Gospel Story Finder

During a special Church conference held on April 6, 1881, branch president Silviano Arteaga, several local leaders, and Apostle Moses Thatcher (1842–1909) climbed the slope of the volcano Mt. Popocatépetl. Elder Thatcher then dedicated the land for the preaching of the gospel.

At the conference President Arteaga prayed, and Elder Thatcher related: “Tears flowed down his wrinkled cheeks, for the deliverance of his race and people. … I never heard any man pray more earnestly, and though praying in a language which I do not comprehend, yet I seemed to understand by the Spirit, all that he was pleading for.”2

It was the third time. Slowly, Doctor Gallagher straightened and shook his head. The four of us—myself, my parents, and my brother Jon—leaned forward expectantly.
“It’s not good,” he said bluntly, nodding toward Jon’s ankle. “Last year or the year before, I would have said to give it a few days of rest. But this is the third sprain on that same foot. This time it needs to be immobilized—for at least six weeks. Otherwise, you take the risk of being a cripple the rest of your life.”
Jon’s face went white. “You can’t do that!” he protested. “The day after tomorrow is our first regional soccer game! If I can’t play, we’ll lose! And if we lose this game, we can’t be in the finals.” His voice trailed off, and I saw the tears in his eyes.
Jon wasn’t being conceited in saying the team would lose without him. He was the goalkeeper for the Hayfield High School varsity soccer team, and he loved soccer more than anything else. I knew that if they won the regional game, there would be scouts waiting for them at the finals, and maybe they would consider him good enough for a scholarship; that was what Jon had always wanted. But if he couldn’t play, they wouldn’t even be able to see him.
When we left the doctor’s office, Jon was on crutches, wearing a plaster cast and an angry, hopeless expression. He sat in stony silence as we drove home.
Once inside the house, my father cleared his throat and put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Look,” he said quietly, “I know you generally don’t go for this sort of thing, but if you like, we could give you a blessing.”
Jon opened his mouth to speak. I opened mine, out of stunned surprise. Jon had never been particularly religious. He was the rebellious “middle child” of our family, given to ridiculing my parents’ conservative ways and our family’s faith in the gospel. But to my complete astonishment, he snapped his mouth shut and curtly nodded his head.
My father called the rest of the family together, and he and the oldest two boys, my twin brothers, put their hands on Jon’s head and gave him a blessing. I don’t remember much of that blessing, but I do remember the warm, sweet spirit that filled my heart when my father said that through Jon’s faith in the Lord, he would be healed.
When we arose, Jon shuffled away without a word. My youngest brother, Christopher, looked up at my mother and voiced the fear that was running through all of our minds. “He won’t be healed unless he has the faith to be, will he?” My mother shook her head in silence. I felt the tears come to my eyes and prayed that somehow the blessing would touch Jon, that he would feel the Spirit of the Lord and gather enough faith to be healed. He could lose so much without faith in God: not just the game and the scholarship, but perhaps his chances for eternal happiness as well.
All of us avoided mention of the subject until the morning of the game, when Jon said abruptly, “I’m going to see the sports trainer this afternoon. He can remove my cast so that it can be put back on if necessary.”
I turned to him, my heart racing. “Then you believe in what Dad said in the blessing?”
He returned my hopeful look with a level one of his own.
“Yeah, maybe I do,” he said shortly, and turned and went out the door.
The regional game began at eight o’clock, and long before then, I was hopping about with anxiety. Jon hadn’t even come home after school. He had gone straight to the trainer’s room and from there to the game. We sat shivering in the bleachers, waiting for the team to appear. Somehow I knew it was going to be all right, but still I didn’t know what to expect.
When they finally emerged, I could easily spot Jon’s dark blue goalie shirt amid the orange and white uniforms. And when I saw him, I grabbed my father’s arm in excitement and wonder.
“He’s jogging to the goal box!” I whispered. And I was even more awed when the game began. He played as though he’d never hurt his ankle, jumping and diving for the ball, kicking it back across the middle line into the other team’s territory, shouting instructions and encouraging the other players. Only once, when he ran out too early to intercept the ball, did a player manage to slip by him and score a goal. Anxiously, I waited for our team to score in return, and as the two hours passed, I sent up short, pleading prayers: “Oh, Heavenly Father, please let them win!” This was Jon’s game, his glory, and I wanted more than anything to have everyone else see and share in his triumph.
But they lost the game. When the final whistle shrilled, I sat, stunned, as the stands around us began to empty. I stared at the dark figure of my brother standing in the goal box. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, and in truth, I was afraid to see it. I didn’t understand. Why, after his miraculous healing, after our prayers had been answered, after Jon had finally found faith in God—why did He allow them to lose the game? I was fighting tears, praying that somehow I would understand and that Jon would, too.
But as he walked toward the short fence that outlined the field, I saw that he was smiling. When he caught sight of us, he sprinted the last few yards and threw his grimy, sweaty arms around the first person he could reach, which happened to be me. Then he vaulted the fence and hugged my parents and brothers.
My father stared at him in astonishment. “Well, I’m glad to see that you’re not too upset about the results of the game.”
Jon flashed him a mischievous grin that slowly became a softer, serious look.
“I’m not really disappointed,” he said slowly. “I wanted to play and I did, thanks to that blessing.”
“Thanks to your faith,” my father corrected gently.
“Yeah, I guess. I lost the battle, but I won the war, huh?” Jon replied, throwing an arm around my father’s shoulders.
Jon never won a soccer scholarship (although as a college freshman, he became the starting goalie for BYU’s Varsity Soccercats). But it didn’t really matter to him or to us.
“I lost the battle, but I won the war.” It was a long time before I began to understand that it doesn’t matter if you don’t win the game itself. What is really important is the struggle that no one sees, the struggle inside our hearts, the fight to find our real selves and the real God. And that’s really all that matters.

