Gospel Story Finder

In 2018, Latter-day Saint Robert Opiyo joined the only ice hockey club in East-Central Africa, the Kenya Ice Lions. At the time, there were fewer than 30 ice hockey players in all of Kenya, and 17 of them (15 men and 2 women) were members of the Ice Lions team.
Today, there are over 40 adult players and 40 youth players who practice at least twice a week. Robert used the skills he learned on his mission in Melbourne, Australia, as one of the team’s executive members.
Brother Opiyo dreams of the Olympics someday but is also content to be part of this pioneering endeavor. “Slowly more people hear about our desire and want to help us get there,” he said. “I’m grateful to have been a part that set the foundation for future generations.”

Next, be confident that He sends angels to be with you and with those you love.

President Nelson testifies that angels are real and that they are near. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland once said, “In the gospel of Jesus Christ you have help from both sides of the veil, and you must never forget that. When disappointment and discouragement strike—and they will—you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed to come to our protection.” [17] This is especially reassuring as there are so many of us who are far from family or feeling the weight of life’s challenges

Sometimes angels are heavenly beings sent to protect, comfort, or guide. Other times, they are earthly angels—unit mates, professors, friends—who show up just when we need them most. Either way, God is actively sending help.

I’ve experienced this personally. There have been times when I prayed for strength and a friend reached out unexpectedly, offering exactly the encouragement I needed. Was that a coincidence? No. That was God sending an angel.

For those of you who are far from home, know that your loved ones are not alone. God sends angels to watch over them just as He sends angels to watch over you.

The first of these callings came when I was a deacon. I attended with my family the branch of the Church in Frankfurt, Germany. We were blessed with many wonderful people in our little branch. One was our branch president, Brother Landschulz. I admired him a great deal, even though he always seemed to be rather serious, very official, and most of the time dressed in a dark suit. I remember as a young man joking with my friends how old-fashioned our branch president appeared.
It makes me laugh to think about this now because it is very possible that the youth of the Church today view me in a very similar way.
One Sunday, President Landschulz asked if he could speak with me. My first thought was, “What did I do wrong?” My mind raced over the many things I might have done that could have inspired this branch-president-to-deacon talk.
President Landschulz invited me into a small classroom—our chapel did not have an office for the branch president—and there he extended a call to me to serve as deacons quorum president.
“This is an important position,” he said, and then he took his time and described why. He explained what he and the Lord expected of me and how I could receive help.
I don’t remember much of what he said, but I do remember well how I felt. A sacred, divine Spirit filled my heart as he spoke. I could feel that this was the Savior’s Church. And I felt that the calling he had extended was inspired by the Holy Ghost. I remember walking out of that tiny classroom feeling quite a bit taller than before.
It has been nearly 60 years since that day, and I still treasure these feelings of trust and love.
As I was thinking back on this experience, I tried to remember just how many deacons there were in our branch at the time. To my best recollection, I believe there were two. However, this may be a huge exaggeration.
But it really didn’t matter whether there was one deacon or a dozen. I felt honored, and I wanted to serve to the best of my ability and not disappoint either my branch president or the Lord.
I realize now that the branch president could have merely gone through the motions when he called me to this position. He could have simply told me in the hallway or during our priesthood meeting that I was the new deacons quorum president.
Instead, he spent time with me and helped me understand not only the what of my assignment and new responsibility but, much more important, the why.
That is something I will never forget.
The point of this story is not merely to describe how to extend callings in the Church (although this was a wonderful lesson on the proper way to do it). It is an example to me of the motivating power of priesthood leadership that awakens the spirit and inspires action.

From their bed in the garret, Joseph Smith and his younger brother, William, could hear the night wind slide over the bark roof of their two-story log house. Presently, William leaned his head over the side of the bed and put his ear close to the floorboards. He could hear the voices of his parents above the whispers and sighs of the wind. “… great excitement … everyone for miles around … down in the woods …”
William wriggled back under the quilt and shook his brother. “Joseph, it’s time for another camp meeting. When will it be?”
“The first week of July … down in the woods.”
William’s eyes popped in the darkness and a grin creased his cheeks. