Gospel Story Finder

I think when people look at missions, they often see service missions as a “lesser” mission compared to a teaching mission. I’ll admit that when I was applying for my mission, I had some of these feelings. My priesthood leaders, the Missionary Department, and I worked on my application for over six months. I wanted to serve a teaching mission. I felt that I needed to.
Eventually, I met with my stake president, and I learned I was called to a service mission. My path was headed in a different direction than I originally anticipated, but surprisingly, I felt peace. I knew it was right.
Since starting my mission, I’ve been able to keep people company while they sit alone in cancer infusion rooms and serve in the temple as an ordinance worker. I’ve also had the opportunity to write articles for YA Weekly, using my love for writing to help bring light and hope to others.
I believe that I may have been able to go on a full-time teaching mission. However, I know that when I received my assignment to serve as a service missionary, it was much less about my mental health and far more about where the Lord needed me the most. I think I would have missed the deeply personal experiences that I’ve had on my service mission.

It was years after I was a deacon when I learned what that means practically. For instance, as a high priest, I was assigned to visit a care center sacrament meeting. I was asked to pass the sacrament. Instead of thinking about the process or precision in the way I passed the sacrament, I instead looked in the faces of each elderly person. I saw many of them weeping. One lady grabbed my sleeve, looked up, and said aloud, “Oh, thank you, thank you.”
The Lord had blessed my service given in His name. That day I had prayed for such a miracle to come instead of praying for how well I might do my part. I prayed that the people would feel the Lord’s love through my loving service. I have learned this is the key to serving and blessing others in His name.

One night early in Paxton’s life, we were in the neonatal intensive care unit of the wonderful Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, Utah, marveling at the dedicated, undivided attention given by the doctors, nurses, and caregivers. I asked my daughter how we would ever pay for this and ventured a guess at what the cost would be. A doctor standing nearby suggested that I was “way low” and that little Paxton’s care would cost substantially more than I had estimated. We learned that much of the expense for care given in this hospital is covered by the generous gifts of time and monetary contributions of others. His words humbled me as I thought of the worth of this tiny little soul to those who were so carefully watching over him.
I was reminded of a familiar missionary scripture that took on new meaning: “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God.”
I wept as I pondered the limitless love our Heavenly Father and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, have for each one of us, while learning in a powerful way what the worth of a soul is, both physically and spiritually, to God.

New members say Church vocabulary often requires decoding. We chuckle at the thought that “stake house” could mean a nice beef dinner; “ward building” could indicate a hospital; “opening exercises” could invite us to do head, shoulders, knees, and toes in the church parking lot. But, please, let us be understanding and kind as we learn new languages of love together. New at church, a convert was told her skirts were too short. Instead of taking offense, she replied, in effect, “My heart is converted; please be patient as my skirts catch up.” The words we use can draw us closer to or distance us from other Christians and friends. Sometimes we speak of missionary work, temple work, humanitarian and welfare work in ways that may cause others to think we believe we work on our own. Let us always speak with warm and reverent gratitude for God’s work and glory and the merits, mercy, and grace of Jesus Christ and His atoning sacrifice.

C. S. Lewis wrote, “A wrong sum can be put right: but only by going back till you find the error and working it afresh from that point” (The Great Divorce, New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., 1946, p. 6). And who determines if it is an error? The regulations and policy officers? Yes, if they must, but to them it may not even be seen as an error. Yet that will not excuse you in your own mind. Let me tell you about an old wallet that was returned to me by a BYU student after nine years.
As a student at BYU years ago, I had used the telephone in the Joseph Smith Building and had carelessly left my wallet in the booth. After returning to the lost and found department regularly for several days, I finally gave up my desperate hope of ever getting my wallet and the much-needed money back.
Nine years later on a snowy afternoon the mailman delivered a letter. It began, “To Whom It May Concern:” The letter stated that I was involved in some unfinished business at BYU. I wondered what unfinished business I needed to set in order. I found in the Salt Lake telephone directory the name of the person who had signed the letter. I dialed the number. I identified myself. The author of the letter began unfolding her story. As the words spilled out, I learned that this young woman was now a wife and mother, had been in nurses’ training at BYU. She had worked and put herself through school, but she needed an additional ten dollars for tuition, so she had turned to her boyfriend for help. She had promised to return the loan by the following Friday. When Friday arrived, in spite of her earnest prayers, she was still short ten dollars.
Seemingly without reason she had walked into the telephone booth and found an old worn wallet. She held her breath as she opened it to find a single ten dollar bill. Then the question: Was this indeed an answer to her prayer? She had learned that Satan knows when we are being tested and that under pressure we might weaken. She told of paying her boyfriend, whom she later married, graduating in nursing, and now raising a beautiful family.
She then poured out her heart as she told of the suffering for what she acknowledged as sin—sin because she had known better. For nine years, through many moves, the old burden had lain deeply tucked away in her top dresser drawer. It seemed impossible for her to throw away the wallet, though she’d considered it many times. There is no way you can throw away a wrong, and yet there was no way, as far as she knew, to return the wallet. There was no identification.
One day while she was straightening the drawer, the old wallet surfaced again. This time she felt she must get rid of it, but only the right way. She thoughtfully opened the old wallet once again, and while examining it this time her fingers uncovered a small, orange card tucked away in a tiny compartment not previously noticed. The card gave the address of the Calgary Clinic in Alberta, Canada, where the medical exam for the student’s visa had been given. With a prayer in her heart she took a chance and sent the letter “to whom it may concern” to the Calgary Clinic to be forwarded if possible. Contact had been made, but the wallet was yet to be returned.
During the telephone conversation she indicated the wallet would be mailed that very day. I asked her if she would consider delivering the wallet in person. She seemed a little embarrassed at the thought, until I assured her it would be an honor and a privilege to meet a person possessing such honesty of character. She agreed that she would deliver it. At the appointed hour, we met in my office. As I approached, she smiled nervously and then stood up. As though she had rehearsed this experience in her mind a hundred times, she reached out her steady hand, looked me squarely in the eye, and handed me the wallet as she whispered, “Will you please forgive me? I want to be honest.” Words could not come. I could only reach for her hand and nod affirmatively.
As I frequently finger this old wallet that now lies in my top drawer, I ask myself, “How honest do you want to be?” I’ve learned you must spend a little time walking around inside yourself to answer the hard questions in life.

Brother Ringger comes from Switzerland. His grandmother was touched by the missionaries a long, long time ago. His father was a man of great faith, a patriarch in the midst of his people, in a very literal way. Brother Hans Ringger has been a stake president among his people and a Regional Representative. He is a man of faith. His English may not be as polished as perhaps yours is. But there burns in his heart a deep, flaming conviction of the truth of this work. By profession, he is a distinguished architect in his native land. He has just retired as a full colonel from the Swiss Army. When I talked with him the other day about his leaving his business and consecrating himself to the work of the Lord and what it would entail, I looked into his strong face, and the tears began to well just a little. Then he said, “Of course, of course. If that’s what the Lord wishes, that’s what I want to do.”

I grew up on a farm outside of town. One evening, my parents were away at church meetings, and I was left in charge. One of my younger brothers ran into the house and told me the garage was on fire. The garage was only a few feet away from our house.
The one side of the garage where my father had been repairing a tractor was on fire, and flames had reached the car on the other side. I told my brothers to get far away from the garage so they wouldn’t be hurt. Then I grabbed a broom and started beating out the fire.
One of my brothers came to help, but he suddenly caught on fire and started to run. I yelled at him to stop and roll, but he just kept running. I chased after him and pulled him down to put out the flames. The thought came to me to have him stand in the canal near our home. I told him to do that while I put out the rest of the fire.
I know I had Heavenly Father’s help in knowing what I needed to do to put out the fire that day. The doctors said that if I hadn’t told my brother to stand in the cold water of the canal, he would have needed surgery from the burns. Instead he healed so well that there was only one small scar on his foot. It was a miracle.
I know that Heavenly Father listens to our prayers and that He watches over us. He stands ready to help us when we pray, listen, and follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

My husband, Eddie Uele, and I have three children: Indie-Rose, Rollo, and Kamaukiterangi (Kamau). On 12 Jan. 2022, we tragically lost our then 2-year-old son, Kamau.
That afternoon, playing and laughing with our children in our bedroom, we suddenly realized Kamau was missing. Moments later, Kamau was found unconscious in our backyard. Eddie performed CPR until the paramedics arrived while my family and I pleaded for Heavenly Father’s help.
Kamau was rushed to the hospital where a team of doctors were waiting for him. When we arrived, Eddi and I were taken to a private room where we spent the next few minutes holding each other’s hands, still in constant prayer. A doctor finally walked in, sat down in front of us and began to speak.
I couldn’t hear any words that he was saying as everything around me had become still, quiet, and peaceful—then, as clear as day, I saw my son in front of me playing with a little toy truck, giggling and happy. It was then that I knew my son had died. I also knew that this was Heavenly Father’s way of preparing me for what was to come.
It wasn’t until later that evening when I truly understood the heavenly significance of that moment.
My mum held me as I cried in her arms, unable to bear the loss of my child. She asked me, “Are you angry with Heavenly Father?” I replied, “No, I’m not angry, but He ignored me, Mum. I begged Him not to take my son. I begged Heavenly Father to please let him stay. But He ignored me.”
My mum lovingly said to me, “Heavenly Father wasn’t ignoring you. He heard you. He performed a miracle by opening the veil to heaven and allowing you to see that He’s with Kamau, and Kamau will forever be safe in His arms.”
Later that year, at the open house for the Hamilton New Zealand Temple, I felt anxious and nervous. I said to my husband, “I think Kamau’s waiting for me inside the temple. I think he’ll be there with me.”
Inside the temple, the only room I really wanted to see was the celestial room. While waiting to enter, our tour guide said to our group, “I’m really sorry, but we’re not going to have much time in the celestial room. But I can promise you, brothers and sisters, that although your time will be brief, the blessings you will receive will be enough to last you for the eternities. And most importantly you will feel the love of our Saviour Jesus Christ.”
As we were about to walk in, my daughter, Indie-Rose, held my hand and said to me excitedly, “Mum, is this the special room you were telling me about?”
I answered, “Yes, it is.”
She then asked me, “Is this what it’s going to be like when we see Kamau?”
I replied “Yes, it’ll be as if we walked around the corner and there he is.”
Tears streamed down my face as the promise our tour guide spoke earlier was fulfilled. I could feel the pure love of our Saviour Jesus Christ comfort me. I felt that the words our tour guide spoke were in fact an intended message for me from my Heavenly Father, saying to me that although my time with my son was brief, the blessings and the love that I have for him will be enough to last me till the eternities.
In every room of the temple—every picture and every detail—I could feel the spirit of my beautiful son Kamau. It was confirmation to me that I need to be in the temple. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were reminding me of the heavenly comfort and divine healing I can receive within its walls because of the enabling power of the Atonement of our Saviour, Jesus Christ.
Never has the temple been more important in my life than it is now.