Last year my family moved from Texas to Arizona, USA. We hadn’t planned on moving, but we knew the Lord commanded it for our family, so we did.

I was sad and scared about leaving my hometown. I knew that it would be hard but that the Lord would bless me and my family if we did what He asked. As time went on, I was able to rely on Jesus Christ for comfort, love, and help with meeting new people and going to a new school. As I have done the Lord’s will and trusted in Him, my testimony has been strengthened and has grown so much.

Alexa H., 16, Arizona, USA

I was privileged to have a small role in a marvelous example of this kind of love. When I was serving as President of the Pacific Islands Area, I received a call from President R. Wayne Shute. As a young man, he served a mission in Samoa. Later, he returned to Samoa as a mission president.8 When he telephoned me, he was the Apia Samoa Temple president. One of his young missionaries, when he was mission president, was Elder O. Vincent Haleck, who is now the Area President in the Pacific. President Shute had great love and respect for Vince and the entire Haleck family. Most of the family were members of the Church, but Vince’s father, Otto Haleck, the patriarch of the family (of German and Samoan descent), was not a member. President Shute knew I was attending a stake conference and other meetings in American Samoa, and he asked me if I would consider staying in Otto Haleck’s residence with the view of sharing the gospel with him.
My wife, Mary, and I stayed with Otto and his wife, Dorothy, in their beautiful home. At breakfast I shared a gospel message and invited Otto to meet with the missionaries. He was kind, but firm, in refusing my invitation. He said he was pleased that many members of his family were Latter-day Saints. But he forcefully indicated that some of his Samoan mother’s ancestors had been early Christian ministers in Samoa, and he felt a great allegiance to their traditional Christian faith.9 Nevertheless, we left as good friends.
Later, when President Gordon B. Hinckley was preparing to dedicate the Suva Fiji Temple, he had his personal secretary, Brother Don H. Staheli,10 call me in New Zealand to make arrangements. President Hinckley wanted to fly from Fiji to American Samoa to meet the Saints. A certain hotel used in a previous visit was suggested. I asked if I could make different arrangements. Brother Staheli said, “You are the Area President; that would be fine.”
I immediately called President Shute and told him that perhaps we had a second chance at spiritually blessing our friend Otto Haleck. This time the missionary would be President Gordon B. Hinckley. I asked if he thought it would be appropriate for the Halecks to host all of us in President Hinckley’s travel group.11 President and Sister Hinckley, their daughter Jane, and Elder and Sister Jeffrey R. Holland were also part of the travel group. President Shute, working with the family, made all the arrangements.12
When we arrived from Fiji after the temple dedication, we were warmly greeted.13 We spoke that evening to thousands of Samoan members and then proceeded to the Haleck family compound. When we gathered for breakfast the next morning, President Hinckley and Otto Haleck had already become good friends. It was interesting to me that they were having much the same conversation I had had with Otto more than a year earlier. When Otto expressed his admiration for our Church but reaffirmed his commitment to his existing church, President Hinckley put his hand on Otto’s shoulder and said, “Otto, that’s not good enough; you ought to be a member of the Church. This is the Lord’s Church.” You figuratively could see the resistive armor fall away from Otto with an openness to what President Hinckley said.
This was the beginning of additional missionary teaching and a spiritual humility that allowed Otto Haleck to be baptized and confirmed a little over a year later. One year after that, the Haleck family was sealed as an eternal family in the temple.14
What touched my heart throughout this incredible experience was the overwhelming ministering love exhibited by President Wayne Shute for his former missionary, Elder Vince Haleck, and his desire to see the entire Haleck family united as an eternal family.15

