Gospel Story Finder

When I studied experiences in Church history, I realized that I might not be the only one who has felt this way. I found hope in the story of William W. Phelps, who was an author, missionary, and leader of the early Restoration. He was a good man. He preached the gospel wherever he traveled and became a trusted member of the Missouri High Council. William was also a close friend of Joseph Smith.
Which is why his betrayal of Joseph was particularly painful.
In 1838, mobs and militiamen attacked and pillaged the Saints in Missouri, destroying homes and beating resisters. In the aftermath, Joseph Smith and other Church leaders were arrested for baseless crimes. Afraid of being prosecuted alongside them, William W. Phelps and several others made a deal with the prosecutor: testify against Joseph Smith and go free.
Under oath, William joined others in bearing false testimony against the Prophet. After the trial, Joseph and other Church leaders were incarcerated in Liberty Jail. While William left the courthouse a free man, he felt the weight of his actions on his shoulders. Several years later, Joseph Smith received a letter from William asking Joseph for forgiveness.
“I am as the prodigal son,” wrote William. “I have been greatly abased and humbled.”
The Prophet wrote back, “Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal.”
Joseph Smith was filled with compassion for William. Just as the father celebrated the return of the prodigal in the scriptures (see Luke 15:11–32), so too did the Saints receive William Phelps back into the fold.
Repentance and forgiveness for William—which likely seemed impossible to him—was now a reality. And it can be a reality for us too!
Joseph Smith acknowledged the pain that William had caused: “We have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough for mortals to drink, was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us.”
But Joseph continued, “However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done.”
Joseph recognized that William’s sins had been paid for and that there was no need for William to suffer any longer. William’s repentance to Heavenly Father could free him from guilt.

I introduce next a gentle, faith-filled man who epitomized the peace and joy which the gospel of Jesus Christ can bring into one’s life.
Late one evening on a Pacific isle, a small boat slipped silently to its berth at the crude pier. Two Polynesian women helped Meli Mulipola from the boat and guided him to the well-worn pathway leading to the village road. The women marveled at the bright stars, which twinkled in the midnight sky. The moonlight guided them along their way. However, Meli Mulipola could not appreciate these delights of nature—the moon, the stars, the sky—for he was blind.
Brother Mulipola’s vision had been normal until a fateful day when, while working on a pineapple plantation, light turned suddenly to darkness and day became perpetual night. He was depressed and despondent until he learned the good news of the gospel of Jesus Christ. His life was brought into compliance with the teachings of the Church, and he once again felt hope and joy.
Brother Mulipola and his loved ones had made a long voyage, having learned that one who held the priesthood of God was visiting among the islands of the Pacific. He sought a blessing, and it was my privilege, along with another who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, to provide that blessing to him. As we finished, I noted that tears were streaming from his sightless eyes, coursing down his brown cheeks, and tumbling finally upon his native dress. He dropped to his knees and prayed: “O God, Thou knowest I am blind. Thy servants have blessed me that my sight might return. Whether in Thy wisdom I see light or whether I see darkness all the days of my life, I will be eternally grateful for the truth of Thy gospel, which I now see and which provides the light of my life.”
He rose to his feet and, smiling, thanked us for providing the blessing. He then disappeared into the still of the night. Silently he came; silently he departed. But his presence I shall never forget. I reflected upon the message of the Master: “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”

I knew a man who admittedly lived the perfect life, full of things that went his way and had no afflictions. He was raised by loving parents and had the gospel in his home. His brothers and sisters were nice and sweet and nobody had any major problems. School was easy because he was smart and he grew up active in the church, intelligent, strong and handsome. He was a football star in high school and because he was also smart he went to a large university played football, became a star, married the cheerleader and went on to obtain a graduate degree. Then he was called to be a Bishop and it became the hardest thing he ever has done in his life.
Members of his ward spoke to him of loneliness, sadness, mourning the loss of a love one, desperation, poverty, chronic sickness, abuse, violence in the home, etc. and he was overwhelmed and speechless. He was at a total loss as to what to say and he had no idea that there was so much sadness in the world.

When my sister, Estella Torres, was expecting her second child, she suffered from diabetes, toxemia, and high blood pressure. She faced a real risk of death. Though born in El Salvador, she was living in Salt Lake City at the time and so was admitted to a hospital there. She recuperated, but for the first few days her spirits were low. She felt lonely and depressed with no loved ones nearby. Then one morning, a kind nurse, noticing that my sister spoke with an accent, asked her what country she was from.