I do not have all the answers, but hopefully the following experience, which happened several years ago, may be helpful to some who are still battling the question of why.
On a small Pacific island an infant girl was born to a faithful family. They called her Felila. There was happiness and joy as this grateful spirit made her debut into mortal life, but soon there were problems. Her head was abnormally large. The doctors diagnosed it as hydrocephalus. The questions of brain damage, of normalcy, of other problems all raised their haunting heads. After much fasting and prayer the elders quorum president approached the branch president, who in turn talked with the district president, who after adequate checking came to me as the mission president to see if there were some additional help available.
The medical authorities were consulted, and it was determined that there was little if anything they could do locally. Letters were written, information was sent back and forth, x-rays were taken and analyzed. There was so much to do—so many questions to be answered, so many pieces to fit together. Finally after exasperatingly long delays, things began to fall into place. A family in Salt Lake agreed to accept full responsibility for the infant, even if it meant years of outpatient care; the doctors agreed on the possibility of her eventual recovery; the hospital accepted the case on a service basis; funds were raised for her air fare; some local travelers arranged their schedules to bring her right to the hospital. But there were other problems—visas, health certificates, reservations, passports.
All during these trying days the family, and the elders quorum, and even the whole branch continued to fast and pray. The time of departure of the infrequent airplane grew near.
One morning, amidst myriads of other pressing matters, I had the strong impression that I must take the time now and put forth the extra effort required to get everything done so she could go. I got on the overseas telephone. The consulate finally agreed to issue a visa; the airlines made a special reservation; the passport people agreed to waive the normal regulations; others gave that extra effort and cooperation; and soon all was in order.
Normally I would have sent someone to bring the family in to sign the final papers, but again I felt strongly impressed that I should personally go and see the branch president. I located him in the early afternoon near the school where he was teaching. He was standing alone outside as though he were waiting for me.
Excitedly I ran up to him: “Guess what? It’s all set. Miraculously everything has worked out and Felila can leave tomorrow. Please get word to the family immediately.”
His calm, penetrating gaze quelled my exuberance. “It’s true,” I said. “I know it’s been long and there have been lots of disappointments, but she really is going now. What’s the matter?”
His steady gaze seemed to penetrate my very soul. Then softly in his liquid native tongue he informed me that when all the preparations had been made, when the hearts of so many had been stretched in service, when the goal of unity and selflessness had been achieved in those many hearts, when all had made the final commitment of others above self, at the height of all this activity that very morning, little Felila had quietly and unobtrusively slipped away—gone to that better care which so many had fasted and prayed and worked so long and hard for her to receive.
Gone? This morning? But all that work, all that time, all that fasting and praying and those strong feelings. Gone? No!
Without once shifting his gaze, he, having more faith than I, offered a few words of truth and encouragement, then quietly turned and rejoined his class.
And I was left alone, or so it seemed. I moved slowly and heavily down that dusty trail. Why? Why? After all that work and that strong faith of so many and those impressions, why?
I sensed the brightness of the sun and felt the warmth of the breeze as it lazily tossed the palm leaves and slowly shifted the silent clouds against the clear blue sky. A feeling came over me. I realized that the earth was beautiful, that life went on and was eternal. And while I cannot describe fully what happened next, part of the experience is proper to relate. The best explanation is contained in the phrase, “I was overcome by the Spirit.” It was as though one took me by the hand and led me to a high place and stood by me and said, “Look.” And I looked and beheld such beauty and magnificence as man cannot conceive. And I heard a voice, such a tender, compassionate voice—yet so unmistakably powerful—that all nature stood still and listened and obeyed.
“Come home, Felila, my daughter. Come home to the care your loved ones have sought for you. I have heard their prayers and have known their fasting and love for you, and I answer. Come home, my daughter. You have finished your mission in life. Hearts have been softened; souls have been stretched; faith has been increased. Come home now, Felila.”
He knew her! He knew her name. He knew all about her and about all those others. How perfect our Father’s love! He had heard the prayers. He had done what was best. He knew everything—which thing, though I believed, I never had supposed. In some marvelous way, which is beyond our mortal comprehension, he knows and understands all things.
My questions as to why—as to justice and reasons—were all at that moment completely swept away. They were so irrelevant, my questioning so totally out of place, like one trying to dig the Grand Canyon with a teaspoon.