“I just have to accept that my study time is going to be short and full of interruptions. I often have a child on my lap or on the chair next to me as I study. I give them something to scribble on and read out loud to them from the scriptures or manual. Sometimes I explain what the verses mean and ask them questions from the book. Some days are better than others. Often I can’t even remember what I studied, but I feel blessed for at least making the effort.” —Emily J.

It was a beautiful, clear day, and 28-year-old Aircraft Commander Brent Young was doing what he loved best: flying a C-141 for the United States Air Force. He and his crew, including his copilot, a flight engineer, and two load masters, were on a routine run from North Dakota to Utah.
The flight was uneventful until Commander Young began his approach to Hill Air Force Base. Then, out of nowhere, the thought came to him, “Hold 20 knots above approach speed.”
“Why would I do that?” he wondered. “It goes against everything I know about flying.”
As the plane sped toward its destination, he agonized over the decision he must make in the next 60 seconds. “If I drop 20 knots now,” he reasoned, “the plane will be at just the right speed for the approach. I can’t hold 20 knots. I’ll overshoot the runway.”
But the impression persisted. “Hold 20 knots above approach speed.”
“What are you doing?” his copilot suddenly blurted out. “You’re going too fast!”
“We need to hold 20 knots above approach speed. I can’t explain it,” Commander Young replied.
The plane hurled toward the runway. Beads of sweat rolled down his face. His heart beat wildly, and his hands clenched the steering column. “Will we overshoot the runway? Will we survive?” he thought.
At that moment, with the plane just 250 feet above the ground, the speed suddenly dropped 20 knots. Commander Young stared at the gauge in disbelief. It had dropped to 145 knots. What had happened?
Within seconds the plane touched down, and Commander Young completed the landing.
The flight was over, but he couldn’t leave the cockpit yet. He sat in stunned silence, trying to make sense of what had just happened. But he could find no logical explanation. Without the extra air speed, he and his crew probably wouldn’t be alive. If he hadn’t held 20 knots above the approach speed, the plane would have dropped to 125 knots—stall speed. He wouldn’t have had time to fly out of the stall. Likely the plane would have crashed.
“Why’d you let me do it?” Commander Young quizzed his copilot.
“I’ve flown with LDS pilots before,” he replied. “I know they are guided by a force I don’t understand.”
Commander Young uttered a silent prayer. “Thank you, Heavenly Father. Thank you for the gift of the Holy Ghost.”

When my grandma on my mom’s side first started struggling with dementia, she moved in with my family. During this time, she told me stories I hadn’t heard before. Each time she finished a story, she gave me a hug and said, “I’m sure glad you’re mine.” I could always find pieces of myself in the moments she shared—it made me realize how much I truly am hers.