“El Salvador,” Estella replied.

“Oh,” said the nurse. “I served a mission in El Salvador 35 years ago.”

“Do you remember any names or places?” my sister asked. “Perhaps you knew my grandmother. Her name was Amanda Ernestina.”

“It’s hard to remember names. But I do have an old photograph of one of the Church members I knew. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

When the nurse brought the picture in, Estella was elated to see that it was indeed our beloved grandmother. The photograph showed a woman of small stature and fair complexion. She wore her long hair caught up in a comb, a style once popular in small Salvadorean towns.

Thirty-five years later, my sister and I feel that a dusty photograph bore silent witness that Grandmother is still concerned for her grandchildren and loves us even from beyond the veil. As Estella held that picture in her hands, she was filled with emotion as she remembered Grandmother’s love. I feel that same love whenever I remember my valiant pioneer grandmother.

When I lived in Tallahassee, Florida, I worked with a man from our ward named Bill Miller. He was the band director at Cobb Middle School, and he hired me play piano for his students and work with them every morning for an hour before school every day for several weeks before to help prepare for their solo and ensemble festival.

On a daily basis, I noticed his interaction with the students. Sometimes he would be working in his office, but he also would work with some students and then check in with the other students and with me to see how their preparation was progressing. As I left the classroom, every day these middle school students would be sitting in place with their noise makers, or their instruments, in hand, but they didn’t play at all from the time the bell rang until the conductor started their warmup. I commented once on how quiet they were, and ready to play, and he said, “Well they’d better be.” and he was right. On a different day, I talked with him about this, and I asked him what he would do if a student ever just ignored him and acted rude about it. He said he would then ask the student if he (as the director) had ever been disrespectful to the student or done anything to cause them to act this way. He said he would then ask them if there was a reason they could not be respectful in the classroom. This is when I stopped asking my questions because I had my answer.

The only reason he could ask this question was because he already knew what the answer would be. He had first shown them the respect they deserved, and he expected them to respect him in return. It was also not surprising to me to find that he had been named Teacher of the Year a few years before that.

I went on a two-day school field trip with other fifth and sixth graders to study paleontology. I shared a motel room with three of my friends. One of my friends found a Bible in the nightstand drawer. He flipped through some of the pages and then asked me if I would help him read it. I was surprised that he didn’t know any of the Bible stories I thought everyone knew. I taught him about the Creation, Adam and Eve, and the Resurrection. I also told him about Joseph Smith. I told him some of the stories I learned in Primary.
Afterward, I felt like we should have a prayer. I let my friend say the prayer. I led him through it by saying one phrase at a time and having him repeat it. I had a warm feeling, and my friend said he felt good inside.
I never expected that to happen on a school field trip. I was glad that when I had an opportunity to be a missionary, I was prepared and I wasn’t afraid to share my beliefs.

The Young Women of the Mountain Home Fourth Ward, Mountain Home Idaho Stake, undertook a special service project for the mothers in the ward. On Mother’s Day the Young Women took over the entire Primary to give the leaders and teachers a chance to attend Relief Society and Sunday School.

Each girl was assigned a position, from leading sharing time and the music to teaching a class. Some of the younger girls chose to team teach. The Young Women dedicated themselves to preparing excellent lessons for the children.

In preparation for the service project, the Young Women received instruction on teaching lessons. They were anxious to put into action the things they learned.

In addition to this service project, the Young Women also set up baby-sitting services for ward temple day.

I had an experience that helped me glimpse what it means to be “clasped in the arms of Jesus”—embraced in the arms of His mercy. I told you of my experience with Elder Uchtdorf in the Winter Quarters Temple. I was so personally moved and powerfully motivated by that experience, I determined to follow Elder Uchtdorf’s example and share that feeling with my missionaries. We took every group of departing missionaries, on their last day in the mission, to the Nauvoo Temple for an endowment session. As Elder Uchtdorf had done with me, I greeted each missionary as they came into the celestial room with a big hug and the words, “I love you.” I expressed my deep appreciation for their service and that they were now able to “return with honor.” I meant every word of it, but I must admit that it was easier to express those sentiments to some missionaries than others.

