Gospel Story Finder

After a year of extreme financial burdens, I was feeling hopeful that things were beginning to look up for my family. Then came fresh setbacks. For an entire year I had trusted the Lord that everything would work out and we would one day see our trials as growing experiences. But with the new setbacks, I stumbled in my spiritual footing. I felt abandoned and lost and soon stopped feeding my spirit. Though I never stopped attending church, I stopped praying, fasting, and reading the scriptures. I no longer went to the temple. I did the bare minimum for my calling as a Primary teacher. I felt hopeless and wondered why I should try to live righteously if it wouldn’t protect me from getting hurt.
One night as I was watching television in my bedroom, my 10-year-old daughter walked in carrying her Book of Mormon. She had been trying to read it, but she said she couldn’t pronounce a word. I helped her and then sent her out of the room.
In a few minutes she was back, saying she was having a hard time understanding what she read. Feeling sorry for myself, I was in no mood to spend time in the scriptures. In an irritated tone, I said, “Samantha, go pray to Heavenly Father and ask Him to help you understand what you are reading.”
My daughter didn’t move. She looked at me steadily and said quietly, “I did pray. I have a really strong feeling that I need to read scriptures with you.”
I stared at her in surprise and then clicked the television off. I patted the bed beside me, she climbed up, and we read a chapter from the Book of Mormon together. I didn’t pay much attention to what we were reading because I was marveling at Heavenly Father’s reminder to me that I needed to seek Him as I dealt with my trials.
After that night I started saying my personal prayers again and spending time in the scriptures daily. I set a goal to attend the temple at least once a month. Amazingly, everything I read in the scriptures and Church magazines seemed to apply to me and the problems I was facing. Once again my soul was being fed, and I found I was able to bear my burdens. I often got down on my knees and asked forgiveness for not trusting the Lord as I should have. I will always be grateful for the spiritual sensitivity of a 10-year-old and a gentle reminder from a loving Heavenly Father.

The following day, Sunday, Craig and I met at the Sacred Grove. There the thick canopy of trees keeps the grove in almost total shade, and we found some relief from the early afternoon sun as we walked and talked. The damp forest earth muffled our footsteps. The stillness was broken only by the whine of insects, bird calls, the occasional low voices of other visitors, and our own quiet conversation.
“Craig, do you remember the first time you came to this place as a young boy?”
“No. But I remember that when I was young, this was mainly a place to catch frogs and to look at the signs telling the ages of some of the trees. It started to make an impact on me when I was about 12. And then, when I hit 14, I realized that Joseph Smith had been my age when he had the First Vision.”
But living in the so-called cradle of the Restoration does not guarantee a testimony. “Before I reached out and made the effort, this was just another historical place,” Craig explains. “Before, I was going to go on a mission. But I was going to do it because everyone wanted me to go. I mean, I sort of wanted to go. But last year really decided it.”
Last year. It was during pageant time. Craig, as a cast member, had been assigned to one of the study groups. And in that same group was a young woman from Utah named Jana.
“We became great friends; there was kind of an automatic bond. I couldn’t believe she had such a strong testimony. To see how much she loved the Church, well, it just blew me away.” That level of spirituality became Craig’s goal, not only for himself but for the kind of woman he wanted eventually to marry.
One day, the study group went to the Sacred Grove. When they got there, they split up, and Craig went into the grove by himself.
“I was sitting there alone on one of the benches, thinking about what had happened here, and just started to cry. The Spirit witnessed to me that it was all true.”
The experiences of that summer were a turning point for Craig. For one thing, he saw the kind of young woman he would someday want to marry. And he realized that he would need to do better in school to prepare to someday support a family. He had always been able to do pretty well in school if he applied himself. Now he applied himself and raised his grades one full point.
His feelings toward his family were also affected. “It made me draw closer to my younger brothers and sisters. I had always considered them brats. Now I try to understand them a little more,” Craig says.
Does he have to work hard to maintain his testimony? Craig’s emphatic yes almost seemed out of place in our quiet surroundings. “You have to be active in the Church. It helps so much to be around other young people with the same standards. Reading the Book of Mormon is really important too. But you can’t just read it and then stop and say, ‘Okay, now I’ve read it.’ “ Craig is currently into his third reading. “And of course there’s prayer. You have to make a habit of it. Even on the nights when you are so tired you think you could just pass right out.”
One more question: “Craig, how do you feel about your priesthood now?”
“I believe in it a lot more. I believe in its power. The priesthood does work.”
We continued our walk, back out of the grove and down the path across the meadow toward the Joseph Smith home and the parking lot. The route to Craig’s house would take us within sight of the Hill Cumorah. His words came back to mind: “Before I reached out and made the effort, this was just another historical place.”
True. And before young Joseph Smith reached out and made the effort, he was just another young man. He was a young man of great promise, true, but he had to reach out. And it was the reaching out and the Spirit’s sweet answering witness that made the difference, not the place. That’s why it doesn’t matter if it’s a young man in Bangor, Maine, or a young woman in Bangkok, Thailand. The process is the same. And the effect.
And Craig Record in Upstate New York? In some ways, this article was about him because he is not unique. He is an average guy who loves basketball and motorcycles. Who is a pretty good student when he applies himself. Craig is just an example of what happens when you reach out for a testimony and then act on that witness. He’s an example of how a fairly average guy can also be pretty outstanding in the ways that matter most.
Survival Tips
Wherever you live, live righteously.
Study the Book of Mormon.
Make a habit of prayer.
Gain a testimony and share it.
Associate with those who bring out the best in you.