“When I was your age, I’d rather dance than eat!” my grandma said. This was how she started one of my favorite stories. She got asked to a dance by a boy who she knew wasn’t exactly the best dancer. I could picture her standing in her school gym when her date came to ask her if she was ready to dance. She had been stalling, but she knew she couldn’t put it off forever. The next song was one of her favorites, and her foot started tapping, almost as if to spite her. She smiled at him and let him lead her out onto the dance floor.

“And wouldn’t you know, he’d been taking dancing lessons the whole time!” my grandma exclaimed at the end of her story. “I had the time of my life!”

This story introduced me to a different version of my grandma. She was suddenly a young girl I could relate to. It always made me smile to picture her happy as could be on a dance floor.

When heavy rains in southern Germany caused flooding so severe that many homes were underwater up to their rooftops, the Latter-day Saint youth in the area knew exactly what to do: they rolled up their sleeves and got to work. There certainly was plenty of work to go around.
Some youth helped directly with the aftermath of the flood. They swept away mud and helped clean out homes and gardens. Others worked to sort and distribute toys that had been donated for children affected by the flood.
The youth worked side-by-side with members of other faiths throughout the cleanup. “I felt the Spirit’s presence as we were serving,” says Nathaniel S., a young man who participated. “I know the reason the Spirit was there was because we were all unified as children of God helping each other.”

Sasha twirled in her bright pink skirt. It was her favorite outfit to wear to church. And now it was time for her favorite part of church. Primary!
Sasha’s teacher was helping them learn the Articles of Faith. Today they were learning number 13. It was long! But Sister Banda said, “I know you can learn the first part. ‘We believe in being honest.’ Say it with me!”
“We believe in being honest,” said Sasha and the other kids.
Later that week, Sasha and her little brother, Alfred, were playing in the kitchen. “I’m bored,” Alfred said.
“Me too.” Then Sasha saw some eggs on the table. They looked fun to play with. “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s play a game!”
Sasha picked up an egg. “You stand on the other side of the table,” she said to Alfred. Then she rolled the egg across to him. Sasha and Alfred laughed. The egg was so wobbly!
“Your turn!” Sasha said.
Alfred rolled the egg back to her. But this time the egg didn’t roll straight. Instead, it curved and rolled right off the table. Splat! The egg crashed to the floor, making a goopy mess.
Alfred looked at Sasha with wide eyes. Then they both burst out laughing. “Let’s do it again!” he said.
Sasha grabbed another egg. “Catch it before it rolls off!” she said. She rolled the egg harder than she had before. Alfred missed it. Splat!
Alfred grabbed two more eggs. He rolled them faster. Sasha couldn’t stop them soon enough. Splat! Splat! Sasha and Alfred giggled some more.
Then Sasha heard Mum coming. Oh no! They were going to be in big trouble!
Sasha didn’t want Mum to be mad at them. Maybe they could make up a story. She could tell Mum they didn’t do it.
But then Sasha remembered the thirteenth article of faith. “We believe in being honest.”
“What happened?” Mum asked. She stared at the messy floor. “Who broke the eggs?”
Sasha took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mum. It was me and Alfred. We thought the eggs looked fun to play with. But it wasn’t a good idea. I’ll help clean up.”
“Me too,” Alfred said.
Mum gave Sasha and Alfred a hug. “Thanks for telling me the truth.”
Sasha smiled. Then she turned to Alfred. “Maybe we can make up a new game—about cleaning up!”
This story took place in Zambia.
What did Sasha do when Mum asked about the eggs?