One elder in particular had given me more than his share of grief. In fact, most of the grays hairs I gained in the mission field came because of him. He seemed to be in trouble all of the time. On more than one occasion, I told him I was going to send him home. He would always promise me that he would try harder—which he did—for awhile—and the cycle would start all over again—disobedience, admonishment and correction, repentance, renewed determination, then slacking off (sounds like all of us, doesn’t it?). I just wanted him to be able to complete his mission honorably. He wasn’t an “all star” missionary, but he made it.

As he came through the veil of the temple into the celestial room, I greeted him with the customary hug and the almost obligatory “I love you.” Tears streamed down his face. His whole body shook with weeping. When he could speak, he whispered to me over and over again, “Thank you for extending me mercy.” It was a tender moment and I, too, shed many tears. My love for him at that moment was unbounded. Then it happened. I understood. Almost as if the veil parted, I sensed a coming day when I would embrace the Savior and with tears of gratitude and love likewise declare, “Thank you for extending me mercy.” How grateful I am for the Lord’s arms of mercy. I am grateful that He has rescued me, not only from physical death and from sins, but also from myself—my fears, my discouragement, my doubts, my feelings of inadequacy. Truly, his arms of mercy are arms of safety and security.

November 4, 2011, changed my life. I was a senior in high school and was playing my last regular season football game. During a punt-return play late in the fourth quarter, I went to tackle a player on the other team and was knocked unconscious when his shoulder pad hit my face.
I woke up briefly minutes later only to slip back into unconsciousness almost immediately. It was clear, however, that my body was paralyzed. As paramedics prepared to take me to the hospital, my mom wanted to make sure my dad gave me a priesthood blessing. So he found the dad of another Latter-day Saint player and they gave me a blessing in the back of the ambulance.
Later that evening, I regained consciousness and slowly began to gain feeling in my body. When that happened, the hospital staff sent me home and told me nothing was wrong. However, my parents and I felt that there was still a problem, so I went to see a specialist.
After looking at my injuries, the specialist said, “I don’t know how you walked into my office today. You shouldn’t be able to move or even breathe on your own because of the severe problems in your spinal cord. Someone has been watching over you.” He told me how surprised he was that I was even alive and that I wasn’t paralyzed. I knew it was because of the priesthood blessing, and I was grateful my dad and my teammate’s father were both worthy and prepared to administer the blessing.
My recovery was still painful. I continued to see the specialist and began physical therapy. I struggled with severe pain and fatigue and was unable to attend school—I couldn’t even sit up by myself for three months.
The only thing that kept me going was the Spirit. As someone who’d been very social, it was hard to be home by myself all day while Mom and Dad were at work. I found comfort through the Spirit and through prayer and scripture study. The gospel kept me going. And I knew the priesthood blessing and the prayers of my friends (both Church members and friends of other faiths) helped.
After a few months, I felt strongly that I needed to return to seminary. And even though my medication made it extremely hard to get out of bed, I was determined to go. At first, seminary took all my energy for the day. But once I started going, my recovery time seemed to decrease, and I began to heal more quickly and to feel better. This was a miracle to my family and me.
Two years later, I can now run, jump, and move around with little pain.
I know that Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and angels were watching over me the night of the accident. I’ve felt the power of the priesthood so strongly because I received a blessing from worthy priesthood holders. That, combined with the pattern of personal prayer, scripture study, and seminary attendance I’d established before the accident and have continued after, helped me through the healing process.

A short family history story illustrates this counsel.

Several months ago I read the testimony of my great-grandfather’s sister Elizabeth Staheli Walker. As a child, Elizabeth immigrated to America from Switzerland with her family.

After Elizabeth married, she and her husband and children lived in Utah near the Nevada border, where they ran a mail station. Their home was a stopping place for travelers. All day and all night they had to be ready to cook and serve meals for travelers. It was hard, exhausting work, and they had little rest. But the greatest thing that concerned Elizabeth was the conversation of the people they associated with.

Elizabeth said that up to this time she had always taken for granted that the Book of Mormon was true, that the Prophet Joseph Smith had been authorized of God to do what he did, and that his message was the plan of life and salvation. But the life she was experiencing was anything but what would strengthen such a belief.

Some of the travelers who stopped were well-read, educated, smart men, and always the talk around her table was that Joseph Smith was “a sly fraud” who had written the Book of Mormon himself and then distributed it to make money. They acted as if to think anything else was absurd, claiming “that Mormonism was bunk.”

All this talk made Elizabeth feel isolated and alone. There was no one to talk to, no time to even say her prayers—although she did pray as she worked. She was too frightened to say anything to those who ridiculed her religion. She said she didn’t know but what they were telling the truth, and she felt she could not have defended her belief if she had tried.

