Gospel Story Finder

I love hanging out with friends, but I’ve had to move a lot for my dad’s work. After I left my friends in Oklahoma to go to Texas, I had a tough freshman year and separated myself from everybody. Then I attended seminary. My seminary teachers were like angels from heaven. I opened myself up more, made friends, and went on a temple trip. Seminary was the only place outside of home where I felt like I belonged.
Bailee T., 17, Louisiana, USA

Our family has always enjoyed a Christmas tradition of setting out a ceramic Nativity scene—complete with Wise Men, camels, shepherds, sheep, and, of course, Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. Each season the Nativity scene was the same.
One year when my children were young, I carefully unwrapped each piece and set them up to represent the first Christmas. The children gathered around to watch. We talked about the birth of Jesus and the visit of the shepherds and the Wise Men. Then I cautioned the children, as always, not to touch the pieces, explaining that they were fragile and easy to break.
This year, however, the temptation was too great for my two-year-old daughter, Elizabeth. The day we set up the Nativity scene, I noticed several times, with some irritation, that a camel had wandered from its appointed place or a sheep had strayed from the watchful care of the shepherd. Each time, I returned the piece to its rightful place, then tracked down the culprit and admonished her to leave things alone.
The next morning, Elizabeth awoke and went downstairs before I did. When I walked into the living room, I noticed right away that the manger scene had been disturbed again. All the pieces were clumped together in a mass, as tightly as they could be fitted together.
Impatiently, I stepped forward to put things right; but I stopped short as I realized that some thought had gone into this new arrangement. All twenty-three figures were grouped in a circle, facing inward, pushed together as if to get the best view possible of the figure resting in the center of them all—the baby Jesus.
The Spirit touched my soul as I pondered the insight of a two-year-old. Certainly, Christ should be the center of our holiday celebrations. If we all could draw in around our Savior—not only during the Christmas season, but during each day—what a better perspective we would have. The love he offers to each of us would be easily shared with others who have not ventured so close.
I left the Nativity scene arranged according to Elizabeth’s design that year. It served as a simple reminder during the rest of the season of what Christmas is all about.

Several days later, I spied a woman with a “will work for food” sign. Recognizing my second chance to be charitable, I stopped to talk with her.
“I need gas money,” she told me. “My dad’s in Texas, and if only I can get to him, he can help me out.”
“Gee, I don’t have any cash,” I replied. “How long will you be here?”
“Till noon.”
“I’ll be back by 11:00. I promise.” At 10:45 I was back with a gift certificate for gas. She was nowhere in sight.
“Boy,” I thought, as I walked home, “this is not turning out like I expected.” I kicked a pebble. “Helping the needy is going to be tougher than I thought. Is this something I’m supposed to do later in life?”
I kicked the pebble again. “How can I help the needy? Couldn’t I get started now? Isn’t there someone who needs my help? Isn’t there someone who wants my help?”
I arrived home. I heard crying as I walked in. It was Steven, my brother. He’d been teased at school and didn’t want to go back. The words from my patriarchal blessing echoed in my mind: “You may help the needy with your time, effort, and means.” Here was my brother in need.
“Hey Steven, you wanna go get some ice cream? Tell me what happened.”
Steven and I talked about his peers. Maybe I didn’t say anything helpful, but I could tell that my companionship meant a lot to him.
That experience with Steven taught me a lesson: the poor are just as likely to be in your home as on the streets. There are all sorts of needy people in the world—those who need food and shelter, of course—but also those who need love, counsel, and encouragement.
I haven’t given up my dream of ending the world’s social troubles, but for now, whenever I get the itch to seek out the needy, I’m inclined to go knocking at my brother’s bedroom door first.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints found fertile ground in Nana Esi Ninsin VIII’s community through her own spiritual journey. After years of observing and studying the Church online, she formally joined in 2017 alongside her brother Charles and cousin Joannes. But the Church did not meet in a chapel; it met in her palace.

With no formal meetinghouse nearby, Nana Esi Ninsin VIII opened her palace for Sunday services, missionary lessons, and gospel study. Her home became a sanctuary for faith and fellowship, especially for those curious but hesitant to attend a formal church.

“I invited the missionaries to come during our skills training,” she explains. “We’d have an hour of gospel teaching before the training began.” This grassroots approach helped the Church gain traction in a predominantly Muslim community, where religious diversity required sensitivity and trust building.

When I heard about his passing, though, I couldn’t help but be sad and frustrated that my grandfather hadn’t been baptized in this life. So when my sister suggested a year later that we go to the temple and do ordinances for my grandfather, I had mixed feelings. Why would it matter now if he hadn’t accepted it when it was right here for him?
But I prayed about doing my grandfather’s work in the temple, and my heart softened. I knew I needed to do it. When I went to the temple and was baptized for him, something happened to me in that font: I felt the Spirit come into my heart along with a sense of forgiveness and love that I didn’t know I had for my grandfather. My heart was truly turned to him. I felt the truth of the promise that “he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (Doctrine and Covenants 2:2). It was real.