Wouldn’t you get a little nervous if your high school counselor suddenly and unexpectedly called you into the office?
You would especially be nervous if you were Richard Aballay, a senior at a Catholic seminary in New York City. Richard had seen the commercials about the Mormon church on TV, had contacted the missionaries, and was baptized. But he hadn’t yet mentioned his baptism to anyone at the school, where boys prepare to become Catholic priests.
“How are you doing in your subjects?” the counselor began politely on that fateful day in late October.
“Fine,” said Richard, cautiously.
Then the counselor jumped to his real concern. “Are you affiliated with another church?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Why?”
“I have come to know the Savior better in this church. I know this church is doing more for me. It is the church of God.”
As the counselor began to lecture, warning Richard that being a member of a different church was grounds for dismissal, Richard thought how easy it would be to say he had made it all up. Then he could finish his senior year in peace.
“But I couldn’t do that,” Richard said later. “You can’t deny the truth when you have it.”
By the next day it was official: Richard had to leave.
The following week was torment, Richard said. But with much prayer, his family was able to find space for him in another good school.
“From that experience,” Richard says, “I have learned that the Lord will never abandon me.”
In fact, the experience gave Richard the chance to tell more people about the gospel, since his classmates wanted to know why he would leave school for his new beliefs.
Being dismissed from school is not the only challenge Richard has faced. He grew up in the Bronx, a borough of New York City. It is not an easy place to live.
“I know for a fact that if it weren’t for the gospel, I would probably have gone into something crazy,” he says. “The inner city is hard. But I know the greatest blessing in my life has been the priesthood.
“Ever since I was first ordained a deacon, I noticed a great change. I just felt that the Lord was with me. And I had a confidence—I could walk into my school where kids were doing bad things, and I could say no. It helps keep me straight. I’m always saying to myself, ‘I want to honor the priesthood.’”
The gospel has helped him in other ways, too. One is that since he joined the Church, Richard has been able to overcome a speech impediment. Before receiving the Holy Ghost, “I could not say a word in public,” Richard says. After his confirmation, he was able to bless the sacrament, give talks in church, and take roles in two road shows. “Like it says in Ether 12:27—my weakness became a strength,” he says. Richard used to go to parties a lot. But after the last one, he says, “I saw things there, and I didn’t feel right. For some reason I knew I didn’t belong.”
He left the party and vowed to become more involved in service, schoolwork, studying the scriptures, and listening to good music—and to not watch so much television.
“It was hard,” he says. “I wanted to keep up with things going on outside. I didn’t want to be a social hermit. But I felt that if I was going to go on a mission, and if I was going to get married in the temple, and if I was going to receive callings, I had to be worthy.”
Many of his friends think this is a strange road to take. They also think it strange that he decided to accept a call to serve as a full-time missionary in the Paraguay Asunción Mission. And Richard agrees with them.
“As I look at it, the life-style one lives as a disciple of Christ—as a member of the Church—is a strange one from the rest of the world. God doesn’t work or think in the same ways man does, and he doesn’t want us to act and think the way the rest of the world does. So because the Lord works in ways that seem strange to the world, we appear to be a strange and peculiar people. But I’m proud of being strange! I don’t think there’s anything strange with it.
“The truth is, now that I’m on the other side, I think the life-style that other people live is strange. I want to make their life-style one that I know will be better for them—and that would be bringing them to Christ.”
The Apostle Paul invited all to be “no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints” (Eph. 2:19). Richard Aballay extends the same invitation to the strangers of the world. In doing so, the boy from the Bronx has become a man.

As I was trying to come to terms with everything, I knew the bishop was being prompted to talk to me about my mission papers. I just knew. I had never mentioned it to anyone, but I knew he was also getting the vibes. But I still needed time to adjust and come to terms with everything, so I started dodging him.
If I saw him in the corridor at Church, I’d dive into a classroom and hide until he passed. I’d watch him and stay out of his vicinity—terrible, but I thought this would gain me more time. But one Sunday I was walking up the corridor only to find the bishop walking towards me. No one else was there. I couldn’t hide or dive away. I was nabbed, pure and simple.
The bishop simply said, “Can you come with me for a minute? I’ve got to give you something”. I was hoping the something was to do with my Primary or activities committee callings, but he walked into the clerk’s office, opened the filing cabinet, and handed me my mission papers. He said, “You need to fill these in, and send them.” I said, “I knew you knew!” When I told him that I had been deliberately dodging and hiding from him, he laughed and said he wondered why he could never find me.

Nauvoo was swampy and unhealthy. As soon as the Saints began to settle, they were struck with malaria. “It was a very sickly time,” said Wilford Woodruff. “Joseph had given up his home in Commerce to the sick, and had a tent pitched in his dooryard and was living in that himself.” During this period of suffering, the Prophet called upon the power of the priesthood and went among the sick on both sides of the river, healing many.
The following summer the epidemic increased and many died. In 1841, Sidney Rigdon preached “a general funeral sermon” for the deceased, as workers hurriedly drained the swamps in an effort to control the dreaded disease.

The year 2024 is something of a milestone year for me. It marks 75 years since I was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Zwickau, Germany.
When I think about my personal journey of discipleship, my mind often goes back to an old villa in Zwickau, where I have cherished memories of attending sacrament meetings of the Church of Jesus Christ as a child. It is there where the seedling of my testimony received its earliest nourishing.
This chapel had an old air-driven organ. Every Sunday a young man was assigned to push up and down the sturdy lever operating the bellows to make the organ work. I sometimes had the great privilege of assisting in this important task.
While the congregation sang our beloved hymns, I pumped with all my strength so the organ would not run out of wind. From the bellows operator seat, I had a great view of some stunning stained-glass windows, one depicting the Savior Jesus Christ and another portraying Joseph Smith in the Sacred Grove.
I can still remember the sacred feelings I had as I looked at those sunlit windows while listening to the testimonies of the Saints and singing the hymns of Zion.
In that holy place, the Spirit of God bore witness to my mind and heart that it was true: Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world. This is His Church. The Prophet Joseph Smith saw God the Father and Jesus Christ and heard Their voices.
Earlier this year, while on assignment in Europe, I had the opportunity to return to Zwickau. Sadly, that beloved old chapel isn’t there anymore. It was torn down many years ago to make room for a large apartment building.
I admit that it’s sad to know that this beloved building from my childhood is now just a memory. It was a sacred building to me. But it was just a building.
By contrast, the spiritual witness I gained from the Holy Ghost those many years ago has not passed away. In fact, it has grown stronger. The things I learned in my youth about the fundamental principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ have been my firm foundation throughout my life. The covenant connection I forged with my Heavenly Father and His Beloved Son has stayed with me—long after the Zwickau chapel was dismantled and the stained-glass windows were lost.

Service is something Dusti, a member of the Riverton Utah First Ward, strongly believes in. When her brother was on his mission in Peru, he mentioned in one of his letters that some of the newly baptized members lacked appropriate clothing to wear to church. Dusti decided to help.
For one of her Value Projects, Dusti asked her friends to donate dresses that the Peruvian Saints could wear to church. When others found out what she was doing, clothing of all kinds began pouring in to the Bills’s home. After collecting and sorting, Dusti filled several suitcases to take with her family when they traveled to Peru to pick up her brother. The bags were crammed with everything from white baptismal clothes to suits for potential missionaries.
Dusti’s help didn’t stop there. Her new wheelchair had arrived a few days before she left Utah, so Dusti was more than willing to leave her old chair at the mission home in Lima. It would go to a woman who recently had a stroke and was no longer able to walk.
“I was just glad someone who needed it got to use it,” Dusti says.
Along with finding grateful Saints who were thrilled with their new clothes, Dusti found a little bit of herself, too.
“You could tell that the members were humble and they really believed in the Church and Jesus Christ. That made me think, I do know that the Church is the right one,” says Dusti. “I believe that Jesus Christ has a plan for everybody.”

One day, Wilford was feeding pumpkins to his father’s cattle in a pasture.
He noticed that one large bull was eating more than his fair share, so Wilford decided to take one of his pumpkins away.
Wilford: He ate one of that cow’s pumpkins! I’ll show him who’s boss.
The bull was so mad at Wilford that he started chasing him down the pasture hill.
Luckily, Wilford tripped and fell to the ground, and the pumpkin went flying out of his hands. The bull jumped right over Wilford and tore the pumpkin to pieces with his horns.
Wilford: If I hadn’t tripped, that would’ve been me getting torn to pieces!
Years later Wilford became the fourth President of the Church. He said he believed Heavenly Father had protected him during those childhood adventures.
President Woodruff: I ascribe my preservation on earth to the watch-care of a merciful Providence, whose hand has been stretched out to rescue me from death when I was in the presence of the most threatening dangers.

