Gospel Story Finder

Though few in number, Saints in the Galapagos Islands, located off the coast of Ecuador in the Pacific Ocean, are strong in faith. In September the members saw the completion of the islands’ first meetinghouse.
The rented building where the Galapagos Islands Branch previously held services, referred to as “el Castillo Blanco” by the members, wasn’t large enough to hold sacrament meeting in any single room, so members had to meet in three rooms at one time.
When Elder Floyd and Sister Susan Baum, the senior missionary couple assigned to the islands, first entered the new building, they were humbled to tears. “It is absolutely beautiful,” said Elder Baum. “The workmanship is of the highest order.”

Even during the horror of World War II in the Netherlands—with my husband in hiding, bombs exploding, cold and hunger—the Spirit of our loving Father kept us close to God and close to the Saints. One day when I was serving as Relief Society president, I went with my ten-year-old daughter to visit an older sister who lived alone. When we arrived at Sister Smit’s small home she was reading. She told us she was so hungry that she had decided to read the Bible, because spiritual food could fill her, too.

In those days food was rationed, and in my pocket was a coupon for a loaf of bread for our children. I felt so concerned for this hungry sister that I gave my daughter the coupon and sent her to buy bread for Sister Smit. On the way home, I wondered how I would tell my children that I had given away the bread. I knew I had done the right thing, but now what was I going to feed them.

Upon arriving home, I found the answer. Some family friends in Zwolle had arranged for a letter to be hand-carried to us by their nephew. With the letter were three bread coupons.

Over the years, our Heavenly Father has continued to bless us in miraculous ways. In 1947 our daughter was called to serve a mission. Although we had very little money, and our family would greatly miss the income from her job, we agreed to support her. Never was our family so blessed as during our daughter’s mission. Occasionally someone would tell me that they wished their child could serve a mission, but that they didn’t have the money. I always told them that we didn’t have the money either, but that the Lord blessed us so that somehow we were able to support her each month.

As I look back over my eighty years, I feel that among my greatest privileges in life has been to know that I am a child of God, and that he will guide me through mortality if I will stay close to him. And if I am worthy, he will be waiting to greet me in his “holy courts on high.”

Emilia:
When my sister, Custodia, was born, I could immediately see that she was heaven sent. I saw it in her eyes. Custodia and I were close growing up. Because of her limitations, I often carried her because she couldn’t walk. Sometimes she would have several epilepsy attacks a day, so it was hard to care for her at times, but I was always close by to help my mother. When my mother became sick, I cared for both of them.
At that time, my mother was getting older and had difficulty caring for Custodia. She decided to go to a care center. Custodia went to a facility that cares for people with disabilities. That’s when we started to pick her up and have her stay with us every weekend. We did this for about four years.
Just before my mother died, my husband and I visited her. She held our hands and told us she trusted us to take care of Custodia. We told her we would. For the last 15 years, my sister has lived with us and we have cared for her.
Of course it was hard in the beginning. I had to leave my job to take care of my sister. But it has been a blessing. When Ulisses and I were first married, we discovered we couldn’t have children. Custodia is like a child sent from God for us to take care of. In many ways, she helps fill the void we feel being childless. She’s loving and caring. She loves to laugh and loves going to church. She is a joy.
Ulisses:
When I was called to serve as bishop, I had to think if I would be able to fulfill my duties at home and with my calling. Emilia and I talked about it and we realized that we could do this together if we put our trust in God.
Serving my family has always spiritually uplifted me. Although we do not have as much alone time as a couple, we are close to each other spiritually. We are closer as a family. The whole time we have seen the hand of the Lord helping us. He has showed us miracle after miracle. We are truly blessed.
The Maio family love to go to a local restaurant, where they visit with their friends and neighbors.
A friend of the Maio family stops to say hello to Custodia. Emilia says that people are drawn to Custodia because “she’s loving and caring. She is a joy.”

All of Moonta’s friends, even children much younger than he, knew how to skate. But for four long years there had been no ice except during a time when Moonta was ill and had to stay in bed. Moonta yearned for a chance to learn to skate as well as his champion parents, and finally a big freeze came. Moonta was out on the ice long before anyone else in the village of Wierum, at the edge of the North Sea. His eagerness and impatience to skate led Moonta into all kinds of exciting adventures.
Illustrations by Nancy Grossman give a genuine feeling of the Dutch atmosphere.
Meindert DeJong was winner of the 1954 Newbery Award for The Wheel on the School and of the Hans Christian Andersen Award in 1969 for Journey to Peppermint Street. Both of these excellent books are memorable, powerful stories about the Netherlands.