In speaking of the President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the Lord proclaimed:
“And again, the duty of the President of the office of the High Priesthood is to preside over the whole church, and to be like unto Moses—
“… Yea, to be a seer, a revelator, a translator, and a prophet, having all the gifts of God which he bestows upon the head of the church” (Doctrine and Covenants 107:91–92; emphasis added).
I have been blessed to witness some of the gifts of God upon His prophets. May I share one such sacred experience with you? Prior to my current calling, I assisted in identifying and recommending future temple sites. After September 11, 2001, crossings along the U.S. borders became more controlled. As a result, it took two to three hours for many Church members to make the crossing from Vancouver, Canada, while going to the Seattle Washington Temple. President Gordon B. Hinckley, President of the Church at that time, suggested that a temple in Vancouver would bless members of the Church. A site search was authorized, and after we examined several Church-owned properties, other sites not owned by the Church were also investigated.
A beautiful site with religious zoning adjacent to the Trans-Canadian Highway was found. The property had excellent access, was dotted with beautiful Canadian pine trees, and enjoyed a prominent location which would make it visible to thousands of passing motorists.
We presented the site with pictures and maps in the monthly Temple Sites Committee meeting. President Hinckley authorized that we place it under contract and complete the necessary studies. In December of that year, we reported back to the committee that the studies were complete, and we sought approval to proceed with the purchase. After hearing our report, President Hinckley said, “I feel I should see this site.”
Later that month, two days after Christmas, we left for Vancouver with President Hinckley; President Thomas S. Monson; and Bill Williams, a temple architect. We were met by Paul Christensen, the local stake president, who transported us to the site. It was a little wet and misty that day, but President Hinckley jumped out of the car and began walking all over the site.
After spending time on the site, I asked President Hinckley if he would like to see some of the other sites that had been considered. He said yes, he would like that. You see, by looking at the other sites, we were able to make a comparison of their virtues.
We did a large clockwise loop around Vancouver looking at the other properties, ultimately arriving back at the original site. President Hinckley said, “This is a beautiful site.” Then he asked, “Can we go to the Church-owned meetinghouse about one-quarter mile [0.4 km] away?”
“Of course, President,” we responded.
We got back into the cars and drove to the nearby meetinghouse. As we arrived at the chapel, President Hinckley said, “Turn left here.” We turned and followed the street as instructed. The street began to rise slightly.
Just as the car reached the crown of the rise, President Hinckley said, “Stop the car, stop the car.” He then pointed to the right at a parcel of ground and said, “What about this property? This is where the temple goes. This is where the Lord wants the temple. Can you get it? Can you get it?”
We hadn’t looked at this property. It was farther back and away from the main road, and it was not listed for sale. When we responded we didn’t know, President Hinckley pointed to the property and said again, “This is where the temple goes.” We stayed a few minutes, then left for the airport to return home.
The next day, Brother Williams and I were called to President Hinckley’s office. He had drawn out everything on a piece of paper: the roads, the chapel, turn left here, X marks the spot for the temple. He asked what we had found out. We told him he couldn’t have picked a more difficult property. It was owned by three individuals: one from Canada, one from India, and one from China! And it didn’t have the necessary religious zoning.
“Well, do your best,” he said.
Then the miracles happened. Within several months we owned the property, and later the city of Langley, British Columbia, gave permission to build the temple.
In reflecting upon this experience, I am humbled by the realization that while Brother Williams and I possessed formal education and years of experience in real estate and temple design, President Hinckley had no such formal training, but he had something far greater—the gift of prophetic seership. He was able to envision where God’s temple should stand.
When the Lord commanded the early Saints in this dispensation to construct a temple, He declared:
“But let a house be built unto my name according to the pattern which I will show unto them.
“And if my people build it not according to the pattern which I shall show … , I will not accept it at their hands” (Doctrine and Covenants 115:14–15).
As with the early Saints, so it is with us today: the Lord has revealed and continues to reveal to the President of the Church the patterns by which the kingdom of God is to be directed in our day. And, at a personal level, he provides guidance as to how each of us should direct our lives, such that our conduct may likewise be acceptable to the Lord.
In April 2013 I spoke about the efforts involved in preparing every temple’s foundation to ensure that it can withstand the storms and calamities to which it will be subjected. But the foundation is just the beginning. A temple is composed of many building blocks, fitted together according to predesigned patterns. If our lives are to become the temples each of us is striving to construct as taught by the Lord (see 1 Corinthians 3:16–17), we could reasonably ask ourselves, “What building blocks should we put in place in order to make our lives beautiful, majestic, and resistant to the storms of the world?”
We can find the answer to this question in the Book of Mormon. Concerning the Book of Mormon, the Prophet Joseph Smith said, “I told the brethren that the Book of Mormon was the most correct of any book on earth, and the keystone of our religion, and a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book” (introduction to the Book of Mormon). In the introduction to the Book of Mormon, we are taught that “those who gain [a] divine witness from the Holy Spirit [that the Book of Mormon is the word of God] will also come to know by the same power that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world, that Joseph Smith is His revelator and [prophet of the Restoration], and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the Lord’s kingdom once again established on the earth.”
These then are some essential building blocks of our individual faith and testimony:
Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world.
The Book of Mormon is the word of God.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the kingdom of God on the earth.
Joseph Smith is a prophet, and we have living prophets on the earth today.
In recent months, I have listened to every general conference address which President Nelson has given since he was first called as an Apostle. This exercise has changed my life. As I studied and pondered 34 years of President Nelson’s collected wisdom, clear and consistent themes emerged from his teachings. Each of these themes relates to those building blocks just mentioned or is another key building block for our personal temples. They include faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, repentance, baptism for the remission of sins, the gift of the Holy Ghost, redemption of the dead and temple work, keeping the Sabbath day holy, beginning with the end in mind, staying on the covenant path. President Nelson has spoken of them all with love and devotion.

I think a lot of us grow up having a step-by-step outline for our lives. Take me, for example: I planned on working in the medical field, getting married by the time I was 21, and having a bunch of kids before age 30, all while raising my perfect family in the gospel and living a blissfully joyful and unbothered life.

(Cue the laughter.)

