Gospel Story Finder

Eight-year-old Jürgen Hiller’s parents are very important to him. He is very grateful that his father is alive and doing well. On August 31, 1992, Jürgen’s father woke up in a hospital. While driving to work, he had been in a terrible car accident. His spine was injured, and both thighs were broken. The doctors said that it was doubtful that he would live and that if by some miracle he did, that he would be paralyzed for life.
But the Hiller family believes in miracles. Through fasting and many prayers, Brother Hiller lived and was not paralyzed. Jürgen and his family are thankful for a Heavenly Father who hears and answers prayers.

Many students in the United States recite the Pledge of Allegiance out of habit, but Daniel Harmer took it seriously when his school in Idaho did not recite the pledge or observe a moment of silence; his previous school in Texas had done this every day. He wrote a letter to his student council, a local newspaper, and his principal. He suggested the pledge and a moment of quiet reflection every morning could create an atmosphere in which students would respect each other and their country more. Daniel’s high school has put his suggestion into practice, and his efforts were even recognized by Idaho’s governor.

Although President Benson loved horses and would always admire a good team more than a good car, his timing was perfect for greeting the age of the auto in Whitney. “When I was 16, on the farm, Father purchased his first car, a 1915 Dodge. It was of solid, substantial construction, but rode like a hay wagon. There were very few cars in the community. Uncle John Dunkley was the first one to get a car, which was a Ford. The children would all gather around it after Sunday School, to see him crank it and start it off down the road. There were no paved roads in our county anywhere.

“Occasionally Father would let us drive to a distant town for a basketball game, dance, or other entertainment. One Saturday we drove to Logan. The only stretch of pavement between Whitney or Preston and Logan was from Smithfield to Logan. There is a slight slope to the south toward Logan. I pushed the Dodge to the limit this particular Saturday and got the speed up to 51 miles per hour. When I reported this to Father and to the people back in the Whitney Ward, they were shocked to think I had dared to drive at that terrific speed and seemed to question whether the car would actually go that fast or not. I finally had to get evidence from some of the other boys who were with me to confirm my claim of the 51 miles per hour, which was the highest record of speed known in the community at that time.”

As a young college student of peace and conflict studies, I took great interest in any process that could be used for resolving conflict. One life-altering conversation with a friend introduced me to a process that I had never heard of before: companionship council.
While sharing about his mission, my friend told me that companionship council is the regular check-in where missionary companionships discuss how they are working together and how to improve. My friend had found the process so helpful as a missionary that he planned to use it in his marriage someday. The idea sank deep into my heart. I read about companionship council in Preach My Gospel and talked to other returned missionaries about their experiences with it. I saw how companionship councils, similar to family councils, could be used to address and prevent many of the destructive conflicts we face in our relationships today.
My husband, James, and I began holding weekly companionship councils before we were even married. I can still remember our first meeting. James was so open, kind, understanding, and willing to take my thoughts seriously that I felt confident in our ability to build a happy marriage.
Now well into our life together, we have continued the tradition of weekly companionship council. While our relationship isn’t perfect, we both agree that the many sessions we’ve held have helped us find deeper joy and fulfillment in our marriage than we thought possible.
Taking notes will also help you to remember—in the words of President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985)—“your triumphs over adversity, your recovery after a fall, your progress when all seemed black, [and] your rejoicing when you [succeed].” James and I are so grateful that we have kept a record of the nearly 800 companionship council sessions we have held over the years. What a joy it is to look back and see how far we’ve come!

I think of my neighbor whose wife was afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease. Every Sunday he would help her dress for Church meetings, comb her hair, apply her makeup, even put on her earrings. In rendering this service, he was an example to every man and woman in our ward—in fact, for the world. One day his wife said to him, “I just want to see my husband again and be with him.”

He answered, “I am your husband.”

And she sweetly replied, “Oh, good!”