Our stake includes a branch at a local assisted-living center because many of those who live in the center are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My husband, Cal, and I had been serving there for a few weeks when, one Sunday, I made an observation that strengthened my faith in Christ.
We were called to be a ministering couple, which means we do whatever is needed to share the love of the Lord with the residents. We set up and take down tables and chairs for sacrament meeting. And push wheelchairs. And weep and laugh. And encourage and listen. And minister. Minister. Minister. And we love it.
One of my new friends is 93-year-old Fay (names have been changed). She saves me a seat next to her in sacrament meeting. She uses a walker. She’s got a bit of dementia. But she has a hearty laugh and a tender spirit. She always comes to church dressed in her Sunday best.
Another new friend, John, is a World War II veteran. He is on oxygen. He’s in a wheelchair. But he blesses the sacrament every Sunday, and his voice is firm and strong. He always comes to church in a suit and white shirt, wearing a tie.
As I looked around the room today and saw Fay and John and six rows of other members of our branch, I observed their faith. Not one of them easily walks to the meeting. But they come.
It is not an easy, quick get-ready-for-church for any of them. But they come.
In dresses and skirts. In white shirts and ties. The priesthood holders bless the sacrament, unable to kneel but humble and exact in offering the sacrament prayers.
They sing. They pray. They bear testimony.
Life is ebbing away for them. And yet they have the gospel in their bones. They want to endure to the end in faith. It’s not easy for any of them to get up, get dressed, and come to church. But they do it. In their way, they are ministering too.
Serving in the assisted-living branch has been such a tender experience for me as I remember the Sundays I spent with my dad at his care center at the end of his life. Today, after Cal and I got home from our ministering, two scriptures came to my mind:
“He will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy” (Alma 7:12).
“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? shall tribulation, or distress?” (Romans 8:35).
My Sunday observation leads to my testimony that Jesus Christ knows everything. Everything. And I know that nothing—not age or location or difficulty—can separate us from His care, His love, His concern, and His Atonement.
For the closing hymn today, we sang “How Firm a Foundation.” We sang all the verses because our branch loves to sing the hymns. I was especially touched by this verse:
E’en down to old age, all my people shall prove
My sov’reign, eternal, unchangeable love;
And then, when gray hair shall their temples adorn,
Like lambs shall they still … in my bosom be borne.1
The author lives in Utah.

The small auditorium was brimming with people, most of them family friends and relatives. As a young man dressed in a formal black suit, white shirt, and black bow tie entered from a hallway to the rear of the stage, the audience began applauding. But when he stopped before the piano he was about to play and indicated he had something to say, the applause subsided.
“This concert, as you know, is dedicated to my 99-year-old grandmother Alice L. Kenner,” he said. “I would like to tell her that I love her very much.” Then the applause began again.
Only a couple of days before, Kevin Kenner, 19, had been a semifinalist in the 1982 Gina Bachauer International Piano Competition held in Salt Lake City, Utah. The Bachauer competition is considered one of the top piano events in the United States, narrowing a field of 200 entrants from all over the world down to 50 performers, then 15 semifinalists and six finalists. The winner not only receives a piano and prize money, but also a recital opportunity in New York.
Although Kevin didn’t make it to the finals (as he has in other competition), he was given a special recognition as the “most promising performer.” He was glad to receive the recognition, but he was also disappointed that he hadn’t made it beyond the top 15. He could have packed his bags and returned home to California to the rigorous practice schedule he had set to prepare for school in the fall.
Instead, Kevin was giving a free performance, open to anyone. That’s the kind of person he is. “It’s fine to make music for yourself, and sometimes you want to make music for music’s sake or for the judges,” he said. “But music is at its best when you share it with others. Audiences are who you make the music for.”