This is where life has actually taken me as I have trusted myself to make good decisions, seized opportunities, followed promptings, and let God prevail:
I am a writer. The sight of blood and needles makes me squeamish.
I didn’t get married until I was 27 (and in the middle of a pandemic). And I married someone I had known for almost 10 years, even though I had dated other people during that time.
I struggle with a painful chronic illness that can make life hard sometimes. This illness has also led to infertility, making the possibility of children a big question mark.

As I have turned to Heavenly Father for guidance, I have found joy in my circumstances despite how drastically my life has differed from my original expectations. And I have faith that the future will be bright as I continue to do so.

Since I lived in a small Arizona town with a predominantly Latter-day Saint population, missionaries and Church members often approached me about the Church. They frequently invited my children and me to attend church, read the scriptures, or both. I had no interest in accepting their invitations but politely thanked them for their interest in my family.
As I got to know the woman I would later marry, she told me she was a Latter-day Saint. I admired her spirituality and agreed to attend church with her after we married. True to my word, I started attending regularly and even enjoyed the atmosphere and camaraderie. But even though I studied the scriptures, attended church, and prayed alone and with my family, I still doubted God’s existence. No matter how hard I tried, I felt as though I couldn’t shake my agnostic roots. Because I felt no closer to God than when I had started, I declined all invitations to be baptized.
After I had attended church for six years, my father, who had been in the U.S. Army, passed away suddenly. My family and I wanted to have taps played at the grave site, and since I am a professional musician, I was asked to perform the song. I had performed at hundreds of grave site ceremonies, but because this was my father’s service, I knew it would be different for me. I also knew from my mother’s funeral that my heightened sense of emotion would affect my ability to play. I was determined not to let my emotions interfere with the music as they had during her service.
Minutes before the ceremony started, I nervously tried to warm up. Just a few practice notes had escaped my lips when I realized I was repeating my previous failure. Tears formed and I started to cry. My sobs impeded my breathing. How would I be able to perform?
I wasn’t concerned with accolades for myself, but I did want to honor my father. As I started to play, I found I couldn’t take a complete breath. It was uncharacteristic of me to ask for help, but at this point, I didn’t know what else to do. The first note that came out was weak. Inwardly I pleaded with my Heavenly Father: “Please.” As I played the second note, my lungs filled with air, and the sound rang out of my horn with a startling, beautiful tone. Throughout the rest of the piece, I played well beyond my ability. When I finished the last note, I was suddenly out of breath and choking for air through my tears.
As a musician, I am aware of my strengths and weaknesses. Simply put, I couldn’t have played that well even under the best of circumstances. It was obvious to me that Heavenly Father had answered my plea and blessed me with the strength and ability to honor my earthly father. I was given a special witness that Heavenly Father answers us in a manner that we can understand. His answer in my time of need helped me realize that He had always been eager to communicate with me.
After several months I cleared my agnostic hurdle and joined the Church. Although it was a leap of faith to be baptized, I knew that Heavenly Father would bless me. My experience while playing taps taught me that He will answer my prayers according to my needs and understanding.

“It looks like Sarah will need to have an MRI of her back,” said Dr. Frank. He smiled at Sarah. “I’m going to schedule one for tomorrow. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Sarah’s back had been hurting for a while. When she woke up that morning, it hurt so much that it was hard for her to stand up straight, and she could barely walk. Sarah and her mom had come to see Dr. Frank to find out what was wrong.
“Another MRI?” asked Sarah, looking up at Mom. She’d had an MRI once before. She remembered how scared she had felt in the big tube that took pictures of the inside of her body.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” said Mom. “But the pictures will help Dr. Frank learn what’s wrong with your back. I know you can do it. And I’ll be right there with you.” Mom squeezed Sarah’s hand.
“But you can’t come inside with me,” said Sarah. Her head dropped, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Mom could be with her in the room, but once Sarah went into the machine’s tunnel, she would be alone.
Mom put her arm around Sarah. “That’s true, but do you know who can be there to comfort you?”
Sarah remembered a name she had heard for the Holy Ghost: the Comforter. Maybe the Holy Ghost could help her not feel so afraid.
“The Holy Ghost?” Sarah asked.
Mom nodded. “That’s right. You can pray for the Holy Ghost to help you. Dad and I will pray for you too.”
That gave Sarah a great idea. “Can I ask Dad for a blessing?”
Mom smiled. “Of course. I know he’d love to do that.”
That night Dad placed his hands on Sarah’s head and gave her a priesthood blessing. When he blessed Sarah that she would be comforted by the Holy Ghost, a soft warmth filled her body. The feeling stayed with her all night.
The next day Sarah lay on the bench that would slide into the big tube in the MRI machine. She repeated in her head the words Dad had used during her blessing: The Holy Ghost will be there to comfort you. Sarah squeezed Mom’s hand tight. Then the nurse slid her into the tube.
The MRI machine made funny noises while it took pictures of her back. Sarah had to lie very still so the pictures wouldn’t be blurry. She panicked for a minute, but then she felt that warm feeling again. It felt like one of Mom’s hugs. Or a snuggly blanket. She knew that everything would be OK. Before she knew it, the MRI was over!
In Dr. Frank’s office, he showed Sarah and Mom the pictures of Sarah’s back. “You did a great job lying still,” Dr. Frank told Sarah as he knelt down beside her. “These pictures of your back show that you will need surgery to help you walk better.”
Sarah gulped.
“We’d like to do the surgery soon,” Dr. Frank said, looking up at Sarah’s mom. Then he turned back to Sarah. “It might take a few weeks afterward for you to feel like your old self again, but after seeing you today, I know you’ll do great.”
Sarah tried to think about all the things she’d do after Dr. Frank fixed her back. I’ll be able to run and swim and jump in a big pile of leaves. She missed doing all those things. But surgery was even scarier than an MRI! Then Sarah remembered her prayers and her special blessing. Heavenly Father had sent her the Comforter. He would help her again.
She looked at Dr. Frank. “Then can I jump in a big pile of leaves?” she asked.
He grinned. “Then you can jump in a big pile of leaves.”