My experience trying a new recipe was surprisingly similar to my recent experience with setting goals.
Normally I love making goals. But this time I felt discouraged as I realized I was, once again, setting the same goal I’d been setting for years. I’d been wanting to change a habit but hadn’t made any progress. I felt like a failure.
Similar to how I felt about that bûche de Noël recipe, I felt like I wasn’t turning into who I wanted to be.
Jesus Christ, through His Atonement, is there to help me with my weaknesses, right? I found myself wondering why I was still the same, even though I was striving to turn to Him.
My thoughts continued to spiral in discouragement. And then I had a disheartening thought: “If I’m still the same weak, imperfect human I was five years ago, am I even worth the sacrifice He made?”
The Lord told His servants that “the worth of souls is great in the sight of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 18:10). In Matthew, Jesus said: “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows” (Matthew 10:29–31).
God knows every creature. If He cares about the number of hairs on our head, He definitely cares about our efforts and desires to overcome our weaknesses.
Pondering this, I realized, “Yes, I am worth it. We are all worth it.”
Jesus went after the one lost sheep because He cares about each of us—individually (see Luke 15:4–7).
Recognizing the perfect love that He and Heavenly Father have for us reminded me that though it takes work to improve, I am worth the sacrifice the Savior made.

Nellie’s father died on October 22, 1856, from hunger and exposure to the cold. Five days later her mother died too. Graves could be dug only in the snow because the early winter had frozen the ground. Nellie and Maggie wearily and sadly walked on alone. They watched as more of the company died and the weather’s cold fierceness strengthened.
One day as Nellie and her sister made their way at the head of the group, two men appeared and motioned for them to come closer. At first the girls refused but soon decided that the men meant no harm. The men gave Nellie some money and instructed her to buy something to put on her feet at the trappers’ trading post they were nearing. Nellie gratefully accepted the money and the chance to cover her bare feet, which had long since grown numb with cold.
In Salt Lake City, President Brigham Young had called for volunteers to meet the handcart company on the plains. When the volunteers finally reached the company, near Laramie, Wyoming, they found the pitiful group nearly buried by the snow. Nellie’s feet were badly frozen. The rescue party gathered her and the remaining members of the company into their wagons and returned to Salt Lake, arriving on November 30.
Nearly everyone in the handcart company had endured painfully frozen feet, hands, and ears and had witnessed the deaths of family members and friends. The doctor had to amputate Nellie’s feet. There was no skin to cushion the bone, so she was left with throbbing sores that never healed.
Nellie and her sister eventually moved south from the Salt Lake Valley to Cedar City. Here Nellie married William Unthank and reared their six children. With a leather apron slid under her damaged legs, Nellie crawled about their small home on her knees, keeping it spotless.
Nellie willingly worked at whatever she could to help provide for her family. Along with other jobs, she took in other people’s clothes to wash, and made articles to sell to add to the family income. If anyone offered food or assistance, she insisted on repaying the favor. As a way of showing gratitude, she gathered her children once a year to clean the church meetinghouse. While the boys carried water, the girls washed windows, and Nellie scrubbed the floors.
William carved wooden “cup feet” for Nellie, but they only irritated her never-healing stumps. Later, through donations, wooden legs were given to Nellie, but these she only wore on special occasions, because they added to her constant pain.
Despite poverty and pain, Nellie rarely complained. She had come to know her Heavenly Father in her sufferings. From the shoes provided for her bare feet, the carriage sent when she couldn’t go on, help given to her through a lifetime of affliction, Nellie Pucell Unthank knew she could count on the Lord.

“Let me tell you about two of your fellow elders I was with last week who walked together up by Lukachukai.
“I learned about them when I attended a stake conference. Among the speakers that morning was a handsome Navajo boy. He was frightened by this first experience at public speaking, but he was sustained by faith and by a deep, sincere testimony. Only a few short months before, the Church was unknown to him.
“Two of our young elders drove their truck as far up a muddy, rutted road as they could go and then ‘two walked together’ the remaining eight miles through mud and snow to teach a man and his grandson. Because of their dedication and determination, this young man, now a baptized member filled with the spirit of love and testimony, was speaking to the congregation. He, too, will soon be on a mission, walking with a companion down some distant country road or city street. He will walk his way into the homes and hearts of those who are seeking the Lord. Oh, the high adventure of missionary work!”