No eight-year-old hated wearing a coat more than I did. Sure, a coat might come in handy on an Arctic expedition. But most of the time, I thought going coatless made a lot of sense. Who wanted to worry about finding a place to hang a coat and then get in trouble for leaving it behind?
I definitely didn’t expect to need my coat that New Year’s Eve. My family would be driving to my grandparents’ house and spending the night. I’d suffocate if I had to wear my big itchy coat for two hours, wedged in the backseat of the station wagon between my two brothers. Once we got to Grandma’s, we would play board games until midnight and watch the parade on TV the next day. Then we’d sit down to eat Grandma’s pork roast, homemade applesauce, and butter cookies. I would be indoors the whole time—no need for a coat.
As we piled into the station wagon, Mom went down her checklist. Maybe she wouldn’t notice that I didn’t have my coat. Yes, we remembered our toothbrushes. Yes, we packed our pajamas.
“Where’s your coat, Lana?” She noticed!
“I won’t need it. I won’t be outside at all.”
“Go get your coat. And hurry, please. It’s already getting dark.”
I dashed inside and yanked open the closet door. My warm winter coat and my jacket hung side by side. The jacket! Light, silky, and comfortable, it was the perfect solution. As I reached for the jacket, I had a feeling that I should wear the big coat instead.
I ignored the feeling. Surely I wouldn’t need that stuffy old thing. The jacket would do just fine.
Again something nudged me toward the heavy coat. Shrugging it off again, I snatched the thin jacket and ran to the car.
They were waiting for me with the engine running. Mom frowned when she glanced at my jacket, but Dad put the car in reverse and backed out of the garage.
Halfway into the trip, a thick layer of fog rolled in. The headlights turned the fog a milky white that was difficult to see through. My parents were tense and quiet. The mood spread to the backseat, keeping my brothers and me quiet, too.
Without warning, a pair of headlights appeared suddenly in front of us. In a shattering explosion of glass and metal, we crashed head-on into a pickup truck that had strayed into our lane. The noise was deafening, and the silence immediately afterward was just as loud.
“Is everybody OK?” My father’s strained voice was the first to break the stillness.
A shaky response came from my older brother. “I think so.”
“All of you need to get out and stand in that field. I’ll help Mom.”
My brothers and I scrambled out of the backseat and stood on frozen mud next to the road. With Dad’s arm around her, Mom limped over to us. A painful bump on the head had shaken her, but she seemed OK.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Dad asked us.
With wide eyes, we each nodded.
Dad looked each of us over before hurrying back to check on the man in the pickup truck.
My thin jacket was no match for the icy December air. Even huddled up against Mom, my shivers wouldn’t stop. I thought of my warm winter coat hanging in the closet back home.
An ambulance came, then a police car. Voices squawked from the radio as the rotating lights dyed the fog red, then blue, red, blue. Dad came back and led us to the police car. We had shivered for over an hour in the bitter cold.
A police officer drove us to the hospital. The ambulance had already taken the other man. Dad got stitches in his hand, and the doctors examined Mom’s head injury. She was OK. My brothers and I had a few bruises, but we knew it could have been much worse.
My grandparents picked us up at the hospital and took us to their house. When Grandma tucked me into bed and kissed me good-night, my body seemed to melt into the softness of the sheets. For the first time that night, I felt warm and safe.
I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts drifted back to the moment when I had decided to bring my jacket. It dawned on me that the Holy Ghost had been telling me to wear my warm coat.
A few months earlier my grandpa had confirmed me a member of the Church, and I had received the gift of the Holy Ghost. I remembered the power in his hands when he placed them on my head. I had been so excited, so eager to hear what the Holy Ghost would say to me. Now I had ignored Him. My throat tightened as I fought back tears.
A new feeling came and took the tears away. I felt the love of my Heavenly Father. I knew He would help me through the difficult times in my life. He couldn’t take away every bad thing, but He would help me if I let Him.
I moved the curtains above the bed aside just enough to see outside. The fog was as thick as ever. No stars tonight. I imagined the stars, the moon, the planets, the entire universe. The God of all creation had wanted to give me a warm coat tonight.
A tear slipped down my cheek. This time it was a tear of gratitude. I rolled out of bed and onto my knees. I needed to tell Heavenly Father that I was ready to listen and obey the still, small voice.

It’s just a small music box. When you lift the golden needlepoint lid it plays “I Wonder When He Comes Again.” I used to keep it on top of my dresser to house leftover pocket change, broken key chains, and orphan paper clips. I had no idea the tiny box had magical powers—no idea in the world—until Miranda came visiting.
“Uncle Brad, I’m coming to play,” the three-year-old voice called from upstairs. Miranda is the daughter of my oldest brother, who always comes home from California at Christmastime. “Please play.” She had made her way downstairs and now stood framed in my bedroom doorway. “Please.” Her voice was as soft and blonde as her shoulder-length hair.
I knew I needed to take advantage of the short time I had with Miranda, but I also needed to prepare my Sunday School lesson. Brother M. had just called, asking me to combine his class with mine. The following day, I would be responsible for two classes.
“Just give me a little time,” I tried to bargain with my niece. This would be one of the last lessons of the year. I was long since out of manual and creativity. “Go back upstairs and tell Grandma you will help her.”
“But I want to play with you.”
“We will play—in a while.” I began shooing her out my bedroom door. “Your Mom wants you upstairs, I’m sure.”
“But she just told me to come downstairs.” Miranda wouldn’t budge.
“Oh, well.” I couldn’t win. I motioned my nightgowned visitor and her baby doll into the room. “But you have to be quiet. Uncle Brad will be working.”
Miranda proceeded to “quietly” sing three choruses of “That Night in the Stable,” recite the Christmas story complete with a forceful “No room in the inn!” and count all of Dad’s outside Christmas lights. I decided that trying to prepare my lesson would be hopeless unless I could conjure up a plan to distract her.
“Miranda!” I turned toward her dramatically. She was changing her doll’s diaper right on my pillow. “Somewhere in this room is a magic box.” I lifted my eyebrows mysteriously and continued, “Find it, quietly.”
On any ordinary day Miranda probably would not have been interested, but having just gone with me to Cinderella (she called it Sidwayla) that very afternoon, the intriguing challenge was irresistible. The spell was cast.
Miranda began searching the bedroom. Smugly, I patted myself on the back and turned to my lesson pages which were still as unused and dry as the baby doll’s diaper.
“I found it!” Miranda squealed. I spun around in my chair. Her eyes sparkled and glittered like jeweled pixie dust. She tiptoed toward me excitedly. Her arms were extended, and in her cupped hands was my old music box.
“That’s not magic,” I laughed. “That’s just dusty.” I had shelved the gaudy thing years ago.
“It is magic,” Miranda assured. “I know.” She stroked the gold trim and flowered embroidery—major requirements for a magic charm. “Open it, Brad.” She laid her enchanted find on the carpet before me.
Knowing that I shouldn’t until my work was finished, I decided to be firm. “Now, Miranda, we had a bargain.”
“Open it,” she pleaded.
I glanced guiltily at the zero lesson plan on my desk. “Oh, I give up,” I sighed, kneeling on the floor beside Miranda. “Let’s open it together.”
I’ve always been a saver. The junk Miranda and I found in the magic box seemed as endless as the trash on a movie theater floor. There was a miniature pop bottle, an ugly onyx rain god, some flat pennies that had been smashed on a railroad track, a few rubber bands, and some old stamps.
“Are they magic?” Miranda whispered in awe.
“Of course,” I responded seriously, picking up the tiny pop bottle. “Drink this magic potion and you’ll become the fairest maiden in the land.”
She puckered her lips in willing anticipation and then gulped every imaginary drop. At once, Miranda began strutting around the room, finger-stroking her hair, and smiling like Miss Silver Slipper, queen of the ball, herself.
“Look at this one,” I called her back. “Hold this onyx idol and it will make you brave.”
Still as ravishingly beautiful as ever, Miranda clutched the trinket and marched courageously through my bedroom door into the black basement beyond. The farther out she stepped, the farther out she stretched the stone figure in front of her.
“Oh!” Miranda gasped, “I’m glad I have this magic thing or I’d be ‘tehwubly’ scared.”
For at least a half-hour I invented bibbidi-bobbidi-boo powers and enjoyed Miranda as she dramatized each fantasy. What about my lesson? As it turned out, Miranda was planning it for me.
The next day, when the kids came down the corridor of the church, they found my classroom door closed—not because I wasn’t ready for them, but because I was. A large sign taped across the entrance read, “NOTICE: This is a magic cave. Please enter quietly.” I invited them inside.
“This,” I held up the old music box, “this is magic.” As mysteriously as I could, I told Miranda’s story. By the end of the tale the class had unanimously decided my niece must be crazy.
“Why?” I zeroed in on one girl.
“Well,” she summed up the situation, “All that stuff in the box was just fake. She’s nuts.”
“Then aren’t we all?” I asked, pulling out some surprise visual aids. I held up a pair of jeans—the most popular brand; some shirts with all the stylish patches in all the stylish places; a popular magazine, complete with pictures of the latest haircuts, jewelry, and makeup.
“Do these have magical powers to make us beautiful? I thumbed the magazine open before them. “The only power they have is what we give them. Are we crazy?”
I stopped flipping pages at an appealing cigarette ad. “A magic potion to make us brave, right? All you have to do is hold this little roll of tobacco and just like that, you’re cool! You’re tough! You’re in! Right?” The bell hadn’t even rung yet, but my lesson was over. Three-year-old Miranda and I had made our point.
Our real beauty and worth are not dependent on a can of beer, a swear word, the latest fad, a social club, R-rated films, or drugs, any more than Miranda’s were dependent on an old pop bottle inside a showy music box. Courage doesn’t come from a carved idol I swapped 25 cents for in the fifth grade. Our transforming magic potion is in knowing we are God’s children. We did not come to earth to find self-worth. We brought it with us. When we know that, we have all the “magic” any of us needs to feel beautiful, courageous, and acceptable.
I don’t keep the old music box inside my closet anymore. Since Miranda’s visit, it’s right on top of the dresser where it should be. Right out where it can always be reminding me of magic.

R. Von Hanks, a member of the Pocatello 19th Ward, Pocatello Idaho Stake, found his father, Dr. Clair V. Hanks, a dentist, lying at the bottom of the basement steps, semiconscious and near death from an allergic reaction to a bee sting.
After calling an ambulance, Von treated his father for shock. Then following his father’s instructions, he injected his father with a local anesthetic from the dentist’s medical bag.
By the time the ambulance arrived, Dr. Hanks was already regaining full consciousness, and he fully recovered in the hospital.
Von was 16 at the time of the incident and had received his Eagle Scout award only one week earlier.

I was only half listening in sacrament meeting until the bishop announced that the ward boundaries were changing. I was devastated. I looked around the chapel, wondering who wouldn’t be in our ward next week. These were the people I’d gone to church with since I was three. They were more like family than ward members.
After sacrament meeting, in our Laurel class, our group of 16 usually talkative girls was quiet and tearful. We didn’t want to think about what it would be like with half of us gone. We would still see each other at school, but it wouldn’t be the same.
That night at a fireside, the stake president put up a map of the new boundaries. My stomach sank. My family was in the new ward. Looking more closely, I realized every other Laurel I knew would be staying in the old ward. I couldn’t believe it. I kept looking at the map, hoping I was wrong, but I wasn’t.
The next Sunday was miserable. I saw only a handful of familiar faces. There was only one other girl in my Laurel class.
A couple of weeks later, my previous Laurel class secretly filled my bedroom with paper hearts and notes. I knew these girls cared about me, and ward boundaries wouldn’t change that.
It was still hard to be in the new ward. Sometimes I felt like I was missing out on fun experiences with my old friends. But I learned that I was gaining much in return. I met new people and had many interesting callings. My new ward was definitely different from my old one, but that was what made it so fun.
My previous Laurel class president had said something on my last Sunday in the old ward that stuck with me. She said that the Church was true, no matter what ward you were in. I realized I wasn’t going to church because my friends were there. I was going to church to worship Heavenly Father, and I could make sure that never changed.