Looking at the Grand Canyon rim far above filled my mind with anything but ease. I was with my dad and six other kids from my ward. We left our camp in the bottom of the Grand Canyon at dusk to avoid the heat of the Arizona sun as we climbed out. My pack was lighter than it had been hiking in, and Dad had lovingly given first aid to my blistered feet with moleskin, so I was feeling fairly capable of handling the hike ahead.
After two miles, we reached a small Indian reservation as darkness fell. After a rest break, we filled our canteens, dug out our flashlights, did some general regrouping, and resumed our trek.
As the night wore on, fatigue and aching muscles were not the only causes of my problems. I had learned to deal with physical exhaustion in competitive swimming. There were times when swimming one more length seemed impossible, yet I could do it because I knew that it was only one more lap. But to continue hiking without knowing how far I’d gone or how far I had left to go was entirely demoralizing.
We walked for four hours. My flashlight carved a hole in the blackness just large enough to show my dad’s shoes and the trail’s edge. There was no moon to see by, and nothing to look at on either side. It reminded me of the nightmare I have where I run as hard and fast as I can but get nowhere. At that moment I hated that canyon more than I have ever hated anything. I felt as though it was something personal, as if the canyon were gloating at my struggle to escape.
I never would have made it out of that canyon without my dad. Watching his feet, I methodically placed my own in his tracks. We stopped to rest more often than he needed; and while I drank the water he carried, he quietly lashed my bedroll to his pack. At one point, after stopping to share what little water was left, I somehow became separated from my dad by a few people. I could no longer see his shoes or hear his voice. I was frantic. Holding back the tears, I stumbled ahead until I resumed my place behind him. Slowly I regained my composure.
I suppose it was because of my weakened physical state that the last few miles of this monotonous journey seemed miraculous. Walking behind my father as we started our ascent of the switchbacks, I began to reflect. This was the hardest thing I had ever done, and at that point, I was not getting myself up the canyon trail. My dad was. Without his footprints to walk in, I felt lost. The side of the canyon became insurmountable without him.
The parallel became clear at that moment. Dad made the trek up the mountain so much easier just by his being there. I followed him without question. I knew he loved me and that he knew I was struggling. He wanted to get me to the top so I could look back and say, “I made it. I am here where I wanted to be. Let’s go home.”
If life is the trek up a mountain, and trials add to my humility and willingness to follow, then isn’t Father in Heaven, like my dad, there to make it easier if I but follow him? Isn’t it his great wish for me to be able to say, “I have fought the good fight. I am where I want to be for eternity. It is wonderful to be home”?

By Kyle S., Texas, USA
My parents and I listened to Elder Bednar in the October 2011 general conference when he said that working on family history would give us protection against the adversary. We started working on our family history then. I keep learning and growing from family history; it’s really fun.
I like finding out about where I’m from and about my ancestors. I learn from their experiences and use them in my life to help me be a better person. It’s amazing to discover who they were, what they did for a living, what life was like, and how hard it was for them.
For example, I enjoyed learning about one of my ancestors who moved with his family from Tennessee to Texas, USA, in the 1870s to be a cattle rancher. He faced many challenges in his life, and from him I learned that life can be hard, so it’s important to stand up for what you believe.
When I have challenges in my life, working on family history makes me feel like my ancestors are always with me and will help me through hard trials, just as Elder Bednar promised us.

While the Mayflower skimmed westward with the breeze in her sails, Ellen played on deck with four-year-old Mary Allerton, the youngest passenger on board.
“Mary,” Ellen said, “shall we play pretend?”
“How do we play pretend?” Mary asked.
“Well, first, you make believe you’re my sister. Now I need to find a brother. Let me see … John Howland will be just right.” Walking briskly up to him, she said, “Ahoy, mate. A jolly good day it is.”
“Righto!” replied John, grinning. “That it is.”
“Aye, and a jolly good day for pretending,” Ellen added. “Would you like to pretend you’re my brother?”
“I’d like that very much,” the boy answered.
“Then it’s all settled. We are a family. Families stick together on ocean voyages and help each other.” Pretending helped ease Ellen’s homesick longing for Sarah and Roger.

