Gospel Story Finder

In 2011 my brother Anthony was called to serve in the India Bangalore Mission. I was twelve years old and I remember him telling us how hot it was and how the electricity would always go off and you just lie in bed in a puddle of your own sweat! He would always talk about the rats he would catch in his apartment too and how he would use a bucket to go to the toilet. It all seemed so foreign and different.

Seven years later I too was preparing to serve a mission. I remember the night my call letter came, and I had all the family gathered around. Everyone had made their guesses as to where I would go. We all thought that I for sure would go to Temple Square. When I actually read my call, I was absolutely shocked! I thought, “Do they know that I am a girl!?” I knew that there were girls serving in India when my brother was on a mission, but they were Indian girls! I had no idea that they sent foreign sisters there and I wondered if I was the first one? Later I learned that I am the first sister from Australia to serve in India.
Another shock was how soon they wanted me to be prepared and ready to leave. I had just eight weeks from the time I received my call to the time I had to report to the Provo MTC. I quickly applied for my overseas Indian citizenship. It normally takes 6-8 weeks or more to arrive which meant that it would have come on the day I was supposed to leave. I knew there was a reason I was to leave so soon so I just put my faith and trust in the Lord that everything would work out. I ended up getting my visa in just five weeks! That is just one of the miracles I saw as I prepared for my mission. It was a crazy whirlwind getting ready for my mission, but it was a testimony to me that the India New Delhi Mission was where I needed to be.
Before leaving Australia for India, I was blessed to participate in the sealing of my father’s family members in the Melbourne Australia temple. Although I did not know my grandmother very well, this made me feel closer to her. And now that I am here, I am coming to understand my father better. I see his friendliness and hospitality in the Indians I meet every day and have come to know that it is part of the culture.
I am so thankful to be able to experience the joy and growth that sharing the gospel I love brings to me and to others. I know that this is the Church of Jesus Christ, restored and established once again on the earth. I know that the Saviour lives and that his Atonement is real. I have been able to feel comfortable no matter where I am in the world as I know that I will always have the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost and always be able to feel of my Heavenly Father’s love for me.

Many years ago an associate of mine decided he would please his wife by sharing with her a specific compliment each night as he arrived home. One night he praised her cooking. A second night he thanked her for excellence in housekeeping. A third night he acknowledged her fine influence on the children. The fourth night, before he could speak, she said, “I know what you are doing. I thank you for it. But don’t say any of those things. Just tell me you think I am beautiful.”
She expressed an important need she had. Women ought to be praised for all the gifts they possess—including their attentiveness to their personal appearance—that so unselfishly add to the richness of the lives of others. We must not let ourselves go and become so casual—even sloppy—in our appearance that we distance ourselves from the beauty heaven has given us.

One day our Primary visited the São Paulo Brazil Temple. The gardens were more beautiful than any I had ever seen. We learned that through the covenants we make in the temple, we can live with our families for eternity. The president of the temple spoke to us in the waiting room, where we saw beautiful paintings. I had a very warm and happy feeling, and my mother told me it was the Holy Ghost testifying to me that what I was learning was true. I gained a testimony that the temple is the house of the Lord.
Renato B., age 8, Brazil
Renato and his family at his baptism

I am a member of the British Army based in West Germany. When I first arrived I found it hard being away from my family and home ward (the Catford Ward in London).
The nearest LDS chapel is 22 kilometers away, and it is only possible for me to attend when a member of the German-speaking ward in Celle can collect me and take me to the chapel. I don’t yet know how to speak German, but every Sunday a member translates for me.
I am grateful for the New Era, as I’ve only been a member for three years. When my brother Philip has finished with each month’s issue, he keeps it until I get home so I can take a stack when I return to Germany.
The New Era always strengthens me when I’m down and helps me keep the Spirit of the Lord close. Thanks for such a great magazine.
Allon William Shaftoe1st Armoured Field AmbulanceRoyal Army Medical Corps

