Spirit whisper to me to pray for guidance. My brother and my friend Brent readily agreed, and I offered a prayer. I felt sure Heavenly Father would respond.
As soon as the prayer concluded, we looked at each other and confidently began our search. But it wasn’t that simple. Perhaps we were relying too much on our own abilities rather than on the Lord. So we prayed again. This time Brent pleaded on behalf of these women that we might be tools in Heavenly Father’s hands to find and bring them back safely.
Again we stood, knowing exactly where we needed to go. Before long, we heard whistles blowing. We knew we were close.
I still remember the look of pure joy on the women’s faces when we found them three hours after our search began. They held each other and shed a few tears. I can’t put into words the joy I felt when I realized the experience I had been blessed with. My testimony of prayer has increased tremendously, and I have come to know that I have a Father in Heaven who loves us beyond comprehension.

When I was growing up, my father kept a cow to provide milk for the family. When my father decided I was old enough, it became my job to milk the cow. Every morning and night I would go out carrying two buckets—an empty one for the milk and one with some grain. The grain was supposed to keep the cow busy while I milked her, but I could never milk as fast as the cow could eat the grain.
I remember one cow in particular who didn’t like me at all. She always seemed to know when the milk bucket was almost full, and at that moment she would kick the bucket over and run off. She destroyed all of my hard work in a flash. With my hands aching and my eyes burning with tears of frustration, I would return to the house with an empty bucket.
One day, Dad came to my rescue. He put a rope around the cow’s leg and tied it tight to a post so she couldn’t kick or run away. At first she fought against the rope, but after a while I didn’t even need to tie her leg to the post. I could just throw the rope on the ground by her back feet, and she would stand quietly until I picked up the rope and let her go.
I learned a great lesson from this. If we keep the commandments when we are young, we will train ourselves to stay close to our Heavenly Father, just as the rope trained our cow to stay close to the post. Then when we have temptations or difficult times in our lives, we will automatically respond by choosing the right. Instead of feeling restricted, we will be thankful that God gave us commandments to keep us in the right place.

Ali smiled as she closed the last bright blue envelope. Her eighth birthday was next week! She had spent the whole morning making invitations for her birthday party.
“Ready to go?” Mom asked.
Ali nodded. They were taking an invitation to her friend Tiffany in the hospital.
“I think Tiffany will be glad to see you,” Mom said as she and Ali climbed into the car. “Her mom told me they had to shave off some of her hair for the surgery.”
Ali’s eyes got wide. “But school is starting soon! How can she go to school with no hair?”
“They didn’t shave off all her hair—just a little bit,” Mom said. “And taking care of our bodies is much more important than how we look.”
Ali ran her fingers through her own long hair. It almost reached her waist. “I feel sad for Tiffany.”
“That’s why we’re going to visit her,” Mom said. “It’s part of bearing one another’s burdens.”
Ali scrunched up her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
“It means helping others when they are going through a hard time,” Mom said. “It’s something you’ll promise to do when you get baptized.”
Ali smiled. Her baptism was coming up! “So I guess helping Tiffany feel better is one way I can practice doing that?” she said.
“Yeah,” said Mom. “That’s a great way to think of it.”
When they got to the hospital, Ali followed Mom to Tiffany’s room. They walked down a long hallway with brightly painted walls and open doors. Inside the rooms, Ali could see children resting in big white hospital beds. Some of them didn’t have any hair.
Finally they got to Tiffany’s room. Tiffany was happy to see Ali.
Ali saw that Tiffany had a bandage on the side of her head. “How are you feeling?” Ali asked.
“Pretty good,” Tiffany said. “The doctor says the surgery went great.”
“Yay! I’m so glad you’re OK,” Ali said.
Then Ali held out a bright blue birthday invitation. “When you’re feeling better, I hope you can come to my birthday party! And maybe you can even come to my baptism.”
Tiffany gave Ali a big hug. “Thank you!”
When it was time to go, Ali walked back down the hallway with Mom. Ali noticed a poster hanging on the wall. It had a picture of a girl holding a long ponytail of her hair. She was smiling. The top of the poster said, “Donate Your Hair for Wigs.”
“Mom,” Ali said. “Can I do that?” She pointed to the poster.
Mom turned to read it. “But Tiffany doesn’t need a wig.”
“I know,” said Ali. “But there are lots of kids at the hospital who do!”
Mom smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”
On the morning of Ali’s birthday party, Mom took Ali to get her hair cut. After lots of combing and snipping, Ali looked in the mirror. Now her hair reached just to her chin. She felt happy inside when she imagined a girl sitting in a hospital bed, putting on a wig made with some of Ali’s hair.
“How do you feel?” Mom asked.
“So happy that I made up a joke,” said Ali. “Want to hear it?”
Mom nodded.
“I’m getting a head start on my baptism promises!” Ali said with a laugh. She couldn’t wait to keep helping others bear their burdens.