I’ve visited the Church in different places around the world, and while on those visits have always felt welcome. For a long time, I thought it was good enough for me and my family that I was an enthusiastic supporter of this Church, but in June 2022, something changed.
I was raised Catholic and said prayers during my younger years, but in June of 2022, I really prayed to God for the very first time. I prayed for guidance, to know if this was the right time for me to study the gospel. That night in my sleep, a scripture from the Book of Mormon entered in my mind: 2 Nephi 17.
It was like a movie. I saw golden glowing letters on the inside of my head. I had no idea if the scripture, 2 Nephi 17 existed, but I clearly felt that this was an answer to my prayers and came up with a plan to go to Church with Ellie and the children for at least a year, to read the scriptures and to pray together as a family. Later that day at work, I looked up the text of 2 Nephi 17, and my eyes landed on verse 11, that reads: “Ask thee a sign of the Lord thy God; ask it either in the depths, or in the heights above.”
I did not see this experience as a faint sign. This felt like God literally telling me that indeed it was time. I went home to tell Ellie and told her that I was ready to start a sincere study of the gospel. While telling her my story, I was struck by lightning—not by actual lightning, but by the Holy Ghost. I immediately knew what it was. Physically I felt something happening in my heart and realized that I was freed from a restlessness that I’ve carried all my life. Immediately I felt a love come over me that I have never felt before. I knew that this was the love of Christ. I literally had a change of heart. For my oldest daughter, Mayra, it was a very emotional moment, because two days earlier she had prayed that I would experience a conversion. Later, I learned two other friends had prayed for the same thing a few days earlier. A great testimony of the power of prayer!

I am grateful for Young Women leaders who go to girls camp and, without shampoo, showers, or mascara, turn smoky, campfire testimony meetings into some of the most riveting spiritual experiences those girls—or those leaders—will experience in their lifetime. I am grateful for all the women of the Church who in my life have been as strong as Mount Sinai and as compassionate as the Mount of Beatitudes. We smile sometimes about our sisters’ stories—you know, green Jell-O, quilts, and funeral potatoes. But my family has been the grateful recipient of each of those items at one time or another—and in one case, the quilt and the funeral potatoes on the same day. It was just a small quilt—tiny, really—to make my deceased baby brother’s journey back to his heavenly home as warm and comfortable as our Relief Society sisters wanted him to be. The food provided for our family after the service, voluntarily given without a single word from us, was gratefully received. Smile, if you will, about our traditions, but somehow the too-often unheralded women in this church are always there when hands hang down and knees are feeble.1 They seem to grasp instinctively the divinity in Christ’s declaration: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … , ye have done it unto me.”2

Jorge Popá, a member of the Quetzaltenango Guatemala Stake, originally invited the sister missionaries to his home to help his wife understand the English instructions that came with the bread maker he had bought her. The sisters agreed—if they could also share the gospel message with the family. After the missionary lessons, Jorge and his wife, Mirna, told the missionaries they weren’t interested in baptism. But that night neither Jorge nor Mirna could sleep. At the same time, each felt moved to get out of bed and pray about what they had been taught, and each received the same manifestation of the truth. They sought out the sister missionaries at church on Sunday and asked to be baptized. After their baptism, the Popás faced the problem many converts face: how to tell their family they had broken with the traditional religion. Their four-year-old son (who is now a deacon) solved that problem at a family gathering. When someone served tea, he stood and announced, “We don’t drink that! We’re Mormons.”

A missionary related an experience that illustrates one method that God has used to bring the searchers after truth into his true church. He stated that he and his companion had knocked on a door. A woman opened the door immediately, enthusiastically invited them in, and said to them, “You young men have come to my home today in answer to my prayers.

“For a long time I have been dissatisfied with the church to which I belong, feeling that it does not contain many of the doctrines that Christ taught while here upon the earth. I felt that it was not the true church that was founded originally by our Savior. I prayed earnestly and asked our Father in heaven to send somebody to me who would bring me the true gospel plan of salvation and make it possible for me to find the true church.

“After doing so, I had a dream that two young men knocked on my door and when I let them in they said to me, ‘We have come to bring you the true gospel of Jesus Christ.’ I recognize that you two young men are the same two young men I saw in my dream, and as in my dream, you announced yourselves by saying, ‘We have come to bring you the gospel of Jesus Christ.’ I know that you are the servants of our Master and that you will teach me his gospel.”

The two missionaries were surprised at the reception but happy to have the privilege of teaching this good woman the gospel. She eagerly received it and soon thereafter was a baptized member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Thus, another modern miracle in missionary work had occurred.