Later, Elizabeth and her family moved. Elizabeth said she had more time to think and was not so distracted all the time. She often went down in the cellar and prayed to Heavenly Father about what was troubling her—about the stories those seemingly smart men had told about the gospel being bunk and about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon.

One night Elizabeth had a dream. She said: “It seemed I was standing by a narrow wagon road, which led around by the foot of a low rolling hill; halfway up the hill I saw a man looking down and speaking, or seemed to be speaking, to a young man who was kneeling and leaning over a hole in the earth. His arms were stretched out, and it looked as if he was reaching for something from in the hole. I could see the lid of stone that seemed to have been taken off from the hole over which the boy was bending. On the road were many people, but none of them seemed to be at all interested in the two men on the hillside. There was something that came along with the dream that impressed me so strangely that I woke right up; … I could not tell my dream to anyone, but I seemed to be satisfied that it meant the angel Moroni [instructed] the boy Joseph at the time he got the plates.”

In the spring of 1893, Elizabeth went to Salt Lake City to the dedication of the temple. She described her experience: “In there I saw the same picture [that] I had seen in my dream; I think it was [a] colored-glass window. I feel satisfied that if I saw the Hill Cumorah itself, it would not look more real. I feel satisfied that I was shown in a dream a picture of the angel Moroni giving Joseph Smith the [gold] plates.”

Many years after having this dream and several months before she died at nearly age 88, Elizabeth received a powerful impression. She said, “The thought came to me as plain … as if someone had said to me, … ‘Do not bury your testimony in the ground.’”

Generations later, Elizabeth’s posterity continues to draw strength from her testimony. Like Elizabeth, we live in a world of many doubters and critics who ridicule and oppose the truths we hold dear. We may hear confusing stories and conflicting messages. Also like Elizabeth, we will have to do our best to hold on to whatever light and truth we currently have, especially in difficult circumstances. The answers to our prayers may not come dramatically, but we must find quiet moments to seek greater light and truth. And when we receive it, it is our responsibility to live it, to share it, and to defend it.

Have you ever been by a lake or an ocean during a bad storm? The waves and the wind can become ferocious! One night a family watched a terrible storm from the window of their home near a beach. Huge waves crashed against the shore. They battered the family’s wooden boat dock, breaking it apart. The next morning they found pieces of the dock all along the shoreline. But their boat was floating peacefully and unharmed in the water. It was held in place by the strong anchor they had tied it to the night before. The anchor had held the boat and kept it from crashing into the shore and being destroyed.
Just as the boat was safe in the storm because it was held by an anchor, we can be kept safe when we listen to and follow the prophet. Listening to and obeying his counsel is like an anchor in our lives. The prophet tells us the things Heavenly Father wants us to do. He tells us things that will guide us. He tells us how we can have peace, even during times of fear and worry.

My father was the most excited among us to learn and share the truth. He used to wake up early in the morning to study the scriptures for over two hours every day. After work he went with the missionaries to visit our family, friends, and neighbors nearly every day. Seven months after we were baptized, 23 of my family and relatives became members of the Church. That was followed by the miracle of seeing 130 people baptized in the following year through my father’s member missionary work.

Nyafuraha Mukushaka arrived in Spokane in June 2019 from Burundi. Soon she started work in a glass factory at 6:00 a.m. each day. The morning bus schedule did not allow her to make it to work on time. For four months while she was preparing to get a driver’s license, Church members would wake up at 4:40 a.m. each morning, drive to her home, and then take her to work. She shared this experience with her parents and brother, who arrived in Spokane in August 2021. Her father, Vincent, became interested in the restored gospel when he sought to find out who would be willing to provide such a service to his daughter. Vincent joined the Church in November 2021.