There were no swimming pools in the small town of Vernal, Utah, where I spent most of my childhood, so we swam in irrigation canals. Some of them were deep and could be dangerous if you weren’t a fairly good swimmer.
Many of my friends were a little older than I was, and they knew how to swim. I did not. I didn’t want my friends to know that, though, so when I went with them, I made excuses and played around on the bank, or went to where the water was shallow and acted as if I was swimming. I was really just pushing on the bottom of the canal with my feet and dog-paddling with my hands, but I kept faking it, thinking nobody knew that I couldn’t swim. My dad knew, however, and one time he said to me, “I don’t mind your going with the boys to the canals, but I want you to promise me that you will never go into water that is over your head unless an adult is there and knows what you’re doing.”
That was a problem for me. I didn’t like his rule because it meant that I wasn’t always free to go with my friends. But I agreed to do what my father had asked.
One day several of my friends were planning to go to a canal I had never been to before. I asked them if it was deep, and they said, “Oh, yes, it’s a really good place to swim.” They told me it was a wider, deeper canal than most—forty feet or so across.
When I told them I couldn’t go, they wanted to know why, so I finally told them, “I promised my dad I wouldn’t swim in water that’s over my head, because I can’t swim very well.” That was the way I put it: “I can’t swim very well.” So we hunted around to see if we could find an adult, and my uncle, who lived next door and happened to be home, agreed to go there with us.
The first thing my friends did when we got there was swim to the other side. I still hadn’t told them I couldn’t swim, so I thought, Well, now is the time; I have to do it.
I got into the water and started across, and somehow—driven by panic more than anything else, just flailing my hands and feet in the water—I made it to the other side. But then my friends turned around and swam right back, leaving me alone on the bank.
I said to myself, I made it once; I guess I can do it again. And I started across. But by this time I was too tired, and the way I was “swimming” was wearing me out. I reached the middle of the canal and just couldn’t go any farther.
I went down. I don’t know how deep the water was there, but I remember seeing it get darker and darker as I sank deeper. I held my breath, and when my feet finally touched the bottom, I pushed off for the top. I was above the water just long enough to look around and see my uncle sitting over on the bank before I went down again.
When I came back up, I yelled to my uncle for help, then down I went again. I didn’t think to inhale when I got to the top and then exhale as I went down; I was trying to do both at once, and there wasn’t much time for it. When I came up again, I saw that my uncle had jumped into the water and was swimming after me. By the time he reached me, I was at the point where I thought I couldn’t do it anymore because I wasn’t getting enough air. My uncle was a powerful man, however, and he pulled me to shore. I lay there panting and gasping, but I was OK.
I have thought about that incident often since then. How grateful I am for a father who was wise enough to put safeguards around my life. I could have died that day by giving in to the pressure of my friends, but my dad had made a rule that there be an adult with me, and that rule saved my life. I learned to value obedience. Obedience is not just to please someone else—it is for our own good.