Dinner at the Ferland’s was always a glorious affair—plates heaped with home-grown tomatoes, beans, and pickled beets, with lamb and potatoes browned together until the meat was tender and the vegetables sweet. In the wood-burning oven, an apple pie simmered. The room spoke of families and of love.
It was at such a dinner that father called his wife and children near. Christine noticed a happy mischief in his eyes, a spark of something that for too long had been distant.
“We have to make your mother happy,” he said, looking each teenager firmly in the eye. He let them guess what he was planning to do.
After a minute he said, “Whatever it takes, we’re going to the temple.”
Of course, saying and doing are two different things. But even when he wasn’t attending his meetings, Jean-Claude Ferland had never thought of himself as anything less than a Latter-day Saint. He was still friendly with people from the branch, still in contact with home teachers, still “active” in his heart. So when he decided to be involved, he gave full dedication.
Sunday meetings were not considered optional. Service projects, branch parties, cottage meetings, whatever was asked, the Ferlands would gladly participate. Callings were willingly accepted, instructions from the branch president explicitly heeded. Even tithing, which had been a struggle in the past, was now a privilege. Once, when it was paid twice by mistake, mother and father decided to “let the Lord keep it.”
Time passed quickly. In August 1986, interviews were held and recommends were signed. The dream was coming true.
Christine can see it still, every time she closes her eyes—the Washington D. C. Temple, its white spires bright against the woods. Inside, everything is calm and bright. People smile and share a great peace.
In a sacred room, maman and papa, dressed in white, kneel at the altar. Christine, Clément, and Marie Claude, also in white, kneel beside them. Hands are placed on hands, children and parents sealed. By the power of the priesthood they are given the promises of eternity.

But then my mind took me back to my first day of work nearly 40 years earlier. My father owned a bakery and baked bread that was distributed to many small markets in our city in southern Brazil. When I was a young child, I kept insisting that my father take me to work with him. One day he finally said yes!
My mother sewed a little white apron and a baker’s hat for me, and my dad and I went to the bakery. Together, we mixed and prepared dough, manually shaped the dough into loaves, and placed the loaves into the brick oven. When the bread finished baking, we used a long wooden paddle to carefully retrieve the bread. We waited for a few seconds, then we shared a loaf of the still-warm bread. It tasted wonderful!
Upon reflection, I decided that receiving an award at Cambridge was my second-best day of work. The best and happiest day at work was in a much more humble setting: a little bakery with no audience or standing ovation. It was just me and my dad. That day, he taught me to love and value work and helped me feel the joy of making something from scratch with my own hands. I learned that hard work is satisfying to both the body and the soul.
I can still hear the applause and the words of encouragement coming from that audience at the University of Cambridge, but more dear to me is the memory of my day at the bakery with my father and the smell of those loaves of bread as they came out of the oven.

Later that year we settled near the mine in Sudbury, Ontario. I remember lying awake one night after getting a letter from Sam. He wrote that his mom and he had let in a pair of Mormon missionaries that were knocking on doors enroute from Lethbridge to Cranbrook. Sam let them in because he knew a good LDS family, and he didn’t think it would hurt to learn more. He wrote that they were coming back on their return trip through town.
I fell asleep about then, thinking that our new house was quiet, peaceful, and that it was nice that my family was together under one roof. At that time, I was not afraid of anything, because I knew we’d pull through. We had before.
Something told me we were together forever.