From Dream to Reality: A Young Leader’s Culinary Journey
Meet Yazé Aristophane Guy-Landry, a dynamic young single adult leader in the Grand-Bassam Côte d’Ivoire Stake, whose journey of self-reliance began at the Gathering Place. It was there, in a simple pâtisserie class, that Yazé discovered a passion for baking and a newfound confidence in his talents.
That spark ignited a bold step forward—he enrolled at the École Hôtelière de Grand-Bassam, where he is now thriving in his culinary studies. As he builds his skills, Yazé is also gaining valuable experience by working at the hotel. His goal is clear: to eventually launch his own restaurant.
Reflecting on this journey, he shared, “This experience is changing the way I viewed life some time ago. I am convinced that if I work well, with God’s help, I will be financially good and self-sufficient.”
Yazé credits the Gathering Place not just for his career direction but also for deep personal and spiritual growth. “I can truly attest to the authenticity of this program called Gathering Place,” he said. “I believe it is a gift from heaven and carried out by our leaders to bring together the youth of the Church and their friends in an enchanted place, allowing them to learn more, whether it be skills training or the importance of human values, helping us to keep our covenants and stay on the right path.”
For Yazé, the Gathering Place is more than a classroom—it’s a community. “I had the opportunity to get to know several members and friends. I even believe that my marriage will come from the Gathering Place. I invite all my young single adult friends to give this program the utmost importance.”
Yazé’s story is a powerful example of how the Gathering Place is transforming lives, helping young adults turn hope into action and dreams into achievement.

I think of a young man I know who, as a Christian, trying one church after another, could find none that taught of a modern prophet. Among the Jewish people he found reverent mention of prophets, and so he accepted and embraced the Jewish religion.
In the summer of 1964, he went to New York City and visited the World’s Fair. He entered the Mormon Pavilion and saw pictures of the prophets of the Old Testament. His heart warmed within him as he heard the missionaries speak with appreciation of these great men of ages past through whom Jehovah revealed his will. Then, as he progressed through the pavilion, he heard of modern prophets—of Joseph Smith, who was called a prophet, a seer, and a revelator. Something stirred within him. His spirit responded to the testimony of the missionaries. He was baptized. He served a mission in South America. He returned home and has since become the means of bringing his family and others into the Church. It is heartwarming to hear him testify that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God and that all who have succeeded him have been legal successors in this high and sacred calling.

When Kazue Horikami moved from her native Japan to Hawaii as a young adult, she had little need to learn English. She spoke Japanese at home, did her shopping in areas where there was a high concentration of Japanese speakers, and later worked as a guide for Japanese tourists. The only place she sometimes encountered a language barrier was at church—a scenario common to many Latter-day Saints. But even at church she got along by building friendships with the three or four other sisters who spoke her native tongue.
Then, after more than 25 years of living in Hawaii, Sister Horikami was called to be the Relief Society president in her ward, a prospect that overwhelmed her. “Most of the sisters spoke only English, and others spoke only Samoan or Tagalog,” she remembers. “By that point I could understand other languages fairly well, but I was not confident in speaking them. Even though I comprehended most of what my sisters said, I wondered how I could possibly serve them when I couldn’t even talk to them.”
Sister Horikami knew taking language classes wasn’t an option—she simply didn’t have the time. She expressed her concerns to her stake president during a temple-recommend interview. “I told him that I was afraid—not only of the responsibility but also of creating misunderstandings,” she says. The stake president paused thoughtfully and then told Sister Horikami not to worry about the language, at least not right away. “Just do your work the best you can,” he said. She promised she would.
Days later, when Sister Horikami was in the temple, the story of Peter walking on water came into her mind (see Matthew 14:22–33). “I realized that as long as I clung to my fear, I would sink,” she says. “But if I put my faith in the Savior, He would help me do the impossible.”
“The impossible” began with simple, though powerful, efforts. Sister Horikami recalls spending long periods of time looking over the Relief Society roll. “As I studied the name of an individual sister, I would recognize thoughts coming into my mind about that sister, and I would feel promptings about ways I could serve her. As I followed those promptings, I was amazed to discover how specific and personal they were.
“That’s how I started,” she continues. “Over several months those small acts turned into relationships of care and concern, not only of my caring for them but of their caring for me.”
Sister Horikami did eventually learn English, but she’s quick to assert that it was the Spirit—not proficiency in any language—that helped her serve. “I learned that the Spirit isn’t limited by language,” Sister Horikami notes. “He speaks to all of us in ways we can understand.”