The second experience also involved the loss of an ox and the ill treatment of Mary Fielding Smith by a wagon master who had had personal differences with her. Whenever people are thrown together in such a manner as they were in pioneer companies, tempers in some are prone to flare, and frictions may develop. Almost every boy who has attended a scout camp or national guard camp, or girl a girl’s camp, is aware of this problem.
So, it was almost inevitable that friction would arise among pioneer companies.
The difference of opinion in this case had arisen from the fact that the supervisor had felt Widow Smith was not prepared with sufficient supplies and equipment to reach the valley and that she would be a burden upon any company she joined. Finally, he concluded, “I will have to carry you along or leave you on the way.” To which Mary Fielding Smith replied, “I will beat you to the valley and will ask no help from you either.” And thus the verbal battle lines were drawn and the company set off. All proceeded about as well as possible until about midway between the Platte and the Sweetwater Rivers, at which time one of Sister Smith’s oxen laid down in the yoke as if poisoned. To all outward appearances the ox was in the throes of death. It stiffened out spasmodically, and all supposed it would die momentarily. The wagons behind were also brought to a stop as the captain of the company came running forward, “blustering about, as if the world were about at an end.”
“There,” said he, “I told you you would have to be helped and that you would be a burden on the company.” But in this he was mistaken. Producing a bottle of consecrated oil, Widow Smith asked her brother and James Lawson if they would please administer to the ox just as they would do to a sick person, for it was vital to her interest that the ox be restored. Her earnest plea was complied with. These brethren poured oil on the head of the ox and then laid their hands upon it and rebuked the power of the destroyer. Immediately the ox got up and within a very few moments again pulled in the yoke as if nothing had ever happened. This was a great astonishment to the company. Before the company had proceeded very far, another of her oxen fell down as the first, but with the same treatment he also got up, and this was repeated the third time.
Through all of these proceedings young Joseph F. was an observer, sensing the power of the priesthood being exhibited by his uncle, but also noting the deep faith of his widowed mother, a woman who was to leave a deep impression upon his life. Four years after entering the valley—at the age of fourteen—he was to lose his mother to death, and then was without father or mother.

The Dauphins’ mother, who is single, isn’t a member of the Church, and she often has to be at work on Monday evenings. So Marco and Rosenelle hold family home evening, complete with a game, songs, prayers, and a lesson. Sometimes the full-time missionaries are invited.

It’s a challenge to coordinate their activities in the Church, but the Dauphins say the effort is worth it. “Joining the Church was a real relief for us,” says Marco. “When we have the Spirit in our home, we feel closer together. We just feel better.”

I have discussed the duty of priesthood leaders and members to care for their families, quorums, wards, and stakes. I should like now to discuss another aspect of priesthood responsibility, which is our privilege to sustain those in authority over us. Wilford Woodruff recorded a remarkable account which illustrates the importance of this responsibility.
In the early days of the Church, President Brigham Young asked Wilford Woodruff to take his family to Boston and gather the Saints from New England and Canada and send them to Zion. With a company of 100, they arrived at Pittsburgh at sundown. Brother Woodruff recorded:
“We did not want to stay there, so I went to the first steamboat that was going to leave. I saw the captain and engaged passage for us on that steamer. I had only just done so when the spirit said to me, … ‘Don’t go aboard that steamer, nor your company.’ Of course, I went and spoke to the captain, and told him [that] I had made up my mind to wait.
“Well, that ship started, and had only got five miles down the river when it took fire, and three hundred persons were burned to death or drowned.” What if the Saints had not followed the counsel of Wilford Woodruff? All wisely chose to be obedient. Had they not done so, they would have perished.

Because of their service in Tonga, Rebecca, David, and Nattalie had many opportunities to share the gospel. Even before the Downeys left Colorado, people became interested in their journey and, then, the Church. “Our neighbors asked for a Book of Mormon and started to read it. Friends started to take the missionary discussions and asked if they could keep writing their questions about the Church to us by e-mail,” says David.