Carly sat beneath a big tree in front of her house. She was so absorbed in the book she was reading that she didn’t even look up when the fire trucks flew by, their sirens howling. She was reading a book called The Adventures of Justine. Justine was the heroine of the book, and she was just about to save the day for at least the third time. This time she was singlehandedly stopping a stampede of wild horses.
Carly thought that Justine was brave and daring. No matter what the danger, Justine always found a way out of it, not just for herself but for everyone else too.
“Come on, Carly!” called her brother Sam. He was already on his bike, ready to tear down the street after the fire truck. “Don’t you know that there’s a fire down at the Johnson house? Hurry or you’ll miss it!”
“I’m busy,” she said.
Sam gave her an exasperated look and took off on his bike.
If I were Justine, I’d be down there, Carly thought, and I’d probably be rescuing people—if there are peopleto rescue. But I’m too young to do any real good. They’d never even let me close enough to do anything brave. If only I were as old as Justine and as daring and as beautiful!
She tried to go back to her book, but it was hard to concentrate. Down the street, people were coming out of their houses and flocking toward the Johnson house. “Maybe I should go,” she said, closing her book and standing up. Taking the book with her, she started down the street. She fell into step beside Mrs. Haskins, an elderly neighbor. Mrs. Haskins’ hair was white and her skin was wrinkled, but she surely didn’t act old! She went bowling every Tuesday night, and last winter she’d gone skiing in Colorado. She taught a writing class for children once a week, and she also found time to teach Primary. Carly liked her a lot.
“Ah, Carly,” the woman said, noticing her book. “Doing a little reading, I see. The Adventures of Justine. That ought to be exciting.”
“Oh, it is!” Carly exclaimed, almost forgetting about the fire. “Someday I’m going to be just like her. Someday I’ll be a heroine.”
“Someday can take a long time to get here,” Mrs. Haskins told her. “How long do you suppose it will take?”
“I don’t know. But I have to grow up first. Nobody would let a kid do the things that Justine does in this book. A kid wouldn’t be strong enough, anyway.” After thinking a moment, she added, “Or brave enough.”
“So you think that Justine is brave?”
“Oh yes, she’s brave. Do you know that she saved a whole schoolroom full of children from being swept away in a flood?”
“Pretty impressive. Do you suppose that she was afraid?”
“Not Justine. She isn’t afraid of anything.” They were at the fire now, and suddenly Carly realized just how horrible it was. It wasn’t anything like she imagined a fire would be.
The Johnsons were gathered on the sidewalk, most of them crying. Some of their neighbors were crying too. The house was charred, and the smell of smoke was everywhere. The firemen were racing here and there, not looking the least bit dashing or handsome. They were dirty and sweating, and some of them looked worried and frightened—but they kept moving. Huge, surprisingly ugly flames were licking out of the broken second-story windows, and the roof was smoking.
Suddenly Carly felt like crying too. If only she could make it stop! If only things like this didn’t happen. Tommy Johnson, who was two years ahead of her at school and always trying to act tough, was standing with his arm around his mother, sobbing. Carly didn’t blame him. Everything that he owned was probably in the house. And from the looks of the gutted building, there wasn’t going to be much left when the fire was finally out.
Carly remembered the book in her hands, and now it seemed no more realistic than a comic book. “I’d like to see Justine save the day in this situation,” she muttered under her breath. What could Justine possibly do to help the Johnsons? Carly wondered. There’s no one left inside to rescue. There’s no way to stop the fire instantly and then undo the damage that’s been done. And there’s no quick, simple way to rebuild the Johnson’s home—and their lives.
Carly felt let down. If there weren’t heroines out in the real world to prevent this sort of thing from happening, what was the point in even trying to be a heroine?
“Everything!” Mrs. Johnson cried, suddenly breaking down. “Everything we own is in there—baby pictures, my purse, the dishes … And we don’t even have insurance!”
Carly had to turn away. She couldn’t bear the pain in Mrs. Johnson’s voice. She kept asking herself, What if it had been my house, and all my things were … ?
Turning to Mrs. Haskins, she asked through tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks, “Isn’t there something we can do? Anything?”
“There’s always something to be done,” the woman said quietly. “And it’s up to ordinary people like you and me to figure out what it is and then do it. Do you have any suggestions?”
Carly only had to think for a moment. “They’ll be needing food and clothes and things. Maybe we could get started finding some.” She spotted her brother and his friend Mitch standing beside their bikes and staring in disbelief as the building burned. “Sam! Mitch! Over here!” she called.
When they had walked their bikes over, she said quickly, “We have to get busy. There’s a lot that we need to do, and fast. First, we have to go door-to-door and see if people have anything that they can donate to the Johnsons—clothes, food, blankets, money, whatever they can. Can you guys and some of your friends do that? You could each pick a street, then bring all the stuff you get to our house. Maybe tomorrow we can put up a note at school.”
“You’ve got it!” said Sam, and he and Mitch quickly rode off.
“Sorry to desert you, Mrs. H.,” Carly said, “But I have to get busy. It’s going to be dark pretty soon.”
“You know, Carly,” Mrs. Haskins said, “I have two guest rooms, now that I’m alone. Do you suppose that the Johnsons would care to keep an old lady company until they find another place to live?”
“That’s a terrific idea!” said Carly. “While you talk to Mrs. Johnson, I’m going to call Edna and Jerry. They’re friends of Tommy’s, and I know they’ll want to help.”
As she started up the street, Mrs. Haskins called to her. “Looks like your someday didn’t take so long in getting here, after all.”
“What?” asked Carly, turning.
“To be a heroine. I’d say that you’re getting a good start.”