A few years ago, when I was serving as an Area Seventy in Brazil, my family and I were on vacation in the beautiful city of Florianópolis. On Sunday, as usual, we went to the closest church that we could find. My wife and I and our oldest daughter attended a Sunday School class where they were discussing our personal testimony of the gospel.
At some point in the lesson, the teacher asked the class members if they would share a powerful spiritual experience they had while developing their testimony of the Church. While some brothers and sisters were sharing their stories, I mentally reviewed my own experiences as a convert for something I could share with them, but I could not think of anything very remarkable in my process of gaining a testimony.
While I was thinking and listening to the others’ experiences, I realized that the teacher expected me to participate. She was listening to the other members, and she let me know that she was waiting for my great experience to be shared. After all, I was an Area Seventy, and I should have something impressive to share. Feeling that the time was passing and she was waiting for me, I tried harder to find something that would fit in this category of a powerful event, but I was not able to think of anything, to the disappointment of the teacher. For all I wanted to help, I could not meet her expectation.
Fortunately that was a fast Sunday, and during sacrament meeting, I took the opportunity to express my testimony to the congregation and especially to that sister and her Sunday School class. It was not a remarkable experience that I had to share but a sincere testimony that I have about the truths of the restored gospel.

“Oh, Mommy, do they have to come tomorrow?” I asked in a pleading voice.
“Of course they do. I’ve asked them to come early so they can stay all day, not just for Christmas dinner.”
“Why can’t we ever be by ourselves? Then we could have leftovers the next day,” I said. I didn’t like guests much, and especially not the Lindsays. They had five children, and these kids were the most ragged bunch in the whole school. My friends all said they were “different.”
“Christmas is for sharing, Karen,” my mother said. She was making pies for Christmas dinner and the spicy smell of apples and cinnamon filled the house.
“We won’t have enough food with the way the Lindsays eat. They’re always starving,” I grumbled, grabbing an apple while my mother put a pie in the oven.
“Now, Karen. You know we have enough for everyone, and Christmas is about giving. Now why don’t you go join your brother and Matthew to get the tree today.”
“Matthew? You mean Matthew Lindsay came over to get our Christmas tree too?” I was mad. My brother Jim and I always did that together. It was our tradition.
“Yes, Karen. Now hurry along,” she said. “And I want you to be nice to Matthew,” she added.
I put on my boots and my old coat and mittens and went out to find my brother. I didn’t even want to add Matthew’s name in my thoughts. It just wasn’t fair. Jim would be talking to him the whole time. They were both 12, and they wouldn’t even ask me about which tree to pick.
I saw them over by the barn getting the ax to chop down the tree.
“Hurry up, Karen, or we’ll have to go without you,” Jim shouted to me. He would never have said that if Matthew weren’t coming. He would have needed my help. I felt even madder.
Matthew smiled at me as I walked up to them. I just looked the other way.
The boys talked together all the way to the woods. I could have joined in, but that would have meant giving up my sulking, so I didn’t.
“Hey, Matt, how about that one?” Jim pointed at a beautiful tree. It was in the middle of a swampy area, but it was so cold that the water had frozen and we were able to get to it.
“What do you think, Karen?” Matthew asked me. I wished he hadn’t asked. I didn’t want to feel anything but angry right now.
“It looks OK,” I said grudgingly. It really was pretty, and I had to smile when I looked at it.
Matthew smiled too, and I began to feel better. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all.
Jim and Matthew took turns chopping while I stood and watched. The tree started to fall in my direction. I jumped to the side to get away, and my feet broke through the ice! It wasn’t that deep, but the cold water went over the tops of my boots. It was awful, and it made my teeth chatter. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want Jim to wish he hadn’t brought me. But Matthew saw, and he helped me dump the icy water out of my boots.
By the time we were pulling the tree home over the snow, the sun had dropped low over the hills. It was so cold that my feet were stinging and I could hardly keep from crying.
When we were halfway home, I fell in the snow because my feet were numb and I couldn’t keep up. I was so cold and miserable that tears began slipping down my cheeks.
“What’s the matter now, Karen? Come on, we need to hurry home before it gets too dark,” Jim said as he pulled me to my feet. But I couldn’t walk another step.
“Here, I’ll carry her if you’ll drag the tree and carry the ax,” Matthew said. “The tree is heavier, and you’re bigger than I am.”
Matthew handed the ax to Jim and pulled me up on his back. I suddenly realized that Matthew’s hands were bare. They must be as cold as my feet, but he was willing to carry me. I slipped off my mittens and handed them to Matthew. Then I tucked my hands in the long sleeves of my coat. He couldn’t turn around to look at me since I was on his back. I was glad because I didn’t want to see his kind face after I had been so mean to him.
Maybe my friends were wrong about the Lindsays. Maybe I should tell them so.