Caden hugged Uncle Brian tight. Brian was going on a mission to Brazil. Caden would miss him. He cried when they left the airport.
When they got home, Grandma said, “I have a surprise for you.”
Grandma gave Caden a big bag. Inside were lots of small plastic blocks. “There are 730 blocks in that bag. That’s one for each day Uncle Brian is gone.”
Grandma handed Caden a plastic board. “You can put a new block on the board every day. When the bag is empty, Uncle Brian will be home again!” Grandma said.
The bag was heavy. 730 blocks is a lot! Caden pulled a red block from the bag. He stuck it on a corner of the board.
“This could be fun,” he said.
Two years felt far away. Uncle Brian was a lot older than Caden, but he was still one of Caden’s best friends.
Caden took the board and bag to his room. Then he knelt down. He asked Heavenly Father to keep Uncle Brian safe.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Then months became two years! The tower had red, blue, green, and yellow blocks. It was so tall!
Question for You
What can you do when you miss someone?
Finally it was time for Uncle Brian to come home. Caden took his block tower to the airport to meet him. Everyone hugged. Caden smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.
Uncle Brian looked at Caden’s block building. “Look what you made! It looks almost as big as you.”
“It is!” Caden smiled. “And when I get bigger, I’m going on a mission too.”

Shortly before leaving for my mission in February 2003, my father took me on a trip to a place I had always wanted to see—Nauvoo, Illinois. I was eager to see the newly dedicated temple, the Smith’s mansion, and all the other places that remain in the city the early Saints had built. Perhaps we would also be able to tour Carthage Jail.
As we made our way farther north, snow began to fall, and by the time we reached Nauvoo, we found ourselves in the middle of a blizzard. The temple was open that night, allowing us to go in and feel the wonderful Spirit there.
We checked into a hotel, and by morning our car was half buried in snow. The world had all but shut down from the blizzard the night before. My heart sank as I knew I would not get to see the rest of the city. Digging our car out of the snow, we made our way back to Nauvoo to see all we could.
As we suspected, all was shut down, and no tours would be available. However, the Lord had something else to teach me. We gazed across a barren Parley Street, where more than 150 years before, hundreds of wagons were lined up to leave the beautiful city.
I realized that we were there the very weekend the Saints would have begun leaving. On that bitterly cold morning with the wind howling and snow falling so hard, I developed a great respect for the early Saints and the sacrifices they made. How grateful I am to them for enduring trials so we can enjoy the blessings of the gospel today. Since that day I have decided I would not take back the lessons I learned there for anything I would have enjoyed in better weather.
I love this gospel and pray that we may all press forward as did the early pioneers.

“I’m so excited for recess!” Ally told Lauren as they put their lunch boxes back on the shelf in their classroom. “Tami just said we’re all going to play tag together on the playground today.”
“Fun!” Lauren said. “I love tag.”
Lauren was happy and surprised that Tami had invited Ally to play. Tami had always been mean to Ally. Lauren was glad she was finally trying to be nice.
“I need to take a book to the library first, so make sure they don’t start without me.” Ally smiled as she ran down the hall to the library.
Lauren raced out to the playground. When she got there, Tami was already gathering the other kids into a circle. Lauren ran over to join them.
“Hurry up, everyone!” Tami called as she motioned everyone into a tight huddle. “I have a fun idea I want to tell everyone before Ally gets out here.”
Lauren didn’t feel very good about this.
All the kids squeezed into the huddle to hear. “Instead of tagging everyone like we usually do,” Tami said, “let’s just tag Ally. But no one better tell her, or else!” Tami giggled. She seemed so proud of herself.
Lauren looked at the other kids in the circle. A lot of these kids hadn’t been nice to Ally since kindergarten. That’s when the kids really started being mean to Ally. They would make fun of her and tease her. Most times Tami started it and the other kids would follow.
Lauren had never liked how they treated Ally. She decided right then that she wouldn’t follow along with them. She knew everyone was a child of God and should be treated with kindness.
She took a deep breath and looked Tami in the eyes. “That doesn’t sound like a fun idea to me. I don’t think we should treat Ally like that. So I don’t want to play.”
Lauren walked out of the circle and started back toward the school alone to find Ally.
At least she thought she was alone.
Then she heard, “Hey, wait up!” Lauren turned around and there were most of the kids from Tami’s circle. She couldn’t believe it!
“Let’s go find Ally and start our own game of tag,” Damon said.
“I want to play too!” Lea said. The others nodded.
Lauren smiled. That awful feeling in her stomach was gone.
“Good idea!” Lauren said. “There’s Ally coming over right now.”
She turned and tapped Damon on the shoulder. “Tag, you’re it!” she yelled, then raced toward Ally. And all the kids came racing after.

Now there are times when we do have to alter our goal just a bit. I’ll never forget my first day as a student at Ricks College. One of the instructors asked, “What are you all going to be?” One raised his hand and said, “I’m going to be a brain surgeon.” Another one said, “I’m going to be an atomic physicist.” I sat there and thought, Boy, I’m in the wrong league. I don’t know whether I can keep up with these guys.