As the Taylor family gathered around the dinner table, Shauna knew that her mother was upset.
“I have an announcement to make,” Mother said quietly, halfway through dinner.
Shauna put her fork down and looked at her mother.
“I have come to the conclusion,” Mother declared, “that this house is haunted.”
“You mean with a ghost?” Peter asked, his eyes growing big.
Shauna thought that ghosts existed only in books and movies.
“What makes you think there’s a ghost here?” Kathy asked. “I just read an article about a house people claim is haunted, but I don’t believe in—”
“I haven’t seen a ghost,” Tim interrupted.
“It’s the only explanation left,” Mother continued. “Too many things are happening that none of us are responsible for.”
“What things?” Shauna asked for all of them. “Oh, I found wet bath towels on the floor after you children hung them up. An entire package of cookies disappeared the other day when each of you had only two.”
Shauna watched Tim’s face turn red as he squirmed in his seat.
“Then, there are the dirty dishes,” Dad added. “We know that you children always wash your dishes when you fix something to eat. But every time I come into the kitchen, I find dirty dishes all over. This ghost has been very hungry lately.”
“It’s also been sneaking into empty rooms and turning on the lights. The other day it even turned on the TV during study time,” Mother went on.
“Does anyone know who’s responsible for this?” Dad asked.
The room remained silent.
“In that case,” Dad concluded, “we must have a ghost.” Shauna thought about the “ghost” several times that evening as she finished her homework and got ready for bed. Her mother had looked very tired tonight. Maybe if the Taylor ghost were a little better behaved, things would run more smoothly for Mom and for the whole family.
No one was home when Shauna returned from school the next afternoon. She removed her backpack, dug the house key out of its side pocket, and let herself in.
The house was a mess! Breakfast dishes were still on the counter. The living room hadn’t been touched since the night before. And towels were draped everywhere in the bathroom. Obviously, Mom had not been there all day, as she usually was.
Shauna picked up a note on the kitchen table. “Dear children,” it read, “Grandma is not feeling well. I’m taking her to the doctor and then cleaning her house. Peter is going to Mrs. Pulsipher’s after school. Please pick him up. I’ll be home in time for Tim’s award banquet.”
Shauna went to pick up Peter. When they returned, Tim and Kathy were just getting home from school.
“I hope Grandma isn’t too sick,” Kathy said after reading the note.
“Me, too,” Tim said.
“This place is really a mess, isn’t it?” Shauna asked as they walked through the house to the kitchen.
Tim laughed. “It looks like the Taylor ghost and its friends have been here. Speaking of friends, I think I’ll run over to Jeff’s and pick up a book I want to read. I hope Mom didn’t forget about the muffins we have to take to the banquet tonight.”
“We can’t leave this mess for Mom,” Shauna protested.
“Get the ghost to clean it up,” Peter suggested. “That’s a good idea,” Kathy agreed.
“I’m no ghost,” Tim argued. “I’m out of here.”
“I sure hope the ghost doesn’t tell Dad that you left without doing your homework,” Shauna said as Tim opened the front door.
All right,” he groaned, returning to the kitchen. “But let’s get this over with. I don’t want to spend all afternoon playing ghost.”
Shauna and Peter went through the house putting things in their proper places. They especially made sure that all the towels were hung neatly. Tim did the dishes, while Kathy baked raisin muffins.
When all the tasks were done, Kathy helped Shauna cut out a ghost shape from a piece of white paper. They made a name tag for it; then Shauna printed TAYLOR GHOST on a label, stuck it on the ghost, and placed it on the kitchen counter next to the muffins.
The children—even Tim—gathered around the kitchen table to do their homework while they waited for their mother. Peter brought a coloring book and crayons.
It wasn’t long before the front door opened and Mother rushed into the kitchen. She stopped abruptly and looked around, astonished. Then she spied the muffins on the counter next to the ghost. “I see our ghost has been here,” she said. She walked over to the counter and picked up the paper ghost. “I like him. I hope he haunts this house forever!” She went around the table and gave everyone a big hug.
That evening as Shauna crawled into bed, she noticed something under her pillow. It was a candy bar wrapped in a note. She carefully removed the paper. It read:
Dear Ghost,
Thank you for helping me today.
I love you,
Mom
Shauna placed the candy bar on top of her desk. She’d save it for after school tomorrow. It had been a long, busy day, and she was tired. It’s a happy kind of tired, though, she decided as she drifted off to sleep.