They split the ward, and I feel like part of me has been amputated. I still can’t believe this is happening. Things at home and at school have been so crazy lately, and now I have to face being in the new Tierra Bonita Ward instead of the Lancaster Third Ward.
Doesn’t the Lord know how hard this is going to be? Doesn’t he understand that all my friends will be in a different ward? I’ve grown up with them. I can’t imagine going to church and not being with them. How could anyone take their place? This just isn’t fair.
The new ward is so small. There are no girls my age, and no young men. I don’t know any of the people, and it’s not going to be easy to make new friends. I miss my ward and all my old friends already. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I wish things were back the way they were. I can’t handle this!
Two years ago today I wrote that entry in my journal. I remember how devastated I was when the ward split and I found myself in a ward full of strangers. I thought my life was over. I wanted God to intervene and change things back to the way they were, but he didn’t. And now I’m glad.
At the time, I was too upset to realize that the Lord wasn’t doing this to hurt me. He knows what’s best for me even if I can’t always see things his way. Now I’m really thankful that I’m in this ward. The leaders and teachers are wonderful and have helped me in many ways. What would I do without Diane, my Laurel adviser, and all the other young women? With them behind me, I know I can do anything. I was meant to be in this ward!
Most of all, I’ve grown to appreciate the Lord and the decisions his leaders make. Next time, I’ll have more faith in their judgment. Happy birthday, Tierra Bonita Ward!

A young boy was trying to smooth out the dirt area behind his house so he could play there with his cars. There was a large rock obstructing his work. The boy pushed and pulled with all his might, but no matter how hard he tried, the rock wouldn’t budge.
His father watched for a while, then came to his son and said, “You need to use all your strength to move a rock this large.”
The boy responded, “I have used all my strength!”
His father corrected him: “No you haven’t. You haven’t had my help yet!”
They then bent down together and moved the rock easily.

The smell of baking cookies filled the air as Nataniel helped Grandma scoop dough onto cookie sheets. Grandma smiled at him. “Who loves you?” she asked.
Nataniel thought about how Grandma always made his favorite kind of cookies and kept paper on hand because she knew he liked to draw. “You do,” he answered.
“That’s right,” Grandma said. “I’ve known you longer than anyone besides your mom and dad. But there’s someone else who has known you even longer than I have.”
“Who else?” Nataniel asked.
“Someone who loved you before you came to earth,” Grandma said.
“Oh,” Nataniel said. “You mean Heavenly Father.”
“Yes,” Grandma said, giving Nataniel a hug.
He smiled. Knowing he was loved made him feel warm inside.

A few years back I went through an especially dark season of my life. I faced many difficult challenges, and I felt depressed and overwhelmed by heavy burdens.
At church one Sunday, I looked around at all the happy families singing hymns and tasting of the love of God. I wanted to feel the same way, but something felt physically wrong with me.
I had felt the Spirit in the past, but I had been unable to for some time. As in Lehi’s vision of the tree of life, I felt as if I were completely surrounded by mists of darkness—I couldn’t even see the tree (see 1 Nephi 8:2–24).
When the sacrament prayers began, I closed my eyes and reached out to Heavenly Father, pleading for assurance of His love. I asked Him why I couldn’t taste of the fruit of the tree of life.
As I pondered Lehi’s dream, I had a piercing realization. “Why haven’t I remembered this before?” I thought. Traveling through mists of darkness is a completely normal part of God’s plan. He allows us to experience difficulties from time to time so that we can completely depend on Him and His Son. The key is to cling to the iron rod. I still saw myself in mists of darkness, but I had hope.
As this impression left my mind, I felt a sweet reassurance from the Holy Ghost that my trials would pass. The Spirit testified that Heavenly Father was there. I wiped the tears from my eyes, grateful that I had been able to feel the Spirit again.
I began to immerse myself in the scriptures. I still had many dark days, but I had faith that if I clung to the iron rod—the word of God (see 1 Nephi 11:25)—I would be freed from the mists of darkness. I’m not sure how long it took, but one day I could at last taste of God’s love again. It was like warm sunshine after a long winter.
As I have struggled off and on with life’s challenges, I have remembered my promise to cling tightly to the iron rod by studying the scriptures and the words of the prophets. I know that when the mists of darkness come, I have the tools necessary to see my way through them and the promise of a warm reception on the other side.

“I didn’t know what feeling the Spirit felt like until the start of this year,” said Tiago Pereira. “I was speaking to my dad, and he really helped me understand. We were just driving along, and my dad asked me if I had a testimony. At first I said, ‘Well, I’m not really sure.’ Then he asked me to describe the feelings I had when I felt the Spirit. As we were talking, I felt the Spirit again during our conversation. Both of us were crying by the end. It was good. From then on, it’s been easier to understand when I feel the Spirit.”