Eleven-year-old Beth Burroughs pulled the reins gently but firmly to the right and guided her horse, Ebony, down the side of a rocky dry wash. The homemade wreath of flowers she had slung over the saddle horn bounced as she maneuvered her animal down the little zigzagging ravine. By taking this route, Beth would save herself a good mile and a half of riding time on the road. She had to get to Heaven’s Gate Cemetery and back home so that she could help her mother with the wash.
The predawn light had turned the mist that hung over Hampton Lake into silver lace as Beth galloped along its south shore. Her horse was starting to show signs of strain, so she decided to pull up and let him rest.
Looping the reins about a large dead limb that protruded from other woody shore rubble, Beth knelt at the water’s edge and gazed at her rippled, distorted reflection. If it had been someone’s first view of her, she thought, she would have been as badly misrepresented as Rebecca had been.
Beth had met Rebecca Johnson when she had moved with her parents into the small yellow house on Banberry Road two years earlier. Rebecca was “different” from the other girls Beth knew. Although Rebecca was four years older than Beth, she still played dolls with the Wileys’ five-year-old daughter, and she didn’t go to school and couldn’t even read. Beth had heard a neighbor tell her mother that Rebecca was retarded because of brain damage she had incurred at birth.
For a long time Beth, as well as her friends, had had nothing to do with the girl in the yellow house. After all, Rebecca was thirteen years old, and she could hardly do up her button shoes or even talk in complete sentences. Beth’s friends always laughed at the new girl.
Ebony lifted his dark head, shook his mane, and went back to drinking. Beth gazed fondly at him a moment, then her eyes returned to the rippling water. She remembered her father talking about the worth of the individual soul, about how each person that ever was, is, or ever would be is a child of God and therefore special in his or her own way. He said that no one should judge anybody else by appearance because his character, like his soul, is inside and can only really be seen by Heavenly Father.
But somehow, Beth painfully recalled, her father’s teachings had been hard to put into practice whenever Rebecca was around—until the day of the field mouse. …
Beth and her friends had just crossed the field and started up the dirt road that led to the schoolhouse, when a mouse scampered out in front of them. Beth and another girl picked up some rocks and threw them at the tiny, frightened rodent. One of the rocks struck it. As it lay kicking in the dirt, squeaking pitifully, Rebecca came running up. She dropped to her knees, cuddled the wee creature in one hand, and stroked it gently. After a moment the mouse stopped jerking; it lay there looking up at the girl, then closed its eyes and died. Rebecca, whimpering softly, started digging a little hole with her hands in the earth beside the road. The other girls, except for Beth, giggling and whispering under their breath, went on to school.
Rebecca picked a handful of wildflowers and placed them over the mouse-size mound, then wiped at her tears with a dirty hand. Beth offered Rebecca a handkerchief, which she accepted and rubbed across her tearstained face. Then she handed it back to Beth. Gazing at the mound, Rebecca said, “God wouldn’t take time to make anything He didn’t love.” Never before had Beth witnessed such simple, Christ-like compassion and respect for life.
Ebony lifted his head again, his thirst now satisfied. Beth lingered a minute or two, watching her reflection clear and sharpen in the settling water. Then she remounted Ebony and continued down the road.
Mr. Flannagan chugged by in his Model T, waving and honking as he traveled in the opposite direction. Such a noisy, happy machine, Beth thought, then decided she was wrong. Machines might be noisy, all right, but they didn’t have feelings. People could feel happy. She had been happy, very happy in the time she had spent with Rebecca after the day of the mouse’s burial. Beth had made more and more visits to the yellow house on Banberry Road. She and Rebecca had helped Sister Johnson bake cookies, walked the fence in the big grassy field just down from Tucker’s Mill, and lain on their backs, watching the clouds sail wildly by in the yellow sky.
Rebecca had a smile for everyone, a smile, Beth was sure, that could light up the world. She was like a little child. But had not the Savior Himself taught that “of such is the kingdom of heaven”? Beth hadn’t minded the funny looks some of her old friends gave her every now and again after she became friends with Rebecca. Her real friends respected her for her feelings. Besides, she knew Heavenly Father approved, and He was her most valued friend.
As Beth’s horse clip-clopped past the bright red covered bridge a half mile from Heaven’s Gate Cemetery, she couldn’t help but think about Rebecca’s death a year ago. Rebecca had disappeared into a neighbor’s burning house and lowered a small child out a window into someone’s waiting arms just before a section of roof collapsed on her, burying her beneath the fiery timbers.
Beth laid the homemade wreath of flowers on Rebecca’s grave. A couple of minutes later she again climbed onto Ebony’s back and rode out of Heaven’s Gate.
The sun seemed to perch on top of the mesa as horse and rider turned up the little treelined path toward home.
“Did you have a good ride, honey?” Beth’s father asked as he stepped from the barn, leading a plow horse.
“Sure did,” Beth replied, walking her horse toward him. “There’s a lot to see when the sun comes up. First you see a little of this, then a little of that. Pretty soon everything is all lit up as pretty as can be. As pretty as a good memory. As pretty as Rebecca Johnson.”