As she became a young adult herself, Ioana wanted to do the same and help others feel welcome in the Savior’s Church. Though she felt nervous about reaching out to people she didn’t know, she was learning to listen to the Holy Ghost and trust the promptings she received.
When another young woman joined, Ioana got up the courage to talk to her. They discovered a mutual interest in music, and Ioana offered to teach her to lead the singing. Before long they were spending time together, serving as branch pianist and music leader.
“As I prepared myself to receive the guidance of the Holy Ghost, I started to notice Him putting thoughts in my head, answering my questions, prompting me,” Ioana said. “There were times I didn’t know what to say, and then something would come. It felt right when I said it. I’m learning to trust the Holy Ghost.”
She learned that often the things that help others feel like they belong aren’t big. For her, it was being included in Sunday School or activities, playing sports or crazy games, baking cookies, and having dance nights. “It wasn’t fancy. It was just having a good time or being able to talk. And when it’s connected to something spiritual, that can make it extra special.”

“Class, I have a surprise for you,” Mrs. Taylor said as she walked to the front of the room.
Evelyn looked up from her test, grinning. There was a big “A+” at the top.
“You all did so well on your tests that tomorrow we’ll watch a movie as a reward,” Mrs. Taylor said, writing three movie titles on the board. “Here are the options we can vote on,” she said over everyone’s cheers.
Evelyn bounced in her seat, trying to see what the titles were. The first two movies were some of her favorites. She leaned over to her friend Katy. “Which one are you going to vote for?”
“Definitely number three,” Katy said. “My parents wouldn’t let us watch it at home, so I never got to see it.”
Evelyn looked at the board again and saw the name of the third movie. Her heart started to pound. Evelyn had heard of this movie, and she knew it was one she wouldn’t feel right about watching. What if her class voted for it?
“Who would like to vote for option one?” Mrs. Taylor asked.
Evelyn stretched her hand high and looked around. She bit her lip nervously. Only two other people were voting.
Mrs. Taylor made tally marks on the board. “Option two?”
Evelyn’s heart sank. Only three hands went up.
“And option three?”
Fifteen hands shot up. Evelyn slumped down in her seat, a sick feeling settling in her stomach. How could she get out of watching that movie if everyone else wanted to?
When she got home, Evelyn went straight to her room and let her backpack fall to the floor with a heavy thunk. The sick feeling had stuck with her the entire day. “I wish I actually could be sick,” she thought. “Then I wouldn’t have to go to school tomorrow.”
Evelyn pulled her test out of her backpack and stared at it, clutching it in her hands. “The movie was supposed to be a reward, not a punishment!” she thought, angrily crumpling the test up and stuffing it under her bed. Tears welled up in her eyes. She knelt by her bed and started to cry. Then she started to pray. She choked out a few tangled sentences, asking Heavenly Father to take the problem away, but after a while her prayer changed. “Please help me to make this better. I don’t want to see a movie that will make me feel bad, and I hope that my friends and teacher will understand.”
Evelyn finished her prayer. The trembling, sick feeling had disappeared. She didn’t even feel afraid anymore.
Jumping to her feet, Evelyn raced out of her room to find Mom. She had an idea.
The next day, Evelyn walked into class. In one hand she held a note from Mom explaining how watching the movie would make Evelyn feel uncomfortable. In the other hand she carried three of her favorite movies. Evelyn handed the note to Mrs. Taylor and watched her read it.
“Thank you for letting me know how you feel,” Mrs. Taylor said.
“My mom says it is OK for me to go sit in with another class while the movie is playing,” Evelyn said. “But I also brought some other movies in case everyone would like to watch one of them instead.”
Mrs. Taylor smiled and reached for the stack of movies. “A movie is not much of a reward if we can’t all enjoy it,” she said.
Mrs. Taylor wrote the new titles on the board. “Class, I’d like to vote again on the movie for today. I have some new options for you.”
Evelyn went and sat at her desk, happy she wouldn’t have to miss out on the class reward. But the best reward of all was knowing that Heavenly Father had taken away her fear and given her courage to do what was right.