“Don’t ask me how the science fair went!” Michelle declared, walking into the house after school.
“What happened?” Morgan asked.
“Didn’t you just hear me say don’t ask?” Michelle snapped. She walked right past her little sister and up the stairs. Bang! Her bedroom door slammed shut.
Morgan asked Mom why Michelle was mad. Mom explained that Michelle was hoping her project on hermit crabs would win at the science fair, and that it must not have happened.
“So why won’t she talk to me?” Morgan asked.
“Maybe she will later, honey. For now, we should leave her alone,” Mom said.
“But I want to play with her, like I always do when she comes home from school.”
“I don’t think she wants to play games right now. Maybe you could color or play dolls while I start making dinner,” Mom said.
Morgan went to her bedroom and took out some paper and crayons. She started to draw a picture with flowers. She colored it for a few minutes and then stopped. She quickly jumped up and ran to Mom.
“How long till dinner?” Morgan asked.
“About 45 minutes.”
“Is that enough time to make a happy book for Michelle? I want it to be done by dinner,” Morgan said.
Seeing Mom nod her head yes, Morgan ran back to her room and closed the door.
“Michelle! Morgan! Dinnertime!” Mom called a little while later.
Morgan hurried out of her room and ran to Michelle’s spot at the dinner table. She placed some papers facedown on Michelle’s plate. Then she sat in her own chair.
When Michelle came to the table, she pointed to the papers and grumpily asked, “What’s this?”
“It’s a happy book,” Morgan said softly.
“Oh.” Michelle picked up the papers and turned them over. She studied the first one.
“That’s a picture of a trophy. ‘Cause I liked your hermit crabs the best,” Morgan said. “The next one is a picture of a sad face.”
“Why?” Michelle asked.
“Because I got sad that you were mad and didn’t want to talk to me or play games with me.”
Michelle flipped to the next picture. “I know this one is a heart, right?”
“Yes,” Morgan said. “A heart means I love you.”
Michelle looked at the last picture, then at her sister.
“It’s my favorite. It’s me and you playing a game together.” Morgan looked at her older sister. “Did my book make you happy?”
“Yes, very happy,” said Michelle. “I’m sorry for being angry when I came home from school. I wasn’t mad at you. My project didn’t win anything, and I thought it would, so I was upset.”
“That’s OK. I still love you,” Morgan said.
“I love you too, Morgan,” Michelle said with a smile. “After dinner do you want to play a game?”
“All right!” Morgan cheered.

When we were baptized into the church in 1971, there were no temples in the Philippines, the nearest temple was in Tokyo, Japan. Upon learning about the ordinances of the temple and the sealing power that binds families to the eternities, we were so eager for the temple in the Philippines. It was a long wait until 1984 when the Manila Temple was dedicated by President Gordon B. Hinckley.
We were one of the many Filipino saints who rushed to the Manila Temple to be sealed as a family. Our joy was full when we received the ordinances and were sealed as a family. From that time on we never neglected our covenants with God, we regularly went to the temple despite the distance from Pangasinan to Manila. Like most Filipinos, we faced economic difficulties but we saved money to be able to enter the temple regularly. It was a joy to renew our covenants with God and perform ordinances for our dead.

I had an experience in the mission field that is very memorable to me. A man came to me after Church—he was twice my age, a very unhappy person—and told me that he had committed a grave sin before he joined the Church, that his wife would not forgive him, would not divorce him, and constantly reminded him that he was a worthless person. He said, “I’ve come to think of myself as she thinks I am. How can I be whole again and pure of heart, clean in my thoughts?” I said, “What have you tried to do for this problem?” He said, “I’ve fought it. I’ve fought it.” I told him there must be a better way than to fight sin. We knelt in prayer together, and afterwards I gave him a book to read—As a Man Thinketh in His Heart, So Is He—and then I put my arm around him, gave him a firm handclasp, and told him that he could overcome his problem. And then by inspiration or coincidence I said to him, “How would you like to prepare the Lord’s supper for Sunday School?” (He was a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood.) He said, “Do you think I’m worthy to do this?” I said, “No, I don’t think any of us really are. But I think Jesus would be pleased if you would render him this service.” And so he proceeded to set the Lord’s table each Sunday morning. After about six weeks I met him coming up the aisle before Sunday School. I put out my hand to reassure him. He put his hand behind his back and said nothing. I said, “Have I offended you?” He said, “Oh, no. I’ve just washed my hands with soap and hot water, and I can’t shake hands with you or any man until I’ve set the Lord’s table.” That’s the most beautiful reverence I’ve seen in that simple act of setting the Lord’s table. I was so pleased. In another six weeks he came to me after church again and said, “I’m a new man.”
Then I asked him to give a talk in church on some principle of the gospel of Christ that he really believed in and why. I kept thinking about the Savior. Well, serving the Savior in a simple way and thinking about him during the week, this man became a new creature. It was beautiful. And I realized that I’d never used the Savior in my own life in the same way. I don’t mind telling you that I did after that. I had the wonderful thrill of overcoming what I thought was a weakness in me by thinking of the Savior and making him the center of my prayers and my life.