But it was interesting how many of them hadn’t really thought it out. When I looked back at them later, some had dropped out of school and others hadn’t pursued the courses that would qualify them for such lofty goals. It was easy for them to set a goal and let it slip. Now there are times when we do need to modify our goals. But I would suggest that, in general, we should try to raise them rather than lower them simply because it is easier.

Some years ago in Eastern Europe, I listened as a young elder stood before his fellow missionaries in zone conference to share an experience that shaped his life. He and his companion had found and taught a middle-aged man named Ivan (name has been changed) in a distant city. Their investigator came from a difficult background, as was reflected in his well-used clothing, ragged beard, and hesitant demeanor. Life had been harsh and unkind to him.
Without any prior religious training, Ivan had much to overcome. Practices not in harmony with the restored gospel had to be set aside. New principles needed to be accepted and then incorporated. Ivan wanted to learn, and he prepared himself diligently for his baptism and confirmation. His clothing remained threadbare and his beard ragged, but he had taken the first steps. Shortly after Ivan’s baptism, the missionary was transferred. He hoped that he might again cross paths with Ivan.
Six months later the mission president reassigned the young elder to his former branch. Surprised but eager to return, the elder, with a new companion, came early to sacrament meeting his first Sunday back in the branch. The members were pleased to see the missionary in their midst again. They rushed forward with broad smiles and warm greetings.
The elder recognized nearly everyone in the small congregation. However, he searched in vain among the faces for the man he and his companion had taught and baptized six months earlier. There arose within the elder a sense of disappointment and sadness. Had Ivan returned to his harmful habits? Had he failed to honor his covenant of baptism? Had he lost the blessings promised by his repentance?
The elder’s fears and reflections were interrupted by the approach of an unfamiliar man who was rushing forward to embrace the missionary. The clean-shaven man had a confident smile and an obvious goodness radiating from his countenance. Wearing a white shirt and a carefully knotted tie, he was on his way to prepare the sacrament for the small gathering that Sabbath morning. Only when the man began to speak did the elder recognize him. It was the new Ivan, not the former Ivan they had taught and baptized! The elder saw embodied in his friend the miracle of faith, repentance, and forgiveness; he saw the reality of the Atonement.
The missionary told his peers attending the zone conference that Ivan had changed and grown by every measure during the months the elder had been away from the branch. Ivan had embraced the gospel, and it radiated from him. He had experienced a “change of heart” (Alma 5:26) sufficient both to be baptized and to press forward in the continuing process of conversion. He was preparing for the higher priesthood and the ordinances of the temple. Ivan had indeed been “born again” (Alma 7:14).
As the missionary concluded his remarks, he asked himself aloud, “How much of a ‘change of heart’ have I experienced in the past six months?” He continued his self-examination, asking aloud, “Have I been ‘born again’?” These are two profound questions that each of us should privately pose on a continuing basis.

“Who knows the parable of the Good Samaritan?” Sister Stewart asked her CTR class.
“I do!” exclaimed Erin, raising her hand. “It’s the story about the man who was hurt by robbers and two different men passed him by and the Good Samaritan stopped and helped.”
“Very good, Erin. Thank you. Not only did the Good Samaritan stop and help, but he took the man to an inn. Let’s read about it in Luke 10:30–35. Who brought scriptures today?”
The children took turns reading the verses. Then Sister Stewart asked, “Dan, what did the Good Samaritan do at the inn?”
“He gave the innkeeper money and asked him to take care of the injured man.”
“That’s right. Not only did the Good Samaritan help the injured man, but he went the extra mile and made sure that he would be cared for after they were at the inn. I challenge each of you to perform a service for someone this week and to go the extra mile. We’ll talk about some of your experiences next Sunday in class.”
On the way home from church, Erin tried to think of something she could do. It must be something for someone who really needs my help, she decided. But she couldn’t think of anything. That night as she knelt by her bed, she asked Heavenly Father to help her find someone who really needed her help.
Days went by and nothing happened. Erin did a lot of good service. She helped with the dishes and made refreshments for family home evening, for instance. But they were all things she always did. Mother and Father were always grateful for Erin’s helpfulness and often told her so. But now Erin wanted to do something special.
Finally Sunday came again. A whole week had gone by, and no one other than her own family had needed Erin’s help. She sat in the car for a while watching people walk by on their way into the church. What will I tell Sister Stewart and my class? she wondered as she got out of the car to go in for Sunday School opening exercises.
Just then the Armstrong family’s green van rumbled loudly into the parking lot. There were five children in the family, all under six years old. Sister Armstrong obviously had been in a hurry all morning, because her hair was still wet and one of the children was still eating a piece of toast. Brother Armstrong, a member of the bishopric, had come to church for early morning meetings, so Sister Armstrong was left alone to get herself and her five children dressed in their Sunday clothes and be to church on time.
As Erin watched, Sister Armstrong searched for two-year-old Lizzy’s shoes, which had been kicked under the seat.
Sister Perkins rushed by with her arms full of books, flowers, and papers, calling, “Good morning, Sister Armstrong!”
As Sister Armstrong struggled to put Lizzy’s shoes back on her, baby Mark spit up all over his clothes. Three-year-old Crystal had given gum to everyone while her mother wasn’t looking, and now four-year-old Ashley had gum stuck in her pretty braid. The only one who wasn’t causing a problem was five-year-old Marilyn, who had been sent into church by her mom to find her father. In the midst of all the confusion, Sister Armstrong sat down and cried.
Suddenly Erin realized that the Armstrong family was the answer to her prayers. She set her scriptures down and rushed over to the van. Erin said earnestly, “Let me help you, Sister Armstrong. What can I do first?”
“Erin, you’re a lifesaver!” exclaimed Sister Armstrong as she dried her eyes.
Together they put Lizzy’s shoes back on, cleaned up Mark, and got the gum out of Ashley’s hair. Then Erin grabbed her scriptures before carrying Mark and the diaper bag into church. Partway up the hall they met Brother Armstrong.
“I see you’ve found yourself a Good Samaritan,” he said as he scooped up Mark and led the way into the chapel.
Erin sat with the Armstrongs during opening exercises, then offered to take Lizzy and Crystal to their Primary classes.
“You’ve been a great help this morning, Erin. Thank you very much,” said Sister Armstrong.
“I’d like to help every Sunday, if that’s all right. I can wait outside for you and then sit with you during Sunday School opening exercises.”
Sister Armstrong was very glad to accept Erin’s help. As she walked down the hall to her own class, Erin thought about the smile on Sister Armstrong’s face. A warm tingle flowed from Erin’s head to her toes. She had met the challenge to serve and go the extra mile.
That night as Erin knelt by her bed, she thanked Heavenly Father for guiding her to the Armstrong family and helping her learn how wonderful it felt to serve others and go the extra mile.