My Grandma Chasty was the oldest of her Olsen brothers and sisters, and she often took care of them. In the summertime, they played in a dry riverbed near their home in Castle Dale, Utah, USA. One day Chasty heard a voice. Get the children out of the riverbed. But Chasty didn’t listen. They were having fun.
Then she heard the voice again. Still, she kept playing. Then the voice spoke a third time. Get out of the riverbed!
This time Chasty hurried the children out. Suddenly, they heard a roaring sound. A great wall of water came down from the mountains. Because Chasty listened to the Holy Ghost, she saved all of their lives.

When I was a full-time student in England from 1948–1950 at the University of Nottingham, I did not have the good fortune to be a Latter-day Saint. I did not have the vision of my purpose in life, and of the pattern of progress and effort required to fulfill my purpose. Academically, athletically, and socially, I did reasonably well. Spiritually, I was somewhat lacking, for I had a form of religion without real substance. I had been active in my church all my life but could not have answered basic doctrinal questions if challenged to do so.

My real progress commenced when I was almost 24 years old. I had just graduated with honors in economics and law and had started my career in industry as a management trainee with a large textiles, chemicals, and plastics company.

Within weeks, Mormon missionaries were led—and I repeat were led—to our door. As a matter of fact, the Lord sent three missionaries to our door. (He knew it might be tough.) Furthermore, my wife informed me they all had the same first name—Elmer Jones, Elmer Cordingly, and Elmer Seastrand!

Everyone who has seen the excellent filmstrip in which President Kimball shows us how to be member missionaries knows there are certain circumstances which facilitate friendshipping. We were a classic case of changed circumstances bringing added receptivity to the gospel message. Not only had I just commenced my first civilian employment, but we had moved into a new home and, to top it all, our second baby had just arrived.

Yes, many of our circumstances in life had changed, but through the missionaries, our whole outlook on life subsequently changed. We were taught the plan of salvation—God’s plan for our eternal progression, God’s plan to help us reach full development, which is true maturity.

Our values changed, and therefore our standards of measurement changed, as we realized the truthfulness of the message the missionaries taught. Our lives started to become fuller and more purposeful, to ripen and mature. That message I declare to you in all solemnity and power. Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of the Eternal Father, is our personal Savior and Redeemer. He has restored his church and gospel as was prophesied and has once again spoken through holy prophets, beginning with the Prophet Joseph Smith.