President Thomas S. Monson told a story about a man from the east who was traveling by bus to San Francisco. In Salt Lake City a Primary girl got on the bus and sat next to the man. As they started talking, he asked her if she was a Mormon. She answered yes. He asked her what Mormons believe. It was a big question for such a young girl. What would you have said? Imagine the look on the man’s face as she recited and explained the Articles of Faith. He couldn’t believe it!

After she got off the bus, the man thought about her courage and knowledge. As soon as he arrived in San Francisco, he looked in the telephone directory for the Church’s phone number, then called the local mission president and asked questions about the Church. The mission president sent missionaries to see him, and later the man’s entire family was baptized—all because a Primary girl knew and understood the Articles of Faith and had the courage to share them. (See Ensign, April 1994, pages 67–68.)

André
After living in Brazil for some time, our stake president came to our house and called me to serve as bishop. I somehow knew I was going to be called. For a couple of nights before my call, I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking and studying.
Giselle
I wondered what was going on. I saw him change before his call.
André
When I started my calling, our ward had 80 active members. When I was released, many more attended church regularly, and 12 missionaries went into the field from our ward. It was great!

One day at school, a few of my classmates were making fun of another student by calling him names. It looked like fun, so I joined them. For a few weeks, I made fun of him with my friends.
Several weeks later, the boy told me how he was feeling. He was hurt by our words even though he pretended like he didn’t care that we were making fun of him. He said he cried every night. I almost cried when he told me. I wanted to help him and decided to apologize for what I had said to him.
So the next day, I went up to him and put my arm around his shoulder. I said, “I’m really sorry that I made fun of you.” He nodded at my words, and his eyes filled up with tears. But the other kids were still making fun of him. Then I remembered what I learned in my Primary class: choose the right.
I told my classmates valiantly, “Stop making fun of him! Do you guys know how hard this has been for him? Please say you’re sorry for what you have done and be his friend.”
But they wouldn’t change that easily. Instead, they were mad at me and said, “What’s the matter with you all of a sudden? You made fun of him too!”
I still felt bad for what I had done before. So I said, “I already said sorry to him. I want you to understand how he feels and stop making fun of him too.”
One of them said sorry, and the three of us became good friends. A few people still make fun of him, but he feels better because he has us. I will choose the right by helping a friend in need.

“It’s singing time!” Sister Yang said. “Let’s start with ‘Book of Mormon Stories.’”
Sarah sat up tall. She was ready to sing! This was one of her favorite songs.
Then she saw a girl sitting alone. Sarah had never seen her in Primary.
The first notes played on the piano. Sarah started to sing. “Book of Mormon stories that my teacher tells to me.”
She looked down the row again. The girl wasn’t singing. Maybe she didn’t know the words.
Sarah wanted to share her favorite song with the girl. Sarah moved over to sit by her. The girl looked up and smiled.
Sarah whispered the next words. They sang together. Soon the girl could sing all the words!
Now singing time was over. “What’s your name?” Sarah asked.
“I’m Alexa.” The girl smiled. “Thank you for helping me! It’s my first time in Primary.”
Sarah smiled back. “I’m glad you’re here!” She was sure Alexa would learn a lot of good things—and a lot of great songs!

I have a sister, Olivia Eson, in my ward (Ekpoma First Ward) who I wish to write about. Sister Olivia hardly has the chance to come to chapel cleaning every Saturday morning because of her tight class schedule at school, but unfailing, she always serves her time every Sunday immediately after closing from sacrament meeting by cleaning the chapel, which becomes dirty after Sunday services.
She goes to get soap, water and other cleaning materials and goes to work to keep the toilets clean.
Sister Olivia says: “I find joy in serving my Heavenly Father by keeping the Lord’s house clean since I can’t come every Saturday, but on a Sunday morning after sacrament meetings, this is one way I choose to do my part”.

“With the knowledge we have, we may mourn, but we need never despair. We have a little granddaughter in Seattle, Washington. There the daily rain keeps the sun and stars alike hidden much of the time, so she hasn’t really seen stars. We think there are lessons to learn from them; they are brighter in winter’s night, you know. I explained this to this little girl when we stood on a clear night looking into heaven. I smiled at her wonderment at first seeing stars crowd the nighttime.
“‘Are they there every time it gets dark, even if I don’t see them?’ she asked. I assured her they were, even behind the clouds.
“‘Then darkness isn’t so bad, is it? If you know the stars are there.’
“It has application to life, doesn’t it?”