Rebecca and Nattalie say their own testimonies grew from the experience, as well. Rebecca adds that serving in Tonga helped her realize what was truly of worth. “I have become more humble. The people there were a great example to me. I realize that people are more important than things.” To illustrate, she recounts her family taking some of their used clothing to a family devastated by a typhoon. In gratitude, the Tongan family gave the Downeys a bowl of peanuts that they had salvaged from what was left of their crop after the storm. “That represented about a month’s worth of income for them,” notes Rebecca. “We gave them our leftovers, and they gave us everything they had.”

Now back home in Colorado, the teens are readjusting to a land-locked existence and missing their friends in Tonga. But thanks to their year abroad, they think they might know what it takes to move a mountain: faith, love, and an unquenchable desire to serve. That, and a whole lot of toothbrushes.

Colonel Thomas L. Kane, a nonmember of the Church, spoke to the Historical Society of Philadelphia, as recorded in the memoirs of John R. Young. He told them that during his travels a few years before, he had passed through a very unusual city named Nauvoo, a community established on the banks of the Mississippi. He explained that after traveling up the river for some time, he left the steamer and began to travel on land because of the rapids in the river.
While on the road, he had seen only unimproved country where idlers and outlaws had settled. Then he saw Nauvoo. Quoting him:
“I was descending the last hillside upon my journey, when a landscape in delightful contrast broke upon my view. Half encircled by a bend of the river, a beautiful city lay glittering in the fresh morning sun. Its bright new dwellings [were] set in cool green gardens ranging up around a stately dome-shaped hill, which was crowned by a noble marble edifice, whose high tapering spire was radiant with white and gold. The city appeared to cover several miles, and beyond it, in the backgrounds, there rolled off a fair country chequered by the careful lines of fruitful husbandry. The unmistakable marks of industry, enterprise and educated wealth everywhere, made the scene one of singular and most striking beauty. … No one met me there. I looked and saw no one. I could hear no one move, though the quiet everywhere was such that I heard the flies buzz and the water ripples break against the shallow beach. I walked through the solitary streets. The town lay as in a dream, under some deadening spell of loneliness, from which I almost feared to wake it, for plainly it had not slept long. There was no grass growing up in the paved ways, rains had not entirely washed away the prints of dusty footsteps, yet I went about unchecked. I went into empty workshops, rope walks and smithies. The spinner’s wheel was idle, the carpenter had gone from his work bench and shavings, his unfinished sash and casings, fresh bark was in the tanner’s vat, and fresh chopped light wood stood piled against the baker’s oven. The blacksmith’s shop was cold; but his coal heap and ladling pool and crooked water horn were all there, as if he had just gone for a holiday. …
“Fields upon fields of heavy headed yellow grain lay rotting. … No one was at hand to take in their rich harvest.” (Memoirs of John R. Young, Utah Pioneer 1847, Salt Lake City: Deseret News, 1920, pp. 31–33.)
Colonel Kane could not understand why such a beautiful city had been abandoned. He was unaware that the Saints had been driven from their city by the mobs. His curiosity caused him to search for the people who had left the city. When he found them, he observed that even though they were suffering and dying from hunger and exposure, they were peaceful and wholesome. Why had such a harmless people been so persecuted?

