Gospel Story Finder

Dear Buddy,
Today was a Thanksgiving Day that I’ll never forget! We spent the morning tracting without much success. It was cold, and everyone was busy and didn’t want to talk. Then we spent the afternoon with some members who had invited us for Thanksgiving dinner. And did they ever put on a feast! The food was so good that I kept eating and eating until my belt yelled for mercy. Sister Marshall seemed to enjoy watching us eat, and she kept passing the food around. Then when we left, she gave us each a big package of leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil. It’s great to have members like the Marshalls who help the missionaries.
But it was what happened as we were riding our bikes home that made this an unforgettable Thanksgiving Day. Even though it was cold and windy and almost dark, we took the long way home to help work off some of our dinner. On a lonely road on the outskirts of town, we came upon a girl with long black hair who looked about your age. She was gathering sticks at the side of the road, and she was wearing a long-sleeve blouse, a shawl around her shoulders, a skirt, and sandals.
Elder Butler and I stopped, concerned about her being out in the bitter cold. Her name is Rosita. She didn’t know much English, but she took us to her mother, who was also gathering wood not far away. We helped them gather broken branches and old sticks until everyone’s arms were full. Then they took us to their home.
They live in a small shack with a woodburning stove in the middle. The only one who speaks much English is the father, and he was on a mattress in the corner, sick with a fever.
Their name is Morales. They recently came from Central America. Mr. Morales said that he brought his family to the United States to have a better life. He had a job here, but he lost it when he got sick.
There was hardly any furniture, and the room was smoky and drafty. They need so much—even simple things, like clothes for winter. All they had was what they’d brought in three suitcases. And each other. As I looked into their faces, I felt that I was in the presence of modern Pilgrims. Suddenly Thanksgiving became much more real to me. It is more than parades and football games on TV and tight belts from eating too much turkey and yams and pumpkin pie. Thanksgiving means hope and freedom.
Elder Butler and I gave Mr. Morales a blessing, and we gave our leftovers from dinner at the Marshalls to the Morales. They thanked us again and again and asked us to come back to visit them. We will.
Riding home, I no longer felt the cold wind blowing in my face and up the sleeves of my coat. All I could feel was the warmth of gratitude for all the blessings that we enjoy.
Love,Reed

I remember a young couple just out of college. One parent gave them a home; the other parent gave them furnishings and a new car. They had everything in the world given to them. Within three years they were divorced. They hadn’t worked and sacrificed. They had leaned on each other and on their parents as a crutch, had crippled themselves, and hadn’t grown. They hadn’t learned the hard part. They hadn’t worried about making their marriage work. Make sure you sacrifice, share, and grow together.

Recently I went to an Alzheimer’s care facility in Salt Lake City to visit a long-time friend, Mayre Nielsen, who is 97 years of age. I was escorted by a young woman attendant to Mayre’s bedside. As I greeted her, she looked at me with glistening eyes but did not speak a word. I said to her, “Mayre, do you remember when we first met?” Still there was no answer. I continued, “It was long years ago, when you were a member of the Primary General Board and accompanied Sister Monson and me to an assignment in Sydney, Australia.”
I stopped speaking, and the attendant said, “President Monson, Mayre doesn’t know people. She is unable to recognize anyone and doesn’t know who you are. I’ll show you what I mean.”
Turning to Mayre, the attendant said, “Mayre, do you know who this man is?”
Mayre looked at the young woman and said, as clear as clear could be, “Of course. This is Brother Monson.” She then turned back to me, took my hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips. The young attendant also had tears in her eyes as she looked at Mayre in disbelief. Mayre had remembered; Mayre had spoken.
The promise found in the third verse of the beautiful Christmas carol “O Little Town of Bethlehem” had been fulfilled:
How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.
(Hymns, no. 208)