Even though Alicia Settle must rely on her motorized wheelchair to get around, it didn’t stop her from going to the Oakland California Temple to do baptisms for the dead. She went in response to the bishop’s assignment that all worthy members of the ward participate in temple work on their ward’s temple day. Alicia was able to perform the task with the help of her ward leaders and classmates and some advance planning.
Alicia is a member of the Milpitas First Ward, San Jose California Stake.

When our family was young, we lived in Connecticut and were the only members of the Church in our small community. When our oldest son was nine years of age, he was invited to play Little League baseball. He was outfitted with a complete baseball suit, and he practiced very hard to be a good member of the team. Several days before the first game was to be played, the coach of his team came to our home and informed us that due to a recent scheduling change, all games would be played on Sunday. Our son was devastated. We convened a family home evening the next Monday and discussed the matter and left the decision to our son. He, knowing of our heritage and principles, made the decision that he would not play. I can still recall his heartbreak as I drove him to the coach’s home, where he turned in his newly acquired baseball uniform. I am eternally grateful that all of our children, to this day, properly observe the Sabbath.

For some reason, the last month or so, my mind has turned to a colleague of many years ago at the University of Utah. Dr. Reed Merrill was a distinguished educational psychologist. He had, for instance, done pioneering work in establishing the process of licensure associated with clinical psychology, as well as important work in educational psychology. However, he had been inactive in the Church and inattentive to spiritual things, though a good person. Then, in the early 1980s he was stirred spiritually by the Lord. I could see it when he came to visit me twice. He wrote two powerful letters regarding the comparative emptiness of his secular discipline with the fullness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. These observations meant a lot because they came from a man of unquestioned intellect and integrity. Other catalytic things were happening, unbeknownst to me, including his daughter’s service on a mission, to say nothing of a wonderful wife.

Reed called me sometime before his daughter’s sealing, asking if I would perform her sealing. I said, “I would be delighted.” I think I had an intervening trip overseas, but asked, “Reed, will you be there?”

With his typical integrity, he said, “Neal, you know me well enough to know I won’t be there unless I am fully worthy to be there.” When the morning came for the sealing in the Salt Lake Temple, I waited with particular anticipation. Then Reed came down the corridor of the temple. We embraced, and he said, “Neal, I made it!” He had come home! Subsequently, he taught in his high priests group and in various classes. It was a spiritual renaissance in his life, a marvelous thing to see. How wonderful it is when anybody comes home!

Yesterday, when I reviewed my handwritten notes used ten years ago at Reed’s funeral, they included words of gratitude for what I called, even back then, “the intersections of our lives”—Reed’s and mine. The most important thing to be said about Reed Merrill when he departed from this life was that he exited “in spiritual crescendo.” Such things bring joy!

My bishop and I sat in his small, organized office. He peered at me through his glasses. “A patriarchal blessing is like a blessing from Heavenly Father. And as you go through life, little by little, more of your blessing will make sense.”
I got up from the small wooden chair and shook the bishop’s hand. He then gave me a patriarchal blessing recommend. I thanked him and left the office.
Lately I had been pondering some questions. Does Heavenly Father really love me? Does he really know who I am? Does he know me individually and love me for who I am, not just because I’m one of his daughters?
I would try to come up with as many answers as I possibly could. “God loves you because you’re his daughter,” my teachers would tell our class during Young Women lessons.
“You should feel special because you’re a child of God,” my Primary teachers had told me.
I knew those things were true. I knew he loved me. I knew I was a child of God. But would Heavenly Father be able to point me out among all of his children? Did he love me for my qualities, my personality?
I rode to the church house with my mother and walked briskly to that small office where the patriarch was waiting. He was an elderly man with a smile and soft, kind eyes.
He gave us a quick review of what a patriarchal blessing is and how sacred it is. He then put his hands on my head and began talking for my Heavenly Father.
I listened closely to every word he said. I felt the Spirit so strongly at times I couldn’t help crying. I received the answer my heart had wanted to hear: “I assure you that your Heavenly Father knows you well and loves you.” The patriarch also mentioned several things only my Heavenly Father knew. I felt a complete feeling of love and caring.
I know now that my Heavenly Father loves me and knows me, just as he does each of you. He loves you for who you are.

Singing Their Testimonies
About 60 children sang with their families in the Saturday afternoon session of conference. Croydon D., age 8, wrote about this special experience in his journal:
“When it was almost time to start, everything quickly went silent as President Monson and his two counselors walked in. You could tell the Spirit was there. I looked at my Mom, and her eyes were watering. It was pretty neat to see President Monson right in front of me.”