My family joined the Church when I was a boy. A few weeks after our baptism, my father had a dream. He was walking on a beautiful street. In the distance he saw a magnificent white house. He had never seen such an inspiring building.
He shared his dream with our family the next morning. He also shared it with the senior missionary couple who taught our family the gospel. The senior missionaries told him that the house in his dream was a symbol. It stood for the temple.
They showed him pictures of some of the Church’s temples around the world. They said that one day a temple would be built where we lived, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. For the rest of his life, my father prayed that a temple would come to our country.
After 25 years, the dream came true. In the October 2011 general conference, President Thomas S. Monson announced plans to build the Kinshasa Democratic Republic of the Congo Temple. The announcement made my father the happiest man on earth! He was overjoyed to be present on February 12, 2016, when Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles presided over the groundbreaking ceremony.
Unfortunately, my father passed away in December 2016, before the completion of the temple. In June 2018, I was in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. In the Jordan River Utah Temple I was able to perform the sacred temple ordinances in behalf of my father. That night, my father visited me in a dream. He was shining with light. I knew that he had accepted what I did for him.
We thought of my father fondly when Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles dedicated the completed Kinshasa temple on April 14, 2019. A short time later my family performed ordinances to seal my father and mother to each other. Then their children were sealed to them. Our family will remember that day forever. We shed tears of joy. We knew that if we obeyed God’s laws and commandments and lived faithful to our covenants, our family could be together forever.

Adam Martin, a ward Sunday School president in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, says he appreciates suggestions from the ward council. “The Relief Society president or the elders quorum president will say, ‘We’d like teachers to focus on this,’ so we bring that up in teacher council [meeting],” he says.
When teacher council meetings first started, teachers weren’t sure what to expect, so he extended lots of personal invitations and introduced training materials available at teaching.lds.org. “Now the ball is rolling,” he says. “They know it’s a place to discuss what’s going on.”
One recent meeting focused on following the Spirit. “We talked about preparing well but not worrying about covering everything,” he says. “One sister said she had always felt she needed to talk about every item in her lesson plan. You could see the light go on for her when we talked about following inspiration as you guide a discussion.”

George Albert and Lucy Smith had been married for about 40 years when Lucy began a prolonged struggle with frail health. Though he worried about her and tried to comfort her as much as he could, President Smith’s duties as a General Authority often required him to be away from home. One day after President Smith gave a talk at a funeral, someone handed him a note telling him to return home immediately. He later wrote in his journal:
“I left the chapel at once but my Darling wife had breathed her last before I arrived at home. She was passing while I was talking at the funeral. I am of course bereft of a devoted helpmeet and will be lonely without her.”
“While my family are greatly distressed,” he continued, “we are comforted by the assurance of a reunion with [her] if we remain faithful. … The Lord is most kind and has taken away every feeling of death, for which I am exceedingly grateful.”16

Some people find it counterintuitive that the commandments are at the trailhead of the path to happiness rather than something to be carried along the way. The following story from my service as a mission president in Nagoya, Japan, some years ago illustrates this.

My wife, Lesa, and I became acquainted with a young woman soon after she came to church to attend an English class taught by the missionaries. She was outgoing, vibrant, and in control of her life, which included a good job, a longtime boyfriend, and her family. Her association with the missionaries and members through English class piqued her interest in the Church, and she began to receive the missionary lessons. Her testimony of the truthfulness of the restored gospel seemed to blossom each time she met with the missionaries. As she read the Book of Mormon and pondered and prayed about it and the things she was hearing, she knew they were true.

When the missionaries began teaching her the commandments, she knew she must obey. She broke up with her boyfriend and quit her job, which required that she work Sundays. She began observing the Word of Wisdom and accepted the law of tithing. Her faith was so strong that she began keeping the commandments virtually the moment she learned them.

When she announced to her family her interest in the Church and her study of the restored gospel, her parents told her that their relationship with her would suffer as a result. Within a few weeks of accepting the commandments, she found herself without a job, an apartment, or family support. Clearly, the consequences of her obedience affected her life in what appeared to be a devastating way.

I worried deeply about her situation. Late one night, at the end of a hectic day, Lesa and I left the mission home for a walk, seeking some quiet time together. We were surprised as we came upon a busy intersection at the same time this vibrant young investigator approached on her bicycle. She greeted us with a warm smile and a hug. Surprised that she was out so late, we asked what she was doing.