When my husband, Mark, and I lived with our five small children on the east coast of the United States, we lived in a house that had an oil furnace. To check the oil level, we would put a measuring stick into the tank. And if the oil was low, we would call the heating oil company to come fill the tank.
During an unusually cold January, we were having financial problems. I even took a part-time job in the evenings at a restaurant to supplement our income, but we still had trouble making ends meet. It finally came down to the choice of paying tithing or paying to heat our house. We measured the oil and it came to two inches (5 cm). That would last only a day or two. But we decided to put our faith in the Lord and pay our tithing.
The next day, Mark measured the oil again. It was still at two inches. Mark measured it again the following day, and it was still at two inches. The heat was coming on, but the oil was not going down. The next two days, the oil remained at two inches. I remember crying tears of joy at night when I heard the heat come on. Our furnace was not running on oil; it was running on faith.
I felt like the widow who fed the prophet Elijah and found that her “barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail” (1 Kings 17:16). When payday finally came, Mark once again measured the oil. This time it measured at one inch (2.5 cm). Now the oil was going down, but we had money to fill the tank.
Our family had tested the Lord’s promise found in Malachi 3:10: “And prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.”
Our family will never forget when our oil furnace ran on faith instead of oil.

While going through my e-mails one morning, I noticed a name I could not place: Enrique Jorge Dias. The subject line read, “Saludos [greetings] from a golden contact.”
I had no idea what the message might be about, and I considered hitting the delete key. Curiosity got the best of me, however, and I opened it. It was written in Spanish.
As I read, I learned that when Enrique Dias was 18, he was living in Adrogué, Argentina, where I served as a full-time missionary more than 30 years earlier. One morning as he was walking through the center of town, I stopped him and handed him a pamphlet about the First Vision. My companion and I, in accordance with instructions from our mission president, often spent mornings handing out pamphlets on the sidewalks of Adrogué. We probably spoke with hundreds of people, though we seldom got their names. Most of our conversations lasted no more than 30 seconds.
More than three decades later, there was no way I could remember speaking to a young man, but he remembered me. A few weeks before I received his e-mail, I had posted my name on the Argentine Mission Web page, where Brother Dias had found it.
In his e-mail he explained that he took the pamphlet home and showed it to his mother, who encouraged him to learn more about Joseph Smith. By the time he tried to find the missionaries a few months later, I had been transferred to a new area.
Enrique received the discussions and was baptized and confirmed. I labored in Argentina for another 20 months but never heard anything about his baptism.
The brief conversation we had shared in the street that morning long ago had transformed his life and the lives of many others. Two years after his baptism he was called on a mission to northern Argentina. Afterward he married and continued faithful in the Church, serving in a variety of callings, including bishop, counselor to two stake presidents, and high councilor. He added that his oldest son had served a mission in La Paz, Bolivia.
Words cannot express the joy that came to my heart from reading that e-mail message. My mission was filled with many gratifying moments, but this long-delayed news from Enrique Jorge Dias made all of my memories of serving as a missionary even sweeter.

I learned to swim in the swift currents of Utah’s beautiful Provo River. The “old swimming hole” was in a deep portion of the river, dangerous with its depth of 16 feet, its current, which moved swiftly against a large rock, and the sucking action of the whirlpools below the rock. It was not a place for an inexperienced swimmer.
One warm summer afternoon when I was about 12, I took a large, inflated inner tube from a tractor tire, slung it over my shoulder, and walked barefoot up the railroad track which followed the course of the river. I entered the water about a mile above the swimming hole and enjoyed a leisurely float down the river. The river held no fear for me, for I knew its secrets.
That day the Greek-speaking people in Utah held a reunion at Vivian Park in Provo Canyon, as they did every year. Native food, games, and dances were the order of the day. But some left the party to try swimming in the river. When they arrived at the swimming hole, it was deserted, for afternoon shadows were beginning to envelop it.
I was about to enter the swiftest portion of the river, just at the head of the swimming hole, when I heard frantic cries, “Save her! Save her!” A young lady swimmer, accustomed to the still waters of a gymnasium swimming pool, had fallen from the rock into the treacherous whirlpools. None of the party could swim to save her. I saw the top of her head disappearing under the water for the third time, there to descend to a watery grave. I stretched forth my hand, grasped her hair, and lifted her over the side of the tube and into my arms. At the pool’s lower end, the water was slower as I paddled the tube, with my precious cargo, to her waiting relatives and friends.
They threw their arms around her and kissed her, crying, “Thank God! Thank God you are safe!” Then they hugged and kissed me. I was embarrassed and quickly returned to the tube and continued my float down to the Vivian Park bridge. The water was frigid, but I was not cold, for I was filled with a warm feeling. I realized that I had participated in the saving of a life. Heavenly Father had heard the cries, “Save her! Save her,” and permitted me, a deacon, to float by at precisely the time I was needed. That day I learned that the sweetest feeling in mortality is to realize that God, our Heavenly Father, knows each one of us and generously permits us to see and to share His divine power to save.