I first discovered the garage when I was seven years old and spending the day at my grandparents’ house. I quickly settled into my routine of playing with toys in their living room. Just as I jumped my toy car off of the armrest of the sofa, my grandpa walked through the den wearing a set of blue overalls covered in stains and his favorite “Ford Racing” hat. Opening the sliding door and stepping over the threshold, he looked back to find me staring at him wide-eyed. With a wink, he motioned for me to follow him.
As we walked across the backyard and came to the door of the gray garage, Grandpa reached into his pocket and retrieved his keys. Slowly and methodically, he fingered through the keys with his big, calloused hands that were the result of a lifetime of hard work. Finally, he found the old brass key he was looking for, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door.
After climbing over boxes and tiptoeing around engine parts and transmission pieces, we stood in the middle of the garage. Grandpa showed me around, pointing to various parts and explaining what they did in a way that my seven-year-old mind could understand. He pointed out the cars he was fixing and what they needed to run well again. One was a 1940s-era roadster that looked just like one of my toy cars. The other was a 1965 Mustang that was lying in pieces all over the floor. It was amazing how much my grandpa knew and how he could figure out exactly what was wrong with something so complex. His stories of growing up in a family of 12 and buying old cars, repainting them, and selling them to make money made me laugh and the stories of car crashes and real fiery explosions astounded me.
Over the years I’ve put in my share of elbow grease in Grandpa’s garage. I would change oil in the countless cars that rolled into the shop, driven by people asking for my grandpa to work on their vehicles. Grandpa would always smile and treat his loyal customers to at least a half-hour’s worth of conversation. I helped clean the brake drums and apply body filler to the Mustang, which soon became my favorite car in the garage. We spent many hours working in the crowded space. I treasured the time I got to spend with my grandpa working in the garage.
When I was nine, I moved away and no longer got to spend time in the garage with Grandpa. A few years later the distance multiplied when my grandparents were called to serve a mission in Hawaii. However, it was truly a blessing. My grandpa finally got the chance to serve the Lord as a missionary. Growing up in such a large family meant that money was limited, and a full-time mission wasn’t possible for him when he was young. While my grandpa had the desire to serve, a full-time mission involved a great deal of sacrifice. I had always wanted to serve a mission, and seeing my grandparents serve and the blessings that came from their service bolstered my desire. When my grandpa came back, the garage was waiting for him. The sounds of power tools and metal once again reverberated through the walls.
The years have raced by, and I am older now. But working with Grandpa is still special to me. Whenever I come back to visit, it seems like there is always a new project or something that needs to be done. The distance makes me treasure our time together so much more.
I recently visited during the summer, and Grandpa gave me that familiar wink as he motioned for me to follow him. Expecting a new job, I followed willingly. As he lifted the door to the garage, what I saw took my breath away. There stood a beautifully restored 1965 Mustang. The body filler had been covered with a beautiful copper metallic paint, and the brake drums were now masked by flawless new rims. Big white racing stripes flowed up the front of the car from the chrome front bumper to the chrome rear bumper, and the shiny running horse pranced across the front of the grill. He put the key into the ignition, and the huge V-8 engine roared to life. He looked at me and smiled, then he asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I quickly said yes, and with that, we backed the car out of the garage and took off down the street.
As I make preparations to serve a mission, I look forward to following in my grandpa’s footsteps once again as I serve the Lord. My grandpa has not only taught me many things about cars, but he has also taught me many things about life. From all the hours we spent in the garage, I’ve learned how to be patient and take pride in my work. Because of his incredible people skills, I’ve learned how to approach and talk to people. And above all, he helped me discover who I truly am. Just like the Mustang, I have been piecing myself together over the last 18 years, and now, with help from Grandpa, I am finally ready for the open road.

Chris may not have believed it, but I really hadn’t planned to teach him about the gospel that day. He was just a neighbor boy who used to hang around. He happened to be over at our house when the missionaries stopped by to use the phone.
“Who are they?” Chris asked as the two elders walked past us, their dark suits and white shirts a strong contrast to my friend’s T-shirt and tennis shoes.
“They are missionaries from our church,” I responded. One of them overheard us and grinned at me as if to ask permission to join the conversation. I nodded enthusiastically.
“We’re missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Is that your church?” Chris asked me.
“Yes!” I said proudly.
“Would you like to know more about our church?” the elder asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” Chris said, looking down at his shoes. “Guess it won’t hurt anything,” he finally answered. “My grandpa always said it’s good to learn new things.”
The elders then began to talk about Jesus Christ and His love for us. They asked Chris to read a scripture from the New Testament, which he did with great sincerity. They established that he already had a basic testimony of the Atonement, helped him define Christ’s role in our lives, and then moved on to talk about the First Vision.
Again, they had Chris read scriptures. They bore their own testimonies, and then asked him how he felt about the message they had just shared. This time he was a little more unsure. The story of Joseph Smith was something altogether new to him.
“Well, I don’t know how I feel about that,” Chris said quietly. “It was a long time ago. You seem to know, but I don’t. It could have happened. I don’t know.” Then he paused for a moment, and his voice came through bold and bright. “But here’s something I do know. I know that what this world needs right now is a prophet. That’s what we really need. We need a prophet who’s alive on this earth today!”
By this time, a few of my family members had joined us in the living room, and as Chris spoke, we all looked at each other. An electrifying bolt of energy burst through us, but I was the first to speak. Okay, it was more like a shout of joy.
“We have one! We have one!” I grabbed his arm so quickly he was startled. “We do have a living prophet! His name is Gordon B. Hinckley, and he is the leader of our church.”
The elders began scrambling in their bags, searching for a picture. Chris smiled at my outburst and actually backed a few feet away in case I attacked him again. He gladly accepted a Book of Mormon and scheduled another appointment with the missionaries.
His family moved away very soon after, and I never heard whether Chris accepted the gospel. But I do know that everyone in the room that day felt the yearning of a young man wishing the world had a modern-day prophet.