If I had to name one thing I hated concerning college life, it was buying books each semester and watching my checking account go from a pitifully small amount to almost nothing in one mean whack. This was only the second semester of my freshman year, but I remembered the pain I’d gone through last semester, and I wasn’t too thrilled about dealing with the “money massacre” again.
I’d been mentally going through my classes for winter semester, figuring roughly the amount each book would cost while I tried to keep up with the step aerobics instructor and the rest of the sweating bodies around me. I was sure I must have added something wrong when I reached an eye-popping total of $200—not including tax.
“Hey, Jenny, are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” I mumbled.
“Here, let me help you.” Cathy’s a great friend. She doesn’t laugh at me when I do stupid things like tripping all over my bench during aerobics because I’m not concentrating. Even now, while I was busy trying to re-tie my shoelace, she was on the floor, straightening my bench for me.
“Killer class today, huh?”
“Yeah.” Tripping over my bench had made my very tender right hamstring muscle even more sore.
“So, Jenny, have you bought your books yet?”
Ugh. That again. “I’m going to buy them right after this class is through.”
“I spent $175 this time. I won’t be able to do anything fun for weeks.”
Only $175? I was wishing I could be so lucky all the way to the bookstore.
The place was jammed with other poor souls like myself who’d waited until the last possible second before taking the hardest plunge of the semester.
Chemistry, English 201, trigonometry, humanities, music appreciation. By the time I made my way to the cash register, I had two ugly stacks of reading material that would keep me busy for months.
The clerk behind the register hardly gave me a glance before rubbing her eyes and wearily lifting the first book from one of my piles. I was sure she must have hated the book rush as much as everyone else did.
“Hey, Jenny!”
I turned around and saw a waving figure with a big, blonde ponytail. Cathy again. She pushed and shoved her way through the endless line of students. Her eyebrows lifted to new heights while she examined my piles of books.
“Pretty impressive.”
“Just don’t be expecting a birthday present from me this year.”
Cathy laughed and rattled off her latest winter semester classes.
“That will be $157.30, please.”
I whipped my head in surprise to face the clerk. The look on her face dared me to make any negative comments, so I quickly wrote my check and escaped with Cathy.
I was all ready to gloat over the low cost of my books that night to Gary, my freshly returned missionary brother, since I knew his books had cost him a small fortune. But as I picked up my receipt and quickly scanned each book price, then the total, I stopped and frowned. I counted the figures again and again.
“Something’s not right here.”
“What’s wrong, Jenn?”
I glanced up from my cross-legged position in the middle of my bed. Gary was standing in the doorway.
“Oh, nothing, really. I bought my books today, and I think the lady at the register may have added them up wrong.”
“Really? Well, let’s have a look.”
I scooted over to make room for him on my bed, and in a matter of minutes, it was all figured out: Only one stack of my books had been rung up. I had gotten the other stack free.
“Gary, you know what a rip-off it is to buy books. The school makes a killing. Besides, all together my stuff isn’t worth more than $150.”
“It’s tough to part with hard-earned money, and if I were you, I’d feel the same way. At one time, I might never have taken the books back and paid for them.”
“After all, it’s not like I stole them. I didn’t see what she was doing. I thought she’d rung them all up. It’s her mistake, not mine,” I quickly chimed in defensively.
“I know, I know,” Gary soothed. “And I’m not going to tell you to take them back. You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”
I started to gather the books, my mind made up, but something in Gary’s voice stopped me.
“You know, this reminds me of something that happened to me about a year ago in the Netherlands.”
Great. An inspiring missionary story. I sighed and settled against my pillows to listen, resolving that nothing he could say would make me change my mind.
The next few days were miserable ones. I couldn’t get Gary’s words out of my head, let alone even look at my “free” books. It was hard for me to do, but Monday morning after my aerobics class, I waded through the endless line of students at the bookstore, ready to lose another $150.
The same clerk was behind the register as I shoved my books onto the counter before her.
“I was in here a few days ago, and these books of mine were never rung up.”
She lifted her eyebrows at me in surprise. “Really? And you brought them back? Even I wouldn’t have been so honest at your age.” She paused for a second. “Maybe not even now.”
For a moment I had a happy, fleeting thought that she was going to reward my honesty by telling me not to worry about these books—that I’d already paid for them in my own way. I almost smiled. Being honest wasn’t so hard.
“That’ll be $175 even.”
As I drove home, I tried to tell myself I wasn’t losing money but gaining an education. It didn’t help much. Especially considering the fact that my right hamstring was still pretty sore. Yet it hadn’t been as touchy today as it had been on Saturday. It would get stronger as I exercised. Pretty soon, it’d be so strong, no amount of fancy step work would bother it, and I’d be able to do all the steps with ease.
Gary’s words struck me again, and for the first time, the memory wasn’t painful. Exercising, integrity; it was all the same. Of course I’d walked away from the book incident feeling a little bruised. I had exercised something harder than ever before. But the next time, it’d be easier even if it was trickier.
Strengthening my muscles and my character in the same day. That was the true, total workout.
I waved to Gary as I maneuvered the car into the garage. I did feel sort of warm and good inside, and I wondered if realizations like these were truly the best types of warm feelings you could ever have.
“So how was your day?” Gary questioned as I jumped out of the car. I held up my bag of books for him to see.
“Hard and good. Even my hamstring is shaping up.” I grinned at him and hurried into the house. Doing something right when it was hard for me to do didn’t feel so terrible after all. In fact, it felt pretty good.

When I was 10, my family traveled to Idaho to visit my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. My grandfather accidentally hit the family dog, Margie, with his car. There was so much commotion—Margie had to be taken to the veterinarian, and all of my cousins were crying. We were afraid that Margie would die.
Once again, I knew that I needed to pray. I was the only member of the Church there, and I took my cousins to a corner of the garden, asked them to kneel down, and we prayed that Margie would be all right. I felt that familiar feeling of the Holy Ghost telling me that everything would be fine. Hours later, Margie came home from the veterinarian with her legs bandaged up, but she was going to get better.
None of my cousins attended church of any kind. That experience of prayer probably was very unfamiliar to them. When Margie was driven away to the veterinarian, we thought there wasn’t a thing we could do to help, but I knew there was one thing we could do, and that was pray.