Lala loved to watch ants. “Pelusa,” she would say to her cat, “see those two ants trying to carry a crumb of bread to their hill. One ant is going one way and the other is going a different way. They’ll never get anywhere if they keep that up!”
Pelusa sat in the shade licking himself. Though he never said anything, Lala knew that he always listened.
Lala and her family lived in a small adobe hut in the dry highlands of northern Mexico. It was perfect country for ants. Among the cacti and thorny bushes around Lala’s house there were hundreds of anthills. However, no one ever visited them except Lala and Pelusa.
In her pockets Lala always carried pieces of bread. Finding an anthill, she would crumble the bread several feet away, then sit and wait for the ants to discover their meal. Before long the ants would join into a long, straight line between the crumbled-up bread and their nest. Each ant would carry home a crumb.
Watching the ants work, Lala daydreamed about the ants’ world beneath the ground … Someplace in a big chamber the ant queen must be laying eggs. Somewhere else nurse ants must be taking care of baby ants. And worker ants must be digging new tunnels, while soldier ants guard the colony’s entrance.
“How I would love to go inside the ant’s tunnels,” Lala often said to her cat. But Pelusa would only stretch and yawn.
Late one hot afternoon, something small and white fluttered past the adobe hut’s open door. Pelusa streaked from the door, chasing it, and Lala called, “It’s just a turkey feather, Pelusa, being blown by a whirlwind. Come back!”
However, Pelusa was already far away, so Lala ran after him. Eventually, her pet’s tracks led Lala into Mulehead Valley. Never had Lala been so far from home alone. She was about to turn back when she heard a familiar meow. It was coming from an abandoned mine shaft beneath a big rock balanced at the base of Mulehead Hill.
“Pelusa, come out!” Lala called into the deep hole. But the cat did not come out. Then, even though Lala knew better, she entered the mine. Pelusa was only a little way inside. He was intently staring at a pile of rubble into which he had chased a mouse. “Silly cat.” Lala laughed, and gave him a hug.
And then it happened! Turning around, Lala’s shoulder knocked something loose, and the big rock over the mine’s entrance fell with a thud. Suddenly everything inside the mine shaft was dark and quiet. “Pelusa,” Lala whispered huskily, “I think we’re in trouble!”
When the dust settled and Lala’s eyes became used to the dark, she saw a tiny crack between the rock and the mine’s entrance. She put her eye next to the crack and looked across Mulehead Valley. “They’ll never find us here,” she said to Pelusa. “And if this is what it’s like being in an ant’s tunnel, I don’t like it!”
The next morning, Lala and Pelusa were very hungry. “Pelusa!” Lala cried. “I just remembered! I have some bread in my pocket.”
Lala ate enough to make her stomach feel better. However, Pelusa didn’t like bread.
“Well, I’ll just push a little bread through the crack,” Lala declared. “Maybe the ants will eat breakfast with me then.”
The long morning hours passed. Lala was about to give up hope when she heard an anxious voice calling, “Lala, are you in there?”
“Papa, is that you?” Lala cried. Pelusa meowed for the first time since the rock fell.
Before long the big rock was moved out of the way, and Lala was in her father’s arms outside in the fresh air and sunlight. “Oh, Papa!” Lala whooped. “How did you ever find us?”
“Well, I was walking across Mulehead Valley, looking for you,” he explained, “when I came across a long line of ants. Every ant carried a piece of bread. Now who but you feeds bread to ants? I followed the line right up to the mine entrance. I’m so grateful that you remembered to feed the ants this morning!”
“Papa!” Lala exclaimed. “Tonight we must make a sweet, sweet cake with plenty of icing on it, and it must be so big that we can leave a piece on every anthill for miles around!”
And that is exactly what they did.