By Geiziane Morais Freitas Duarte, Brazil

I once ministered to a sister who had stopped attending church. When I visited her, I would share how much the Savior loved her and her family. I would always invite them to come to church the following Sunday. This practice went on for a long time, but they never came. I felt discouraged. The temptation to give up was strong. But every time my companion and I visited their home, we had a glimpse of heaven. We would always picture them in the temple, dressed in white. We knew we had to keep trying.

After many prayers and visits, the day finally came—the family came to church! They kept coming back each week. The family put in hard work to grow their faith and get on the covenant path. It became evident that the gospel had strengthened them.

Eventually, I received an invitation to their temple sealing. As I watched the sacred ordinance, I couldn’t help but shed tears of joy. It was a miracle.

At times I wanted to give up. But every time I visited them, I saw the temple. God showed me a glimpse of His plan for this family. He used me as His instrument to stay in touch with them. I am grateful to Him for showing me the true vision of ministering.

Jeffrey just started kindergarten and is making lots of friends. One day, his teacher told me that the day before, one of the students in his class was having a bad day and was very unhappy. The teacher said that Jeffrey stayed by this student’s side during recess and tried his best to be a good friend. He put his arm around her and comforted her the best he could. At lunchtime, he made sure that he sat next to her, and he helped her open her milk carton and other items in her lunch. Jeffrey’s teacher said that she was very proud of Jeffrey for being a good friend to the girl.