In 1996 the Nigerian men’s football team won gold at the Olympic Games held in Atlanta in the United States. As the final ended, jubilant crowds poured onto the streets of every city and town in Nigeria; this country of 200 million people was instantly transformed into a massive celebration at two o’clock in the morning! There was infectious joy, happiness, and excitement as people ate, sang, and danced. In that moment, Nigeria was united and every Nigerian was content being Nigerian.
Before the Olympics, this team faced numerous challenges. As the tournament began, their financial support ended. The team competed without proper kits, training venues, food, or laundry services.
Jerome Prevost/Getty Images
At one point, they were minutes away from being eliminated from competition, but the Nigerian team triumphed against all odds. This pivotal moment changed how they saw themselves. With newfound confidence, and with individual and team hard work and dogged determination, they unitedly ignored distractions and focused on winning. This focus earned them gold medals, and Nigerians christened them the “Dream Team.” The Dream Team at the 1996 Olympics continues to be referenced in Nigerian sports.
David Cannon/Allsport/Getty Images
Once the football team learned to ignore the many distractions facing them and focused on their goal, they succeeded beyond what they thought possible and experienced great joy. (As did the rest of us in Nigeria!)

“I invited a brother to come to my office for an interview,” says President Marin. “When he arrived, we chatted for a few minutes, and then I asked him why he hadn’t been to church for some time. His excuses were just little things—it was hard to get up early; sometimes the talks were boring; he had just fallen into the habit of not coming. I asked him if he paid tithing. Yes. If he obeyed the Word of Wisdom. Yes. If he sustained his leaders. Yes. And so it went. ‘Come back to Christ,’ I told him. ‘Come and help us bring others back.’” The man responded well, and, since he was worthy, “we presented his name at stake conference the next day and ordained him an elder. He has been faithful ever since.”

Juan Cabrera, an 18-year-old from Cuenca, Ecuador, knows what it’s like to be different. He’s one of only a handful of members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in a city of around 500,000 people, and the pressures to give in to temptation are pretty high. But Juan knows that there is a source of strength greater than any temptation.
Even with such deep focus, Juan knows that it’s not easy to stay on target. A few years ago he gained a lot of strength from older young men in his ward. But most of them have moved or have started attending elders quorum, leaving Juan with few Church friends to support him when things got hard. During those times, Juan sought strength from his parents and siblings—and from his Heavenly Father.
“You feel a little alone sometimes because you have different standards, a different way of living, of treating other people, of seeking different things in life. But the truth is,” Juan adds confidently, “you are never alone. We always have prayer, and we can always draw closer to our Heavenly Father. I have always prayed to have the strength to do what’s right, to have the courage to stand up to my friends when they do things that aren’t right.
“And you know what?” he continues. “Sometimes my friends have told me they admire my example and the strength I have to say no.”
Some of the temptations that Juan faced were easy to reject. He could easily say no when a friend would invite him to drink alcohol. That was a clear violation of the commandments.
“But there are times when the temptations are more subtle,” Juan explains. “As it says in the scriptures, sometimes it’s disguised [see Matthew 7:15]. The temptations can appear as though they are nothing bad because they don’t appear to break a specific commandment. That’s when you have to pray to be aware of what’s going on so that you don’t get confused. The Spirit has helped me understand this many times when something is wrong or when people are trying to get me to do bad things.”
As Juan prepares for his mission, he has made some new friends in the Church who support him.
“I’m an example for other youth now, and this has been a blessing for me,” he says. “It helps me understand that the effort to be strong, to be faithful, is worth it.”

I’ll never forget a lesson I had with a young woman on my mission.
She kept asking for physical or tangible evidence that the Book of Mormon was true. And I sat there, unsure of how to respond to her questions and accusations. I was a young, bright-eyed missionary, and all I knew was that the Book of Mormon was true. I felt discouraged because I didn’t know all the answers to her questions. But I realized, it wouldn’t have mattered if I had physical evidence to prove the Book of Mormon was true. Proof wouldn’t give her faith.

The young woman I taught on my mission would only believe the Church was true if my companion and I could disprove all her accusations. But the only thing I could ever prove to her was the reality of finding answers through personal revelation. 6

I ended our lesson with that young woman on my mission by testifying boldly of the Book of Mormon. I told her the only way she could truly find answers to all her questions was to ask Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon was true. Until she understood the basics of the gospel of Jesus Christ, she could put her other questions on the shelf and revisit them later with greater understanding and faith. But honestly, doesn’t that apply to all of us? We can actually increase our faith by acting in faith.