One of my favorite times during childhood was Holy Week, even though I didn’t understand its significance and sacredness.
I loved the traditions my beloved mother had established, especially those related to food. My mother, Doña Negra, was a devout Catholic. During Lent (a 40-day period of spiritual preparation for Easter celebrated in the Catholic Church and other Christian churches), we followed certain practices.
During this period, we didn’t eat meat on Wednesdays and Fridays. The menu at my house always included rice, pigeon peas, fried eggs, fried eggplant (torrejas), green salads, and codfish. My mother would also prepare sweet beans. I loved the food my mother made, but it wasn’t until I grew up and was baptized in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints that I began to understand and value the importance and sacredness of this time and why we celebrate Easter.
From one of the Apostles, President Jeffrey R. Holland, I learned that the Passover feast, instituted in ancient Israel, reminded the people that “the Lord brought [them] out from Egypt, from the house of bondage” (Exodus 13:14). Thus, this annual celebration helped the Israelites remember that the Lord had delivered them from death and captivity.
With the Atonement and Resurrection of Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God, the Lord delivered us from physical and spiritual death by providing the opportunity to be cleansed from our sins. Therefore, the ritual of Passover, which involved sacrificing the firstborn of the flock, was replaced by the ordinance of the sacrament. By partaking of it, the “children of the promise have been under covenant to remember Christ’s sacrifice in this newer, higher, more holy and personal way. …
“With so very much at stake, this ordinance commemorating our escape from the angel of darkness should be taken more seriously than it sometimes is. It should be a powerful, reverent, reflective moment. It should encourage spiritual feelings and impressions. …
“… Do we see it as our passover, remembrance of our safety and deliverance and redemption?”
For most people, Easter is just a holiday. It is often used to do many worldly things that take us away from the true spirit of Easter. We should strive to establish practices in our families that promote understanding of the Savior’s Atonement and fill our homes with gratitude for the gift of the Father and the Son.
These words from the Prophet Joseph Smith add additional context to the importance of the events related to Easter: “The fundamental principles of our religion are the testimony of the Apostles and Prophets, concerning Jesus Christ, that He died, was buried, and rose again the third day, and ascended into heaven; and all other things which pertain to our religion are only appendages to it”
In his message “The Greatest Easter Story Ever Told”, Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles exhorted us: “Perhaps the question we have asked ourselves is one we could all contemplate: How do we model the teaching and celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, the Easter story, with the same balance, fulness, and rich religious tradition of the birth of Jesus Christ, the Christmas story?”
We are all trying. I see an increasing effort among Latter-day Saints to celebrate Easter in a more Christ-centered way, which includes a greater and more contemplative recognition of Palm Sunday and Good Friday. We could also adopt appropriate, Christ-centered Easter traditions found in the cultures and customs of countries around the world.
N. T. Wright, a New Testament scholar, suggested: “We should take steps to celebrate the Resurrection Easter in new creative ways: with art, literature, children’s games, poetry, music, dance, festivals, bells, special concerts. [. . .] It is our greatest festival. If we removed Christmas, in biblical terms, we would lose two chapters at the beginning of Matthew and Luke, and nothing more. If we removed Easter, the New Testament would disappear; we would have no Christianity.”
President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) said:
“No words in Christendom mean more to me than those spoken by the angel to the weeping Mary Magdalene and the other Mary as they approached the tomb to care for the body of their Lord:
“‘Why seek ye the living among the dead?
“‘He is not here, but is risen’ (Luke 24:5–6).
I pray that the Lord will bless us so that we can understand the magnitude of what our Lord Jesus Christ did for us. It is necessary to establish in our hearts and in the hearts of our posterity a greater understanding and gratitude for the Lord’s Atonement and for the celebration of the Passover.
President Monson continued:
“Our Savior lived again. The most glorious, comforting, and reassuring of all events of human history had taken place—the victory over death. The pain and agony of Gethsemane and Calvary had been wiped away. The salvation of mankind had been secured. The Fall of Adam had been reclaimed.
“The empty tomb on that first Easter morning was the answer to Job’s question: ‘If a man die, shall he live again?’ (Job 14:14). To all within the sound of my voice, I declare, If a man die, he shall live again. We know, for we have the light of revealed truth.
“‘For since by man came death, by man [Jesus Christ] came also the resurrection of the dead.
“‘For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive’ (1 Corinthians 15:21–22). …
“… Two weeks ago, I received a touching letter from a father of seven who wrote about his family and, in particular, his son Jason, who had become ill when 11 years of age. Over the next few years, Jason’s illness recurred several times. This father told of Jason’s positive attitude and sunny disposition, despite his health challenges. Jason received the Aaronic Priesthood at age 12 and ‘always willingly magnified his responsibilities with excellence, whether he felt well or not.’
“Last summer, not long after Jason’s 15th birthday, he was once again admitted to the hospital. On one of his visits to see Jason, his father found him with his eyes closed. Not knowing whether his son was asleep or awake, he began talking softly to him. ‘Jason,’ he said, ‘I know you have been through a lot in your short life and that your current condition is difficult. Even though you have a giant battle ahead, I don’t ever want you to lose your faith in Jesus Christ.’ He said he was startled as Jason immediately opened his eyes and said, ‘Never!’ in a clear, resolute voice. Jason then closed his eyes and said no more.
“His father wrote: ‘In this simple declaration, Jason expressed one of the most powerful, pure testimonies of Jesus Christ that I have ever heard. . . . As his declaration of ‘Never!’ became imprinted on my soul that day, my heart filled with joy that my Heavenly Father had blessed me to be the father of such a tremendous and noble boy. . . . [That] was the last time I heard him declare his testimony of Christ.’
“Although his family was expecting this to be just another routine hospitalization, Jason passed away less than two weeks later. An older brother and sister were serving missions at the time. Another brother, Kyle, had just received his mission call. In fact, the call had come earlier than expected, and on August 5, just a week before Jason’s passing, the family gathered in his hospital room so that Kyle’s mission call could be opened there and shared with the entire family.
“In his letter to me, this father included a photograph of Jason in his hospital bed, with his big brother Kyle standing beside the bed, holding his mission call. The caption was written beneath the photograph: ‘Called to serve their missions together—on both sides of the veil.’
“Jason’s brother and sister already serving missions sent beautiful, comforting letters home to be shared at Jason’s funeral. His sister, serving in the Argentina Buenos Aires West Mission, as part of her letter, wrote: ‘I know that Jesus Christ lives, and because He lives, all of us, including our beloved Jason, will live again. . . . We can take comfort in the sure knowledge we have that we have been sealed together as an eternal family. . . . If we strive our best to obey and be better in this life, we will see [him again].’ She continued: ‘[A] scripture that I have long loved now takes on new significance and importance at this time. . . . [From] Revelation chapter 21, verse 4: ‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.’
“My beloved brothers and sisters, in our hour of deepest sorrow, we can receive profound peace from the words of the angel that first Easter morning: ‘He is not here: for he is risen” (Matthew 28:6).
God lives; He is our beloved Heavenly Father. I am very grateful to now understand a little more of what my Savior willingly did for me. He was wounded, bruised, and chastised. He suffered my pains, afflictions, and illnesses. He is my Savior. And I share this in His sweet name, the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
For ideas on how to celebrate a Christ-centered Easter, see “Making Easter a Time to Remember the Savior” in the April 2023 Liahona.