Sierra Leone was a sad place during my teenage years, but it was my home. For much of my life, my small West African country was torn by a civil war. The war affected everything. My family and I were constantly on the run, trying to escape the rebel soldiers. It was terrifying every time the rebels came through a city. Someone would see their torches approaching in the night, warn the others, and we would all run for the bush, grabbing whatever we could along the way.
About seven years after the war began, the rebels came to our city. My whole family was running to escape, but my parents, who were just a few steps behind me, were shot and killed. I was so sad to lose them, but I had to keep moving.
My brother, sister, and I moved to a safer place, and for a short while we were all right, but the rebels eventually hit that town, too. This time we didn’t have time to run away. My brother was taken and later killed. My sister and I were lined up outside with all the other women. The rebel soldiers were chopping limbs off of all the women in the line. We were all so frightened. Everyone was crying and praying—even people who had never believed in God before. I was not a member of the Church at the time, but I believed in God and prayed that His will would be done and hoped that He would find a way to save me.
My dear sister, who was several places ahead of me in line, had both of her legs cut off. But as the rebels reached the woman in front of me, our army came rushing in and the rebels ran away. I know that I was not better than the people who were in front of me or behind me, but I thanked God that I had been spared and prayed that I might understand His plan for me.
I moved to another village to live with a friend. As I was telling my story to my friend and some of her neighbors, one neighbor said, “Mariama, we don’t have anything to offer you except an invitation to church tomorrow. That’s where we find safety. That’s where we find hope.” I loved God already and needed comfort in my life, so I decided to go.
My first Sunday in that LDS branch is a day I will never forget. I learned of hope. You could just see that there was hope in those people, and I was drawn to them. I was given the Book of Mormon and started reading right away. I remember hearing in church about how families could be together again after death and then reading in Alma 11 where Alma teaches about how our bodies will be made perfect again in the Resurrection. I felt the Spirit so strong as I thought of my family. I knew that the Church was true and that we could be together forever—each of us well and whole.
There were no missionaries in Sierra Leone at that time, so I took the lessons from my branch president and was baptized soon after. We were blessed in our town, because the Church sent food and humanitarian kits for the members of the Church and others. The food kept us all alive. Everyone was so grateful even to receive a small bag of rice or beans. I received a blanket and a hygiene kit that included a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, a comb, and a washcloth.
Not long after, the rebels hit again. They burned down the house I was living in, and as I was running to escape the flames, I took time to save only two things—my scriptures and my hygiene kit. We had to live on the run for a while after that, and I used my hygiene kit to help those around me. I would squeeze out one pinch of toothpaste for each person, or we would go to the river and carefully pass my bar of soap from person to person. The kit was so precious to us. The blanket, too, was invaluable. It sheltered us for many days until I used it to wrap an old woman who had died and had nothing to be buried in.
Eventually, I went back to my town and my branch. It was then that I decided I wanted to serve a mission. This was a difficult decision for me, because I had nothing and would be leaving behind people I loved. As I was trying to decide, I read D&C 84:81 and 88, which say, “Therefore, take ye no thought for the morrow, for what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink, or wherewithal ye shall be clothed … for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.” I knew the Lord would care for me, so I turned in my mission papers and was called to the Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square Mission.
I arrived in Utah with practically nothing, but I insisted on bringing my hygiene kit, because it meant so much to me. One day, my companion and I were taking a tour of the Humanitarian Center in Salt Lake, and I recognized a blanket that had the Relief Society logo embroidered on it, just like the one I’d had in Sierra Leone. I looked around and saw hygiene kits like mine and familiar bags of beans and rice, and I began cry.
“This is where they came from!” I thought to myself. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I remembered what these things sitting in stacks in the Humanitarian Center in Salt Lake meant to my friends and to me in Sierra Leone. I was so grateful to the Lord for preserving me, for bringing the gospel into my life, and for allowing me to serve a mission. I knew that His angels truly had been round about me, to bear me up.