Hayden brought immeasurable joy into our lives. We cherished and adored him. But as time passed, I began to worry that he was not progressing as expected. Although specialists reassured us that he would eventually catch up, the nagging anxieties continued as I struggled to help my son.
My husband and I studied to learn all we could about Hayden’s illness. We did everything the doctors told us to do. Yet progress didn’t come.
I grew tired and frustrated. I pleaded with my Father in Heaven to help me find someone who could help Hayden, but help didn’t come. Hayden’s condition worsened. He started having seizures. We were scared. We thought we were losing him.
One night, I was up late searching for answers. I wrote Hayden a letter. I told him how much I loved him and how hard I was trying to make his life easier. I promised I would spend the rest of my life trying to get him the help he needed.
Frustration and uncertainty momentarily overwhelmed me. I knelt and asked my Father in Heaven, “Why?” I thought He had sent Hayden to me because He knew I would never give up trying to help my son. So why couldn’t I find any answers? Why did each new doctor and each new treatment lead to another roadblock? Didn’t Heavenly Father love Hayden?
I will never forget that moment. An overwhelming feeling of love suddenly embraced me. Words that were not my own entered my mind: “Jerlyn, do you think you love him more than I do?”
I froze. Time stood still. Tears flooded down my face—not out of frustration like before, but out of hope, understanding, and love.
In that one moment, everything changed. My heart softened. My questions changed. I understand now that my Father in Heaven loves Hayden with a perfect love. Hayden was sent here in a body that is suited for his needs and his opportunities for growth and learning. He has his own unique set of abilities and challenges, just like each of us. I have come to know that children with disabilities are precious and beloved children of Heavenly Father who have a special mission here on this earth.
My husband and I constantly receive answers and blessings, but they come in the Lord’s timing, not our own. We have been led to the right books, therapies, schools, and teachers to help Hayden succeed in his mortal life. We strive to search for the path that our Father in Heaven has put in place for Hayden instead of the path we wanted him to walk. We are doing all we can to help Hayden reach his divine potential and live the life his Heavenly Father has designed for him. Our understanding of Heavenly Father’s plan has been so much clearer now that we understand that Hayden was His before Hayden was ours.

Here is an example. I know of a young man, a refugee here in Utah, who was teased for being different, including sometimes speaking his native language. He was persecuted by a gang of privileged youth until he retaliated in a way that caused him to be jailed for over 70 days while being considered for deportation. I don’t know what provoked this group of youth, many of them Latter-day Saints like you, but I can see the effect of their meanness, a tragic experience and expense to one of the children of God. Small actions of unkindness can have devastating consequences.

May I add my mite to the mass of evidence upon this all-important theme? Fifty years ago, or something less, I was a young missionary in the state of Pennsylvania. I had been praying for a testimony of the truth but beyond that had not displayed much zeal in missionary labor. My companion, a veteran in the cause, chided me for my lack of diligence in this direction. “You ought to be studying the books of the Church,” said he; “you were sent out to preach the gospel, not to write for the newspapers”—for that was what I was doing at the time.

I knew he was right, but I still kept on, fascinated by the discovery that I could wield a pen and preferring that to any other occupation except the [theater], my early ambition, which I had laid upon the altar when, as a youth of 21, I accepted a call to the mission field.

One night I dreamed—if dream it may be called—that I was in the Garden of Gethsemane, a witness of the Savior’s agony. I saw Him as plainly as I see this congregation. I stood behind a tree in the foreground, where I could see without being seen. Jesus, with Peter, James, and John, came through a little wicket gate at my right. Leaving the three Apostles there, after telling them to kneel and pray, He passed over to the other side, where He also knelt and prayed. It was the same prayer with which we are all familiar: “O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt” ([see] Matthew 26:36–44; Mark 14:32–41; Luke 22:42).

As He prayed the tears streamed down His face, which was toward me. I was so moved at the sight that I wept also, out of pure sympathy with His great sorrow. My whole heart went out to Him. I loved Him with all my soul and longed to be with Him as I longed for nothing else.

Presently He arose and walked to where the Apostles were kneeling—fast asleep! He shook them gently, awoke them, and in a tone of tender reproach, untinctured by the least suggestion of anger or scolding, asked them if they could not watch with Him one hour. There He was, with the weight of the world’s sin upon His shoulders, with the pangs of every man, woman, and child shooting through His sensitive soul—and they could not watch with Him one poor hour!

Returning to His place, He prayed again and then went back and found them again sleeping. Again He awoke them, admonished them, and returned and prayed as before. Three times this happened, until I was perfectly familiar with His appearance—face, form, and movements. He was of noble stature and of majestic mien—not at all the weak, effeminate being that some painters have portrayed—a very God among men, yet as meek and lowly as a little child.