About a hundred years ago, Sarah Young Vance qualified as a midwife. Before she began serving the women of Arizona, a priesthood leader blessed her that she would “always do only what was right and what was best for the welfare of her patients.” Over a period of 45 years, Sarah delivered approximately 1,500 babies without the loss of a single mother or child. “Whenever I came up against a difficult problem,” she recalled, “something always seemed to inspire me and somehow I would know what was the right thing to do.”3

It was our first Christmas away from home. Elders Heemeyer, Bright, Kehoe, Schulze, Westover, and I had gathered at one apartment to share Christmas. We had decided that spending Christmas together as a missionary district might make it easier to be away from home.
It was 5:30 on Christmas Eve, and we were all a little down. Many of our investigators wouldn’t meet with us, and finding new investigators was tough. We were running into the same response. “Visit after Christmas,” they all said.
After talking for a short time, Elder Schulze suggested we go caroling to our investigators and some less-active members. We all felt it was a great idea.We made up a quick program. Two hymns and a spiritual thought. We concluded with one last hymn and a prayer. The total program was short, perhaps 20 minutes, but we were pleased with it.
Before we left, we knelt for prayer. Then we set out into the cold night on the south side of Chicago.
Our first stop was at the home of a member whose daughter and two grandchildren were investigating the Church. They buzzed us into their building, and we began to sing. Granted, we weren’t the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but for six elders we sounded pretty good. We shared our program with the family. Before we left, they said that our “gift” was the best they had ever received.
We soon found ourselves at a different apartment presenting the same message to another family. At every stop, our enthusiasm and joy grew. We kept hearing the same response. “This is the best gift ever. You really brought the Christmas spirit.”
We learned many things that Christmas Eve. Even though our message was simple, it brought joy into the lives of those we visited, and it also lifted our spirits. That night I came to better understand the true meaning of Christmas—that sharing and serving others is what Christ’s ministry is all about.
We also realized that home isn’t so far away when you are in the service of others and of your Savior.

When Anna’s joy over her conversion wasn’t shared by friends and relatives and when she couldn’t persuade them to accept the gospel, she decided to emigrate to the United States with a group of Norwegian Saints intent on going to Zion. It was 1883, and in the fall of that year she arrived in Logan, Utah. She was determined that her family’s first obligation should be to Heavenly Father because of His many blessings to them. Her next obligation was to see that her boys received the best education possible.

Several years ago, while I was serving as president of the Fiji Suva Mission, some missionaries had an experience which reinforced in them the converting power of the Book of Mormon. On a hot and humid day, two elders arrived at a home in a small settlement in Labasa.

The knock on the door was answered by a weathered man who listened as the missionaries testified of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. They gave him a copy and invited him to read and to pray to know, like them, that it is the word of God. His reply was brief: “Tomorrow I return to fishing. I will read it while at sea, and when I return, you may visit me again.”

While he was away, transfers were made, and a few weeks later, a new companionship of elders returned to visit the fisherman. By this time he had read the entire Book of Mormon, had received confirmation of its truthfulness, and was eager to learn more.

This man had been converted by the Holy Ghost, who witnessed of the truth of the precious words on every page of events and doctrine taught long ago and preserved for our day in the Book of Mormon. That same blessing is available to each of us.