“I am on my way to my new job working the graveyard shift at the drive-up window of a fast-food restaurant,” she gleefully exclaimed.

This job represented a significant drop in pay, responsibility, and hours from her previous job. Despite significant trials and setbacks in the temporal affairs of her life, happiness exuded from her. She then announced that her baptismal date had been set. As we walked back to the mission home, Lesa and I marveled at how her faith and obedience to newfound commandments had put her on the pathway to true joy.

A few weeks later she was baptized. After some time had passed, she reconciled with her family and found better employment. A few years following her baptism, she was sealed in the Tokyo Japan Temple to a returned missionary she had met at a young single adult activity. Now an eternal family, they were recently blessed with a beautiful baby boy. A short, sweet hymn describes what occurred in her life as a result of keeping the commandments:
Keep the commandments; keep the commandments!
In this there is safety; in this there is peace.
He will send blessings; He will send blessings.
Words of a prophet: Keep the commandments.
In this there is safety and peace.2

One of the most beautiful and tender accounts of brotherly love, concern, and devotion took place in Carthage Jail on the afternoon of the martyrdom. “The afternoon was sultry and hot. The four brethren [Joseph and Hyrum Smith, John Taylor, and Willard Richards] sat listlessly about the room with their coats off; and the windows of the prison were open to receive such air as might be stirring. Late in the afternoon Mr. Stigall, the jailor, came in and suggested that [in view of threats made by the radical and bloodthirsty mob] they would be safer in the cells. Joseph told him that they would go in after supper. Turning to Elder Richards the Prophet said: ‘If we go into the cell will you go with us?’”

Elder Richards answered, “Brother Joseph, you did not ask me to cross the river with you [referring to the time when they crossed the Mississippi, en route for the Rocky Mountains]—you did not ask me to come to Carthage—you did not ask me to come to jail with you—and do you think I would forsake you now? But I will tell you what I will do; if you are condemned to be hung for ‘treason,’ I will be hung in your stead, and you shall go free.”

With considerable emotion and feeling Joseph replied, “But you cannot,” to which Brother Richards firmly replied, “I will.” (B. H. Roberts, A Comprehensive History of the Church, vol. 2, p. 283.)

When I was about 12, I was asked to sing a solo in my home ward. My parents encouraged me to memorize the hymn so that I could look out into the audience. I worked on the song for many weeks until I could sing it without looking at the words. When the Sunday arrived, I sat on the stand and felt my heart pounding. I had sung in other wards before, but I felt nervous singing in front of people I knew. My greatest fear was that I would make a mistake.
When it was time, I stood up and walked up to the microphone. I felt my stomach flip. I was too afraid to make eye contact with anyone, so I looked at the clock at the back instead. My accompanist began to play the introduction, and I started to sing. I made it halfway through the hymn without any difficulties when I looked down from the clock to the congregation. Suddenly, I forgot the words to the hymn. My accompanist continued playing for a few more measures until she figured out I had stopped singing. She went back to where I had left off and encouragingly played the melody, hoping to remind me of the words.
The words did not come. Fear began to rise within me. My face flushed with heat, and I could feel my ears turning red. My mind raced through the words of the hymn trying to remember what came next, but the words did not come. I looked out into the audience feeling humiliated and embarrassed. My heart crumpled with disappointment and embarrassment. I began to cry. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I hung my head, burying my face in my hands. I felt everyone staring at me. I wasn’t sure whether I should sit down or stand there until I could remember the words.
Suddenly, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. I looked up through teary eyes to see my bishop, Bishop Smith, smiling at me. He leaned down and told me that he would sing with me. He then nodded to the sister to begin playing. Bishop Smith’s beautiful baritone voice filled the chapel as he began to sing. He knew the words! As soon as he sang them, I remembered them as well. With his arm around my shoulder, I felt the courage to begin again, and together we finished the song.