I first came face-to-face with depression at the end of my mission in South Africa. I was oddly unhappy. My spirits were low, my perspective less positive, and my faith shaken. On top of that, my mom was unwell, and my family had other challenges. I pretended that everything was OK, but it wasn’t. One moment, I had been handling all sorts of stress just fine, and the next, I hit my breaking point. My thoughts were crushing me, and everything seemed to turn against me.

I was emotionally and mentally drained, so I decided to fast and pray for guidance. As a result, I received three specific promptings:

The first was to talk to my mission president. Finally opening up about my struggles helped me feel better and know I wasn’t alone.

Second, I was prompted that learning of Jesus Christ could help me through this. As I studied about Heavenly Father and the Savior, it became clear to me that They knew my pain and felt my sorrow. I relied on Them for strength when I felt I had none.

The third prompting came from a quote from President Gordon B. Hinckley: “Service is the best medicine for self-pity, selfishness, despair, and loneliness” (Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Gordon B. Hinckley [2016], 201.) As I focused outward and on serving others, over time I felt happier, more confident, and more trust in Heavenly Father.

I got through my mission, but depression struck again during my first few months in university. I had just moved from Zambia to Malaysia and was far from home with no friends or family close by. I didn’t even know where my branch met for church.

I held onto hope and felt prompted to fast and pray for guidance again. From there, I was led to becoming friends with a girl in my class who helped me find the closest branch. As I walked into the chapel on that first Sunday, I felt the Holy Ghost lift my burden from me. I knew that I could follow the healing steps I took on my mission. Again, I spoke to my Church leaders for help, studied the life and teachings of the Savior, and then focused on serving others. I found people to talk to and reached out, helped others at school, and accepted a calling at church.

Akasiwa Wamunyima, Malaysia

The Christmas season had just begun, and the little drugstore was almost dancing with decorations. Mom stopped to admire a porcelain nativity set on the store’s glass counter. “Isn’t it beautiful, Lindi?” Mom asked. She had wanted a nativity set for a long time, and this one gleamed softly as if someone had brushed each figure with Christmas magic.
After Mom walked away, I studied the delicate pastel pieces. Mary and Joseph gazed down at baby Jesus while shepherds, Wise Men, and angels watched. It was just what Mom had always wanted. Excited, I looked at the price tag, but a tight knot formed in my stomach. Fifty dollars! How could I ever come up with that much money?
As we walked home under a gray winter sky, I remembered the sparkle in Mom’s eye as she held the baby Jesus figure. She deserved to have that nativity set! She had been a single mom since the divorce, and she didn’t buy things for herself very often.
I kicked the snowdrifts as I formed a plan. I had steady babysitting jobs, and I could ask my older brother Ryan to help earn money. I wouldn’t even need all the money at once—I could put the set on layaway and pay for it a little at a time. Maybe Mom could get her nativity set after all!
At home, I told Ryan my idea. He agreed to help, and we eagerly gathered all the money we had: five dollars. It was just enough to put the nativity set on layaway.
The next day I sprinted to the drugstore, afraid that someone had already bought my treasure. I pulled open the door, and my eyes raced to the glass counter in search of the set. It was still there! Relief flooded over me as the clerk took the precious nativity set to the back room until Ryan and I could pay the full price.
As Christmas grew closer, all Ryan and I could think about was Mom’s special gift. Little by little, our earnings added up until we finally made our last payment. We brought the set home, wrapped it, and hid it under my bed. It would be a Christmas surprise!
On Christmas Eve, Ryan and I kept exchanging glances, hardly able to contain our secret. I went to bed more excited about our gift than I was about the presents I might get.
The next morning, I couldn’t even pay attention to my presents. I just kept looking forward to the moment when we would bring out Mom’s surprise. When all the gifts from under the tree were opened, Ryan looked at me and nodded. “Hold on, Mom,” he said. “I think we forgot one.”
I grabbed the present from my room and set it on Mom’s lap.
“Open it!” Ryan and I exclaimed.
Slowly, Mom tore off the bow and peeled back the wrapping paper. She gasped as she lifted out the baby Jesus figure and cradled it in her palm. “Thank you,” she whispered.
As I watched Mom’s face glow with joy, I realized that Ryan and I got the best gift that year. Mom’s nativity set was beautiful, but we had learned to forget ourselves and think of others—truly a gift to remember.