Justin hunted through the raspberry canes for a ripe, unblemished specimen. By passing inferior fruit and deceptive berries that had flawless fronts with bird-pecked backs, he suddenly found a beauty. It looked almost too perfect, hanging there among the gentle swish of green. Almost a mean thing to pluck such perfection, almost a crime to crush that splendour between teeth so the tangy juice could satisfy his stomach.
He plucked it from the bush, and his mouth was watering in anticipation when he saw the bug. There it was, hidden deep in the dark hollow of his prize, crawling swiftly from the snug depths to discover the cause of the disturbance.
Justin flung the raspberry to the ground in disgust, squashing it underfoot with sharp jabs. Typical, he thought, feeling a familiar rebellion rising through his system. Everything’s fake these days—family, friends, Church, life, and above all, missions. As that word filtered through his brain, it oozed in and out of his thoughts like the red stain spreading between the cracks of the old paving slabs.
His lean, tanned features drooped in sulky lines. “Mission, mission,” he muttered, “hadn’t I known it would come one day?” He punched the nearest leaves in frustration. “All my life’s been preparing for this time, and now it’s here I feel cheated. Two years of my life thrown away. And for what? To serve here in England—not even in foreign parts—but here, in my own country.”
Justin stuffed his clenched fists into his jeans pockets, angrily scuffing the dead berry with the toe of his shoe. Friends can have jobs, cars, girls, and I’ll miss the best time of life because I’m serving, keeping rules, suffering hardships, and for what?
A terribly honest thought struck Justin—I’m not sure I believe the Church is worth all this sacrifice. Panic replaced his anger.
He could see his mother heading for the fruit garden. Oh, no, not again, he thought in frustration. I can’t stand another motherly chat. But there was no escape. Mum’s cheery smile did nothing for his bad mood.
“I’m so glad you’re down here, Justin. I really am pushed for time. If you can help me pick these gooseberries, I’d be so grateful.”
“Okay, okay,” Justin sighed, steeling himself for the advice he was sure would come.
Mother began filling her earthenware bowl, fingers moving carefully between the greenery, uncovering plump, hairy fruit. Justin scowled at the bushes. He parted leaves with half-hearted movements. “Not worth the effort,” he muttered. “There’s hardly anything here.”
“It takes careful searching, dear. See, I’m finding loads by looking deeper.”
Justin gritted his teeth, waiting for the next words. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Like missionaries,” she said. “You know, never giving up.”
How is it, Justin thought, that Mother has such a knack for finding analogies to missionary work in everything we do? He thrust rebellious fingers deep into the bush, then, with a furious cry, jumped back, nursing a bleeding finger.
“That bush kills!” he yelled. “That’s stupid, that bush is. Fancy having murderous thorns lying in wait like that. I’ve gone off fruit picking. You seem to be doing all right without me. Do you mind if I go for a bandage?”
Ignoring the pleading in her son’s voice, his mother calmly handed him the bowl. “We’ll only be a few more minutes if you hold this.” She dropped a particularly fine, tawny gooseberry into the bowl. “It’s strange, Justin, but special people can be a lot like that too, you know. They’ll hide behind prickly exteriors, but with a little questioning and love, they’ll come into the fold. You’ll be able to find those people on your mission.”
“I don’t think I want to talk about this,” muttered Justin, but his mother had already taken the bowl and was on her way to the house.
“What’s that dear?” his mother asked.
“Oh, nothing,” said Justin. He plodded on, trying to turn his mind away from the gloomy rut it kept travelling. It always seemed like he was moving down a continual motorway in the dark with lights snaking off into the distance, but he could never see where they were headed or where they ended.
By his farewell sacrament meeting, he still wasn’t sure he was happy about this “sacrifice.”
“This fine young man, Elder Justin Barnes,” the bishop was saying, “is about to exchange two years of his life for something out of this world.”
Justin’s head was spinning as he sat on the stand, dreading his turn to speak. Why me? kept echoing inside. I don’t want to be out of this world. Why not Andy and Phil down there? They’re 19 and refused to go. Why don’t I stop all this and say no too? He looked down at his family, sitting on the front row, smiling at him—Mum and Dad looking proud; Adam, Sam, and John, eyes big with hero worship; and little Suzy and Pam, the twins, open-mouthed in awe of the occasion.
Justin moved to the rostrum, amazed his feet moved him. With dry mouth, perspiring hands, and trembling knees, he stumbled through his talk. “And although I’m not too sure why I’m going,” Justin concluded, “I suppose … er, I mean, … no, I am going because the prophet has said all young men should serve and because my family and I follow the prophet.”
Justin sat down in a dazed state, wondering where those words came from, wondering if he had really said them.
Two weeks later at the Missionary Training Center, his dad said, “First time I’ve felt like crying for many a year.” With his dad’s arm around his shoulders, Justin stood gazing up at the London Temple. Two hours later Justin wished he could have those minutes back, so he could say all the things he hadn’t been able to put into words. Things like, “I love you, Dad. You’re the greatest. Thanks for everything, Dad. I promise I’ll work hard.”
In the whirl of the MTC, however, it was hard to be lonely. It was study all the time, and soon Justin began to feel a sprinkling of testimony that quickly turned into a shower and then a downpour of spiritual experiences as new friends became brothers and sisters, sharing knowledge and insights. Those three weeks became an oasis, and Justin could see the clear road of the motorway until his first assignment in his mission field came along.
Justin stared at his new companion. This must be a joke, he thought. He looks like a boxer—a heavyweight. Talk about muscles. And that huge, flattened nose. No one will open the door to us!
“I’m glad to meet you, Elder Barnes. I’m Elder Warriner from Texas.” His voice was warmly encouraging, his smile transforming grim features to genial humour. But the handshake! Justin imagined his fingers would never return to normal.
Oh, wow! he thought. How do I cope with this one?
He soon found out. Elder Warriner never stopped. His energy and enthusiasm were exhausting, or catching, depending on Justin’s mood that day. But Justin gained an appreciation for his companion’s beefy shape the day they knocked on one particular door.
“Yeah?” snarled the sloppily dressed man, thrusting wide his front door. He was massive. A soggy cigarette dangled from half-closed lips, and a beer can looked ready to make a fast exit from his fist in the direction of the pair.
“Good morning.” Elder Warriner’s smile clipped corners off the man’s invisible barrier. At least that’s what Justin tried to tell himself as the beer can lowered and the man’s eyes narrowed.
“We’re from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we wondered if we could share a message with you for a few moments?”
The man’s eyes widened. He sniffed hard, wiping ash off his stubbled chin with the back of his hand.
“Um … yeah. Thought you were the TV license spies. What you want then? You a boxer or something?” he asked, staring at Elder Warriner’s craggy features. “Used to go in for boxing myself,” he went on, not waiting for a reply. “Well, come in then. Could do with a change from telly.”
Following him down the dark hallway, Justin noticed peeling wallpaper, tatty carpet, and the smell of damp chips.
This is not worth the effort, Justin thought. Poking Elder Warriner in the back, he pulled a waste-of-time face. A Texan eye winked back.
“My name’s Charlie,” their host announced. Then pointing to a frail woman hunched by the gas fire, he said. “This is my missus, Elspeth, and them’s my kids—Jimmy, Jane, Sally, and Thelma.” Four pairs of eyes flicked from TV to the elders, then back to TV.
“He actually sounds proud of them,” mused Justin, looking with astonishment at the thin, little foursome. “Wouldn’t Mum love to fatten them up,” he thought.
Charlie continued the introductions. “This here man’s a boxer, kid. Take a look at this face now. Your Uncle Bert looked like that when he went to Canada. Where you been boxing then lad?” This last question was flung at Elder Warriner from a sparring position. Charlie’s frame blocked the light as his weight shifted to his toes, his hands held in loose fists.
“Er … Charlie?” Elder Warriner sounded unusually solemn. “We have something more important than boxing to discuss. I used to box every day in the boys’ clubs back home, and I was pretty good, but I gave that up to come here and share this message with you.”
Charlie looked puzzled, then skeptical. “You a wimp or something?” He began moving towards the door, his face surly again. “No time for wimps.”
Justin scrambled to his feet, giving a let’s-move-it eyebrow signal to his companion. But before he could step forward, he heard his own voice speaking, “By the way, Charlie, is your mother important to you?”
The words quivered in silence. Justin’s mind did a swift action replay. For a brief second he was back in his own garden picking gooseberries. His Mum’s voice was saying, “They’ll hide behind a prickly exterior, but with gentle questioning and love they’ll come into the fold. You’ll be able to find those people on your mission.”
Justin jumped as Charlie took a step in his direction. “What do you know about my Ma?” With neck pushed forward, his head looked even more aggressive. But his tone softened as he began pacing the floor. “My little Ma, oh she was right lovely was my Ma.” His face took on a gentle sadness the more he reminisced.
Justin glanced at the children whose gaze had at last left the flickering screen. Tears dribbled down Charlie’s cheeks when he spoke of his mother’s death during his tenth year. Little Thelma jumped up and ran towards her Dad. She hugged him as far around as her thin arms could reach.
The effect was startling. Tenderly scooping her into his arms, he held her close, patting her back. “I still think of my Ma every night before going to sleep, I do. She had a tough life, but she loved every hair of my head.”
Charlie brought his focus back to the elders. He squinted closely at Justin’s face. “Young man, if you can tell me anything at all about Ma, then you’re welcome to stop and chat.” He motioned to his wife. “Let’s see a bit of that fire, Elspeth. How about a cup of tea for these boys. And you kids hitch up on that sofa. Give the lads a seat.”
While Elder Warriner began explaining their taste in drinks, which didn’t include tea, Justin recognized the familiar feeling creeping out of his heart, only this time it was different. He felt like he could catch a glimpse of their destination as he felt them moving together down the road. He thought back to his reluctance to go on a mission and his feeling of travelling a dark motorway. For all the trials and sacrifices, the Church was still worth more. Justin wanted Charlie to know that too.
Charlie and his family were baptized six weeks later. Baptism day produced a radiant family, washed, mended, and full of smiles.
Charlie’s big hand squeezed Justin’s shoulder when the service ended. “Lad, I can’t find words to thank you and your mate for all you’ve taught us. Your finding us has brought out feelings I never knew existed.” He sniffed. “You’re a cracking bit of inspiration from the eternities, you missionaries. There’s no more important work, is there, than getting this message across. Thanks, lad, a million thanks.”
Justin shook his hand. He felt a mixture of warmth and love for this big brother, and at the same time he envisioned a brightly lit motorway where he could see forever. As Justin caught another Texan wink from his companion, he had the warmest assurance that they were on the right path. His silent prayer of gratitude moved heavenward.
“Like Charlie says,” he whispered, “there’s no more important work.”