All at once the circumstance seemed to change, the scene remaining just the same. Instead of before, it was after the Crucifixion, and the Savior, with those three Apostles, now stood together in a group at my left. They were about to depart and ascend into heaven. I could endure it no longer. I ran out from behind the tree, fell at His feet, clasped Him around the knees, and begged Him to take me with Him.

I shall never forget the kind and gentle manner in which He stooped and raised me up and embraced me. It was so vivid, so real, that I felt the very warmth of His bosom against which I rested. Then He said: “No, my son; these have finished their work, and they may go with me, but you must stay and finish yours.” Still I clung to Him. Gazing up into His face—for He was taller than I—I besought Him most earnestly: “Well, promise me that I will come to You at the last.” He smiled sweetly and tenderly and replied: “That will depend entirely upon yourself.” I awoke with a sob in my throat, and it was morning.

“That’s from God,” said my companion (Elder A. M. Musser), when I had related it to him. “I don’t need to be told that,” was my reply. I saw the moral clearly. I had never thought that I would be an Apostle or hold any other office in the Church; and it did not occur to me even then. Yet I knew that those sleeping Apostles meant me. I was asleep at my post—as any man is, or any woman, who, having been divinely appointed to do one thing, does another.

But from that hour all was changed—I was a different man. I did not give up writing, for President Brigham Young [1801–77], having noticed some of my contributions in the home papers, wrote advising me to cultivate what he called my “gift for writing” so that I might use it in future years “for the establishment of truth and righteousness upon the earth.” This was his last word of counsel to me. He died the same year, while I was still in the mission field, though laboring then in the state of Ohio. I continued to write, but it was for the Church and kingdom of God. I held that first and foremost; all else was secondary.

Then came the divine illumination, which is greater than all dreams, visions, and other manifestations combined. By the light of God’s candle—the gift of the Holy Ghost—I saw what till then I had never seen, I learned what till then I had never known, I loved the Lord as I had never loved Him before. My soul was satisfied, my joy was full, for I had a testimony of the truth, and it has remained with me to this day.

Even with growth from missionary work, reactivation is a high priority everywhere among members and missionaries alike. Claude Gaston became less active while serving in the army. Though he married a Latter-day Saint, he rarely came to church. “After our second child was born, I began to watch my sister and notice the blessings of the gospel in her family,” says Claude. “My wife, children, father, and branch president encouraged me. I think it was pride that kept me from coming back.” Finally, after nine years, Claude began to attend church again. A year and a half later, he took his family to the Swiss Temple to be sealed.

“I have found a great balance and stability in my life as a result of living the gospel,” says Brother Gaston, who is now bishop of the Vitrolles Ward. “The love that unites my family makes us very happy. I am convinced that if I had not become active again, my family would have dispersed.”

All my life I had been taught that the Church was true. When I decided to gain a testimony of my own, I thought I needed to approach things from a different angle than my teachers and friends did. So I asked: What if the gospel is not true? What if my well-meaning friends and parents have been misled? What if the Book of Mormon is a work of fiction? What if there is no living prophet today and families aren’t forever?
As such questions filled my mind, darkness clouded my thoughts. I felt as if doors were closing inside me, and for an entire day I wandered around in a depressed stupor of thought, thinking and acting unkindly toward others.
The next morning I realized I was getting nowhere. Then I remembered a seminary lesson I’d had on prayer. I knew that in Doctrine and Covenants 9:7–9 [D&C 9:7–9] there were some guidelines on getting answers. As I read these verses, I could see that I had asked the wrong questions. When I studied my questions out in my mind and in my heart, I sincerely believed the things I had been taught were true. So I prayed again, this time asking if my beliefs were right: Was I really a child of God? Was there a celestial kingdom? Was the priesthood the power of God?
Light replaced darkness. The Spirit confirmed that my belief was not in vain. I felt as if doors were being flung open, and I could see things more clearly.
I gained a desire to serve and to share my testimony. The Lord had heard and answered my sincere prayer. Now I know for myself that what I had believed all along was really true.