When I was a young woman, my family and I set a goal to begin memorizing “The Living Christ.” My mom thought it’d be helpful to put a copy of the document somewhere practical where we would see it every day and have time to study it. So, she put it in a plastic cover and taped it in the bathroom.
Each day, I would read through the document and practice memorizing bits and pieces.
The first few paragraphs became very significant to me—perhaps because I read them so many times trying to memorize them. But there was something about reading about where Christ walked and what He did that made Him seem more real to me. He truly was—and is—the living Christ.
“Though sinless, He was baptized to fulfill all righteousness. He ‘went about doing good’ (Acts 10:38), yet was despised for it. His gospel was a message of peace and goodwill. He entreated all to follow His example. He walked the roads of Palestine, healing the sick, causing the blind to see, and raising the dead. He taught the truths of eternity, the reality of our premortal existence, the purpose of our life on earth, and the potential for the sons and daughters of God in the life to come.”1
I remember being fascinated by the 15 signatures at the bottom of the document. I loved looking through the beautiful cursive writing to see if I could make out each of the names. Those 15 names represented 15 real people. And those 15 people were 15 representatives of Jesus Christ. They stood in unity bearing testimony of the Savior and His life and ministry. That was powerful to me.
In the April 2017 general conference, one of those witnesses, President Russell M. Nelson, encouraged all of us to study its truths, whether you’ve already memorized it or you’ve never read it entirely. “As you seek to learn more about Jesus Christ, I urge you to study ‘The Living Christ,’” he said.2
That experience in my youth stuck with me and instilled in me a lifelong desire to learn more about Jesus Christ. Even if I didn’t end up memorizing every single word of the document, I read it so many times that it strengthened my testimony of the living Christ and helped me draw nearer to Him.

Ever since my conversion at age 14, I have wanted to serve a mission. I would watch the missionaries as they worked; I saw that they were clean-cut and spiritually minded and that they wore name tags inscribed with their own names as well as the name of the Church. Each missionary was special, but they were all uniformly dressed and they all wore that same black tag.
When I was 21, I was called as a missionary to serve in my own country, in the Peru Trujillo Mission. I can clearly remember the night each missionary arose one by one to receive his or her name tag from our missionary training center president. I could feel the Spirit, and my heart pounded with joy.
“Elder Augusto Sánchez!” I heard my name, and with a quick jump, I rose to receive the badge that would, for the next two years, identify me as a full-time servant of the Lord. I cried as the president attached the tag to my left pocket and sealed the moment with a warm clap on the back. I felt I had to lift my left shoulder higher, because really, the name tag was heavy—I was carrying a great responsibility.
Now I am in the mission field, and it is a great privilege to be in the ranks of those who are called by God and who are trying to do His will and not our own.
I know that if I remain worthy, the Lord will inscribe His name on my countenance and on my heart—as well as on my name tag.

Once I went with my dad to Sigatoka, Fiji—a great place to swim in the ocean. My parents were divorced, so my mum wasn’t going with us. Before we left, she bought me purple goggles. Sure, they’re just goggles, but she expected me to take care of them and bring them back.
At the end of the second day in Sigatoka, I realized I didn’t have my goggles. I worried that I’d lost them in the ocean. The first thing I did was pray that I would be able to find my goggles. I felt peace and knew everything would be OK.
The only person I told was my brother. He doesn’t believe in God and often criticized my beliefs because I am the only member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in my family. He said, “Yeah, you’re not going to get them back.” I told him, “I prayed about it, and I know my prayers will be answered.”
The next day I scanned the water while we swam. When it was time to go, I still hadn’t found my goggles. I accepted I probably wouldn’t find them and thanked Heavenly Father for His comfort and peace.
Then my brother suddenly shouted. He was holding up the purple goggles!
My brother still doesn’t believe in the gospel, but I am grateful for the comfort, strength, and assurance that come when I put my faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
Shreya S., Suva, Fiji

In yet another stake conference, a dear sister confined to a wheelchair testified of the strength that she had received from feeling the Lord’s love through reading the Book of Mormon. Earlier her devoted husband had been able to help her adjust to the crippling effects of her illness. Now he was bedridden, and she spoke of her gratitude that the Lord had empowered her with greater strength to be more self-reliant and better care for her own needs. She had even been given additional strength to minister to the many needs of her dear companion, who now tenderly cared for her and had done so for so many years. Loving family and Church associates had also been helpful so that the couple were able to remain in their own home with precious memories of earlier happy family associations.

When my son was called on a mission to Brazil, we took a father-son trip to the Sacred Grove in Palmyra, New York. We spent three days doing nothing but walking and talking there. On the final day we sat on a bench and bore our testimonies to each other. I shared my own conversion story once again with my son, and we cried. I hope his children and his grandchildren carry on this legacy of love and faith for years to come.