A few days after my father passed away, family and friends gathered for his funeral in Las Cruces, New Mexico. At my mother’s request, the grandchildren sang “Families Can Be Together Forever.”1 After the closing song and prayer, the grandsons escorted my father’s casket to a hearse outside the chapel.
As the hearse pulled away, one of my younger brother’s toddler grandsons called out, “Bye-bye.” We then traveled to the cemetery, where I dedicated the grave and the rest of us said, “Bye-bye.”
Afterward, I drove to my parents’ home. As I entered their cul-de-sac, I stopped for a moment. I thought about the many times over the previous 30 years I had pulled into their driveway, had dropped off our children to spend part of their summer vacation with Grandma and Grandpa, and had celebrated Christmas there.
As I relived memories, I was almost overcome by sadness. I realized that most of my grandchildren will never know the welcome sight of my parents’ home after an all-day drive. They will never smell the aroma of my mother’s cooking. They will never hear the laughter echoing from the walls of my parents’ home. They will never hike the nearby sand dunes with my parents, hunt crawdads with them, spend time in their mountain cabin, or attend their friendly ward.
For my grandchildren, my parents will be little more than fading names etched on gravestones. We still have my mother, but after she passes away, my grandchildren will probably never travel to southern New Mexico.
I’m thankful that these sad thoughts soon left. Almost as quickly as they came, peaceful thoughts from the Holy Ghost replaced them.
I thought of the plan of salvation and of the great welding link that connects us to our ancestors and our posterity. I thought of the blessings of family history and temple work. I thought of my responsibility to preserve memories and photos and stories. I remembered that the family I have here on earth, I can also have in heaven. And I thought of who makes that possible.

I first heard the gospel as a child when my parents welcomed the missionaries to our home in Antofagasta, Chile. I grew up in the Church, but I did little to gain a personal testimony. Consequently, I eventually fell from activity and found myself facing life’s challenges without the divine power of the gospel to help me. My faithful mother, however, continued to love me and remained a quiet example of righteousness.
Although I married a Church member, neither of us felt the urgency or necessity of living the standards we had been taught in our youth. But as time went by, life in our home changed radically for the worse.
Because of the difficult problems we were facing, my wife decided to start attending church with our daughter. I had no desire to go with them, yet they returned home each week and shared what they had learned. Some time later I began to receive visits from home teachers, two faithful brethren who somehow envisioned my divine potential even though I couldn’t.
Slowly, a change began to take place in my heart, but I refused to acknowledge it at first. Every Sunday my wife would iron my clothes with the hope that I would attend church with her. I was too stubborn to put on the clothes, but I started going to sacrament meeting in jeans and a T-shirt. As less-active members often do, I sat on the bench nearest the door so I could be the last one in and the first one out without having anyone speak to me.
After several months I realized I was not being a good example to my children or blessing my family with the priesthood as I should. I made the decision to never again miss a day of church. I had watched the application of gospel principles brighten my life, and I realized that this simple decision should have been made long ago.
How eager the Lord was to bless my family and me! My wife and I and our children were soon sealed to each other in the Santiago Chile Temple.
I am grateful for a mother who diligently taught me the principles of the gospel, for a wife who encouraged me through her love and example to live them, for faithful home teachers, and for a Father in Heaven who patiently waited for me to live the gospel so He could bless me more than I thought possible.