Our grandson was only four when a policeman picked him up on the side of the highway. He said he was headed to Grandma’s house, about five miles (8 km) away.
It was the second time he had run away from the unhappiness at home, trying to get to me. Over the next few months, I came to realize that the responsibility of raising my grandson and his two younger sisters was probably going to fall on my shoulders—an idea I did not readily embrace.
My husband and I had done our best to raise our children with gospel principles, but they eventually rejected those principles. I was in my 50s and felt that I had finally earned the right to pursue my own interests. I cherished the goal my husband and I shared of serving a mission together when he retired. The notion of going grocery shopping with preschoolers, organizing mealtimes, doing thousands of loads of laundry, and someday again mothering teenagers reduced me to tears.
One afternoon, however, something changed my heart. A small thing had upset my grandson, so I took him onto my lap and wiped away his tears. As I held him, we talked about how much Jesus loved him. Nearby I had a wall calendar featuring paintings of the Savior, so we looked at those beautiful images one by one.
My grandson was especially interested in a depiction of the Savior sitting in a stone doorway with a small, brown-haired girl on His lap. In the painting, both the Savior and the child radiate peace. My grandson looked closely, pointed to the girl, and called her by his sister’s name.
“How can Katie sit on Jesus’s lap, Grandma?” he asked. “I want to sit on His lap too!”
“You can’t sit on Jesus’s lap now, sweetheart, but you can sit on my lap,” I said. “Jesus gives little children grandmas to love them and hold them and take care of them when they need it.”
Suddenly my heart embraced a future of loving—as the Savior would love—three beloved children who needed me. They were no longer a burden but a wonderful blessing and opportunity to serve our Lord.
I will be forever grateful for the tender mercy of the Lord given to me that afternoon. It changed my life and continues to strengthen and bless our home.

A few days later Dr. Barnardo spoke at a meeting and told those who attended about the shameful condition of children in the city’s slum areas—children for whom no one cared.
The newspapers reported Dr. Barnardo’s words and many wealthy and important people accused him of making statements that were either untrue or greatly exaggerated. No one seemed interested in helping to change this sad situation. At a time when the doctor was most discouraged, the Earl of Shaftesbury, who was a great lover of children, came to his aid. Someone finally believed Dr. Barnardo!
The Earl organized a private dinner party and invited many of the people who had disputed Dr. Barnardo’s words. At the end of the meal the Earl arranged it so that Dr. Barnardo could take his critics by lantern light on a night tour of the lays and prove his claims.
At the very first lay visited, in Billingsgate Fish Market, were seventy-three homeless, hungry, and uncared-for boys huddled together under tarpaulins stretched over piles of fish boxes. Many more were sleeping in empty barrels. Long before the tour was over Dr. Barnardo had convinced the doubters.
Shortly after this experience, the Earl of Shaftesbury suggested that Dr. Barnardo give up the idea of becoming a medical missionary in China and help the slum children instead. It was a difficult decision for the doctor to make and he prayed for guidance.
Shortly afterward he received a letter from a wealthy Member of Parliament offering to provide £ 1,000 (about $2,000) toward a home for destitute children if, instead of going to China, Dr. Barnardo would remain in London to run it.
He believed this to be an answer to prayer, and opened his first home for boys in Stepney Causeway. Three years later he married and used a wedding gift of a large house to set up a home for girls. His work was blessed and other homes followed.
Today the Barnardo homes house the largest family in the world. At least 8,000 children are being cared for in 100 homes. During the past 100 years, more than 200,000 children have been given a temporary home.
One day, shortly after the first Barnardo Home was opened, a pale and ragged boy asked Dr. Barnardo to take him in. Regretfully, Barnardo had to refuse, for the house was already full. He gave the lad, known as Carrots, some money and asked him to come back later. Carrots never returned, for during that week he died from cold and hunger.
Barnardo vowed that he would never let such a thing happen again. Without delay he had erected over the door of the home a signboard that read, “No Destitute Child Ever Refused Admission.” From that day to this, no matter what the hour of day or night, that pledge has been honored.
Barnardo’s doors are always open and no deserving child is ever turned away.
“Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not …” (Luke 18:16.)