“Can you see where that smoke is coming from? It seems awfully close. I wonder what’s burning?”
“Could be just a grass fire.”
“It’s not that close. It just seems that way.”
“Yes! Could be somewhere around … our … Oh no!”
It was our 13th wedding anniversary. Because of other commitments that evening, we had decided to celebrate with a nice restaurant lunch and include our five children in the festivities. We had barely ordered our meal when one of the children had spotted the smoke and our spirit of celebration was all but ruined. We tried to tell each other that it just couldn’t be anywhere near our home and thus we somehow got through the lunch. But that was about it. Hurriedly we got into our car and started the drive home.
It was only about 16 kilometers, but what a long distance it seemed to be. The closer to the smoke we came, the more worried we got. It certainly looked like it was coming from our neighborhood. I can still remember the fear and anxiety reflected on each face during that drive.
We lived in southern California, where after a dry summer the terrible grass fires were rather commonplace. Our home was situated near the top of the hill, and the road leading to our home ran higher on top. In back of the house and down the hill were thousands of hectares of grassy undeveloped land with some clusters of trees here and there. The grass that summer had grown high and then, due to a lack of rain, had died and dried standing up. Somehow that grass had caught on fire.
As we arrived home the police and a couple of fire trucks were already positioned on the road up the hill. The wind was toward us, and the fire was advancing with unbelievable speed.
I whispered a quick prayer, “Dear God, save our home.”
It is interesting to see what a person thinks important and valuable when faced with the fact that there is just a small truck in the driveway with which to haul his prized possessions to safety. In our case, sentimentality played a bigger role than monetary value. The family records came first, and the only piece of furniture we even thought of bothering with was my great-grandparents’ untunable piano. The girls, with their selected valuables, were sent off with a ward member, but our 11-year-old twin boys stayed around placing wet blankets on the top of the roof and keeping them wet.
There were only a few houses on that hill, all some distance from one another. We started, as did all our neighbors, to clear away the dry grass and the shrubbery surrounding our property. It seemed like useless work, but we had to do something; we couldn’t just stand there waiting.
“Dear God, save our home.”
The fire was getting closer, and the place was getting hotter. And we were coming to the attention of the news media. The television cameras were aimed at us, and we were being interviewed for the evening news.
“How does it feel to wait for your home to burn down?”
“It might not burn.”
“Well, tell us how you feel right now.”
“Terrible. Scared.”
The police had long since stopped all the traffic to our area. Only the people living there and close relatives were admitted. Suddenly a car full of men from our ward arrived. They were all anxious to help, and we were grateful for their concern. Then other elders started to come. We knew about the roadblock and wondered how these good men had been able to come through.
“Brother Ellett,” I said to one of them, “how did you get past the police?”
“That was easy,” he chuckled. “I just told them that my brother lives here!” That seemed to be the way all the other brethren had come through the roadblock.
A few minutes later, while the elders were still coming through one young policeman came walking down the driveway.
“I came to see the man,” he said, “who has so many brothers.”
I went outside the house and counted all the men from our ward that I could see. I counted 39. Thirty-nine brothers!
Thirty-nine priesthood holders, I thought. There they were fighting the fire with every possible means they could lay their hands on. They fought it with shovels, with hoes, with rakes, and even with sticks. And right then and there I realized that they had even stronger power than those few helpless tools in their possession. Great feelings of peace filled my soul. I knew then as surely as I have ever known anything that no fire could get through that line of fire fighters.
Anybody who has ever seen a group of full-grown trees, or even one of them, explode with fire will know how scary such a thing is, especially when seen at close quarters. There I stood watching the flames that seemed to touch the sky, and still I knew that I and all that was mine were safe from that raging inferno. The peace and calmness that filled my being is something I will never be able to fully describe. I was so grateful, oh, so grateful for my membership in the Church and for the knowledge I had. Tears running down my cheeks, I thanked the Lord, not so much for the material things he would preserve, but for the spiritual things nothing can destroy.
Somebody had bulldozed a big gully between the burnt area and us. The television cameras were busy recording what to them was news. The bulldozed area would not have been wide enough to stop the fire if something else had not suddenly happened. The wind that had all the time blown briskly towards us turned unexpectedly and completely and began to blow now in the direction of the already burnt area. The fight was now easier, and the fire never crossed the bulldozed area to our home.
“My brother lives there,” they had said.
My brother! I felt then stronger than ever before the bond that ties us together in the Church. I felt it loving and caring for my family. We are not alone. We have one another.
Often, when I travel at night and see a light in the distance all by itself, I wonder who might live there. And then I remember, and this thought comes to me like a flash, “My brother lives there!”

“Fam’lies can be together forever through Heav’nly Father’s plan” (“Families Can Be Together Forever,” Hymns, no. 300). I love this Primary song, which teaches that families can be sealed for eternity. I prayed that this could be true for my family, especially after my father passed away.
Recently the Lord answered my prayer. My mother, my two brothers, and I were able to travel to the Manila Philippines Temple to be sealed together and to my father. It was our first time in the temple together, and I can still remember the happiness I saw in my mother’s and brothers’ eyes. There was a great feeling of joy there.
I know the temple is the house of the Lord and that those in the temple have the proper authority to perform sacred ordinances. I’m so grateful that through these ordinances my family can be with my father again. Since going to the temple, we try to be a stronger family and do all we can to keep our covenants so that we can be together forever.