Easter was a week away. Daddy told Oliver that today was called “Palm Sunday.”
“Why?” Oliver asked.
“When Jesus came into the city of Jerusalem, people were so happy to see Him,” Daddy said. “They waved palm branches and shouted, ‘Hosanna!’ That’s why we call it Palm Sunday.”
“Can we wave palm branches too?” Oliver asked.
Mommy smiled. “Well, we don’t have any palm trees. Let’s see what other branches we can find.”
Mommy, Daddy, and Oliver went outside and cut a few small branches off a tree in their yard. The branches didn’t have any leaves yet, just tiny blossoms.
Oliver waved his branch back and forth as he took it inside. “Hosanna!” he said, just like the people in the scriptures said when they saw Jesus. Then he helped Mommy put the pretty branches in a vase.
He liked looking at the branches while they ate dinner. He thought about the branches people waved when they saw Jesus.
The next day, Mommy pulled out a basket of plastic Easter eggs. “Let’s write down why we love Jesus. We’ll put our papers in the eggs and hang them on our special branches.”
Daddy got pens and paper. Oliver told Daddy what to write. Oliver said, “I love Jesus because He’s nice.”
Oliver helped fold up the paper. He put it inside a green plastic egg.
Daddy wrote, “I love Jesus because He understands how I feel.”
Mommy wrote, “Because of Jesus, someday we will see the people we love who have died.”
“Like baby Sophie?” Oliver asked.
Mommy gave him a big hug. “Yes! You will see your baby sister again one day. That’s because Jesus lived again after He died. Because of Him, all of us can live again too.”
“That makes me happy,” Oliver said.
“It makes us happy too,” Daddy said.
They filled lots of Easter eggs with things they loved about Jesus. Then Daddy tied strings through the eggs. Oliver helped hang the eggs on the tree. It looked so pretty!
“Let’s call it the Easter Tree,” Oliver said. He counted all the colorful eggs. “We have so many reasons we love Jesus!”

When you first talk to Danny Ray, an 18-year-old elder in the Fredericton Ward of the Saint John New Brunswick Stake, he’ll tell you he’s “into a lot of things.” He’ll talk about his first year at the University of New Brunswick, his preparation for a mission, and how he serves as a stake missionary and doubles as a Primary teacher, instructing the Sunbeams.
And then he mentions his interest in bats. Whoa!
Danny’s made a hobby of making friends with numerous little brown bats, the species indigenous to his area of eastern Canada.
“Each bat can eat 600 mosquitoes in an hour,” he proudly states. “We have a lot of insects where we live.” The way Danny looks at it, the bats provide a public service by ridding the neighborhood of the pesky insect.
So enamored of bats is Danny that he’s been known to let the nocturnal mammal fly around his room—with his mother’s blessing. “Mom’s fine with it,” he says.
So chances are that wherever Danny serves his mission, he’ll find a bat or two before he’s through.

He and his wife, Amy, met in Poland where they were serving missions. After they married, they moved back to Poland when Elder Schwartz received a Fulbright Scholarship, which enabled him to study there with a future judge of the Polish Constitutional Tribunal.
During that time, he was excited to teach with the missionaries as he had during his mission. On returning from a meeting with the missionaries, Amy reminded him that he is a husband and father who now fulfills new roles, and that together they needed to think differently. Instead of going out with the missionaries, they invited missionaries and their friends to join them at home. As they shared the gospel in their home, they experienced more happiness and missionary success in one year than they had in both their missions combined. Elder Schwartz says he learned the wisdom of listening to a much wiser companion when doing the Lord’s work.

Liliana was excited to go to Primary. She wanted to show Sister Lee her new dress.
I’m a princess!
I’m a princess too!
You both are beautiful princesses. Heavenly Father loves you, and we are His children.
Then Sister Lee showed the class some paper crowns.
These crowns say “I am a child of God.”
The children said the words together and then sang “I Am a Child of God.” It was one of Liliana’s favorite songs.
Sister Lee placed the crowns on their heads, one at a time.
Liliana is a child of God.
Liliana felt warm and happy inside.
Liliana couldn’t wait to show Mama and Daddy her crown.
Now I’m really a princess because I am a child of God.
When it was time for bed, Liliana looked everywhere for her crown. She wanted it by her while she slept.
I can’t find my crown! I want to be a child of God!
Mama sat down and pulled Liliana onto her lap.
How do you feel when you sing “I Am a Child of God”?
Happy.
Me too.
Are you a child of God?
Everyone is a child of God, even without a crown. Always remember, you are a child of God—no matter what!
Mama hugged Liliana, and Liliana smiled as if she knew a special secret.