Tamra Goldsberry is making an important statement to the local media in her hometown of Lilburn, Georgia. But this 16-year-old from the Lilburn Georgia Stake is also making an important statement by setting the example of serving others.
Tamra, along with several other young people and the adult leaders in her stake, recently helped to can 600 cans of tomato soup for a nearby children’s shelter. The youth service project not only attracted the attention of the evening news, but also an interfaith broadcast in the Atlanta area which will include information about the canning project and information about a typical LDS Sunday service.

For this story you will need 5? x 6? (12.5 cm x 15 cm) piece of paper, pencil, scissors, and crayons or colored pencils. Fold the paper in half lengthwise and trace pattern onto it. As you read the story, cut as directed.
Fold Pattern
Every Friday was show-and-tell day at Mi Lee’s school. Mrs. Green, her teacher, had made show-and-tell time a game. If you had something to share, you were to bring it to school all covered up so that it would be a secret. Then, during show-and-tell time, you would give the other children clues about your surprise, and they would try to guess what it was. (Cut 1 to 2.)
Mi Lee watched while her classmates shared a doll with hair that grew, a rocket that zoomed toward the ceiling, a book with pages that folded out into a house, and a collection of tiny glass animals. But Mi Lee hadn’t yet taken anything to share. (Cut on dotted line, 2 to 3.)
Then one day Mi Lee received a package from her grandfather in Japan. (Cut 3 to 4.)
The next day Mi Lee carried a large paper bag to school (Cut 4 to 5.)
When Mrs. Green called on her, Mi Lee gave these clues:
“Sometimes it’s open; sometimes it’s closed.” (Cut 5 to 6.)
“When it’s open, it’s too big to go through a door, but I can carry it in one hand.” (Cut 6 to 7.)
“I can use it on hot, sunny days or I can use it on wet, rainy days. What is it?” (Cut 7 to 8.)
Unfold the paper and see what Mi Lee shared, then color it.