I grew up in what some of you might call a boring farming community: Virden, New Mexico, population 135. One summer night when I was a boy, my cousins, some friends, and I were looking for ways to create some excitement. Someone suggested we play a harmless prank on a neighbor. My conscience whispered it was wrong, but I didn’t have the courage to resist the enthusiastic response of the group.
After performing our mischievous act, we sprinted down the dark country road to make our escape, laughing and congratulating ourselves as we ran. Suddenly, one of the group stumbled, crying out, “Oh no, I kicked a cat!” Almost instantly we felt a very fine mist settle over us. It carried a horrible odor. What my friend thought was a cat was actually a skunk. It had sprayed us in self-defense. Very few odors are as nauseating as skunk spray, and we smelled terrible.
Dejectedly, we went home in search of a little parental comfort for our pitiful plight. As we stepped inside the kitchen door, Mom took one sniff and shooed us out into the yard. We were cast out of our home. Then she launched the cleansing process. She burned our clothes. Then, it seemed that every home remedy or concoction in the community was volunteered in our behalf. Among them, we endured a variety of baths: first tomato juice, then cow’s milk, and even harsh homemade lye soap. But the stench remained. Even my dad’s powerful aftershave lotion could not overpower the stench. For days we were condemned to eat outside under a tree, sleep outdoors in a tent, and ride in the back of the pickup truck.
After a while, naively thinking the smell was gone, we tried to approach some normal-smelling girls. They would not allow us within yards, shattering our fragile teenage egos!

A young woman had almost left the Church. While I visited the distant city where she lived, she asked if we could talk for a few minutes, and I agreed. She had heard many of the misconceptions that our detractors have used to discredit the Church for decades. We read from the scriptures for about an hour together. With relief reflected in her eyes, she finally said, “I have been misled, haven’t I?”

I said, “Yes, you have.”

She was disappointed with what those erring enemies of the Church were teaching, but was excited to find herself back thinking clearly again. All we had done was read from the scriptures together. Confusion and mistakes come when we forget the importance of God’s word as our unwavering guide.

Softball season was approaching, and we had just enough girls in our ward for a team. Our coach, Sister Bowman, was a busy mother who had been asked to make an unlikely group of girls into a team. Sister Bowman turned out to be the best coach I ever had.
At the first practice, Sister Bowman went over the rules of the game. Then she laid out the “new rules.” She said, “This year we will not only be scored for our runs; we will also be scored for our sportsmanship. I want you to do your best. But win or lose, I want you to have the highest sportsmanship score possible at every game.”
Sister Bowman’s rules went something like this:
Before each game, greet the opposing team and wish them luck.
If a girl on your team makes an error, encourage her. Do not criticize.
If a member of your team or the opposing team falls down, help her up and make sure she’s all right.
Do not say unkind things to any member of your team or the opposing team.
Each girl who shows up for the game will have an opportunity to play, regardless of her ability.
Win or lose, enthusiastically cheer the opposing team and shake each competitor’s hand.
Sister Bowman regularly emphasized these rules.
The first game went well. Though we weren’t the best players in the world, we discovered that encouraging each other boosted the confidence and abilities of the entire team. When we won that first game, we found it was easy to cheer the opposing team. After all, it’s easy to be a good sport when you win.
Our real test came the first time we lost. One of the girls cried because she felt responsible for our loss. We gathered around her and assured her it was all right. We were surprisingly enthusiastic as we cheered the winning team and shook their hands. Even though we lost, we realized we’d had fun. Most importantly, our sportsmanship score was high.
As the season progressed, our focus shifted. We liked winning, but we became as interested in our sportsmanship scores as we were in the game scores. What started as a list of rules was becoming second nature to us.
At the end of the season when the stake leaders reviewed our record—games won as well as sportsmanship scores—we were the stake champions. We would be representing our stake at the regional playoffs.
When the big day arrived, we were ready to play our best. The team we were playing was undefeated, and when we went over to wish them luck, they didn’t seem as friendly as the other teams we had played. As the game progressed we began to realize that these girls were not playing by our rules. It seemed to us that they intended to win at any cost. They laughed at us. They ran into us and knocked us down every chance they got. If one of the girls on their team made an error, they yelled at her and called her names. Even their coach was yelling at them.
In the dugout Sister Bowman continued to encourage us, and we hung in there. Near the end of the game, and only one point behind, we were up to bat. With runners on, we had a hit. One of our teammates came around third base and headed for home plate. In an attempt to keep us from scoring, the catcher stood across home plate. But her efforts didn’t prevent our runner from crossing home plate safe. The score was tied.
Our team was excited, but then we noticed that our teammate was still at home plate. She didn’t get up. She just sat there crying and holding her ankle, which had been cut by the catcher’s cleat. The girls on the other team were too busy yelling at each other to apologize or help her up.
As our injured friend sat on the bench, we scored another run and to everyone’s astonishment, including our own, won the game.
We gathered on the grass for the awards ceremony. First we received our medals for winning the playoffs, then waited for the next award. We were excited. The sportsmanship medal, the award we had worked so hard for all season, was within our grasp!
But we sat in shock as the sportsmanship medal was awarded to the other team. Our faces fell. Our hearts sank. How could this be? We felt we had earned that medal! Had the region leaders felt they could not send the other team home empty-handed? This turned out to be the greatest test of what we had practiced all season. Could we show true sportsmanship by graciously accepting this decision, despite our disappointment? It was difficult, to say the least.
Afterward, Sister Bowman took us out for pizza to celebrate our “victory.” Any casual observer would never have guessed that we had just won the region softball championship.
I still have that medal. I keep it in a box with other treasured keepsakes. It reminds me of what we won. More important, it reminds me of what we deserved to win and of the lessons Sister Bowman taught me that summer. She taught me how to compete and still have fun. She taught me that everyone has value. She taught me that winning is not, and should never be, the most important thing. I suppose she taught me the true meaning of the saying “It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” That philosophy, I have found, applies in life as well as in softball.

For Example
In the early days of the Church, an elder found himself with the responsibility of giving a sermon to a large group of people gathered to hear a “Mormon” preacher. The situation wouldn’t have been that bad, but as Brigham Young explained, “[The elder] had never been able to say he knew that Joseph Smith was a Prophet.” The elder wanted to just say a prayer and conclude the meeting. But the building was so full, people were hanging through the open windows from outside to listen. There was no graceful way out for the elder except to speak.
He braved his way to the podium, and “as soon as he got ‘Joseph’ out, ‘is a Prophet’ was the next; and from that, his tongue was loosened, and he continued talking until near sundown,” Brigham Young reported. “The Lord pours out his Spirit upon a man when he testifies that which the Lord gives him to testify of” (Joseph Fielding McConkie, Seeking the Spirit, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1978, pp. 4–5).

Some 12 years ago, there was a tennis match with two LDS physicians and a nonmember medical student from Brazil. With no intervening communication, last month in Curitiba, Brazil, Valentim Goncalves stood by me again, not on a tennis court but instead in a regional conference to translate for me. Thanks to his innate goodness and the good work of others, ophthalmologist Valentim is not only a member but is a stake president in Curitiba. Valentim and his special wife, sealed in the temple, have been blessed with three lovely children. This remarkable rendezvous added to my already appreciative wonder over the workings of the hand of the Lord (see D&C 59:21).

During the pandemic, Newport Gwent ward offered a ray of light to their community by supporting three local charities and hundreds of people’s lives.
The final group it supports is the Gwent Family History Society. The group were looking for somewhere to meet, someone suggested asking the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Gwent Family History use the computers and run a zoom link from the building which is recorded and shared on their social media pages. There have been many blessings that have come to both the Newport Gwent Ward and to the charities. Bishop Hayes remarked, “In some ways it is missionary work like you have never known it.” The groups even promote the Word of Wisdom notes Bishop Hayes because “the groups have asked us what they are able to provide on the premises for their clients and we explain the Word of Wisdom to them and why we believe it is important, they then accept our belief and subconsciously they explain it to their patrons, allowing more people to become aware of our beliefs without us having to proselyte to them.” Elder Hyrum Little stated, “Watching the joyous faces of those who are selflessly giving of their time and talents, gives me a greater sense of joy through my own service and it increases my desires to magnify my own mission efforts.” Elder Samuel Jaccod commented, “Whenever service is done to anyone who is in need, the service is not just a blessing to their lives but blesses those who are helping them too. Finding true happiness in your life will come as you strive to increase the joy in the lives of those around you.” Both Elder Little and Elder Jaccod have been able to witness the blessings that have been brought to those who use the chapel, but also to the members and missionaries of the Newport Ward through the selfless, compassionate and loving service of those who have come to use the chapel.