She was shy. I was outgoing. Why was she getting all the attention?
This question must have passed through my mind a million times every Sunday during my early teen years. Donna Gilliam was in my Beehive class, a quiet, pretty girl whose parents were deaf. Because of this she knew sign language perfectly. And all the adults thought that was so sweet. She would translate at Young Women functions, and the mothers would cry. She would translate at everything. And everyone, except me it seemed, was deeply moved.
That was a time in my life when I was selfish, wanting attention, wanting to be in the spotlight. But competing with Donna was impossible. In her shy way, she, and her family too, found a special place in our meetings and in the hearts of the ward members. Nevertheless, my jealousy continued.
A month after my fourteenth birthday, my mother was in a very serious car accident. Though she did not die, she suffered serious injuries. She had to stay in the hospital in traction for a month and a half. The accident happened in November, and it soon became clear that our mother would be spending Christmas in the hospital. Because it was important to include her in all the family activities we could, that meant we too would be spending Christmas in the hospital.
Others in my family looked forward to that Christmas as a “special experience” or more likely a growing experience. I viewed it as plain terrible.
I wasn’t much of a spiritual uplift to my family on Christmas Eve. I isolated myself in the corner of the hospital room and just sat there feeling sorry for myself. We were all just looking at each other, getting ready to open our Christmas presents, but somehow the usual anticipation and excitement were missing.
That’s when Donna walked in.
“Hello, Sister Fee,” she said quietly to my mother as her parents came in behind her. “We just came by for a minute. We thought we might sing.”
We all looked up in surprise. Her parents were deaf! How could they sing? I put my presents to the side and lifted my head in interest. I wasn’t exactly happy that they were going to sing, considering my jealousy of Donna, but I listened anyway.
I wasn’t at all prepared for the feelings that burst from within me as I listened to their soft voices sing “Silent Night.” Their hands moved in simultaneous motions, telling of the Christ child and heavenly peace. Tears spilled from my eyes, though I tried to control them. I heard the soft crying of my mother from the hospital bed. Donna’s eyes were tear-filled too. It became all too clear to me that I had been unfair to her.
When the song ended, their hands rested at their sides. We all looked at each other, overcome with emotion. Then they left, as quietly as they had come. Still in the corner of the room, I pondered the new perspective I had gained. Why had I ever been jealous of her? She had a very special talent. She and her family had brought a special spirit into our Christmas, changing it from a gloomy one into a celebration of renewal and hope. The Spirit assured me that my mom would be okay. That Spirit also brought me a new realization that I had talents too.
Right there in that hospital room I then promised myself that I would work on my own talents and stop being jealous of others. With that goal in mind, I found peace within myself. The song repeated softly in my head, “Silent night, holy night.”
All was calm in my heart.

Meet Kennedy Basatiweln Ntanan, a member of the Accra Ghana Madina Stake, who spoke at a recent relaunch of the Gathering Place. During the event, he shared how attending classes there transformed his professional life. Initially disengaged, he found a renewed purpose when a work opportunity emerged that required a detailed data summary. Thanks to the Microsoft tools he learned at the Gathering Place, he skillfully led his team in creating clear and effective graphs for a client.
This experience impressed his client and bolstered Kennedy’s reputation as a valuable employee. He credits his success to the skills and confidence gained at the Gathering Place, proving that education can unlock new opportunities and enhance careers. Kennedy is now an enthusiastic advocate for attending classes at the Gathering Place.

Jax was super nervous about performing his talent, Irish dancing, at the FSY variety show. “I was really, really terrified. Like I’m-in-a-pit-of-snakes terrified,” he says. “I said a little prayer before I got up there. I was still terrified, but then the music came on. I pretended no one was there. And I just started dancing.”

Jax hopped and moved his legs in traditional Irish fashion. But seeing Jax’s cheery face, most people probably wouldn’t guess that it was quite the journey to get there.

“In 2020 I was really stressed and even suicidal,” Jax says. “I was in a mental health hospital for a month. I found out I had pediatric brain inflammation and learned I was autistic. It was really, really hard.”

Once Jax had received some treatment for his mental health, his mom encouraged him to find a physical outlet to help manage his stress. He decided to seek personal revelation about what he could do.

“I prayed about it and asked for help,” he says. “And I remembered that my aunt was teaching Irish dance. So I started the class right before our big Christmas show. I had to learn like five dances in two weeks, so that was fun,” Jax jokes. Soon, Irish dance became a huge blessing in his life. “It really helped with my stress levels and dark feelings,” he says.

At FSY, Jax’s company asked him if he had a talent he could share in the variety show. So he danced on the sidewalk for them. When they told him he should perform, Jax’s first thought was, “Oh, no.” But he decided to share his talent even though he was afraid.

Now that Jax has seen videos of himself performing at FSY, he can’t help but laugh. “I had a completely straight face for the first part,” he says. “But then people started cheering, and I started smiling.”

For youth who are struggling, Jax gives this advice: “It’s better to talk about it with someone than hide it like I did. The Lord knows who you are, and He’ll be there for you. The Lord wants to help you.”

Overall, Jax feels that learning Irish dance has been a blessing from Heavenly Father.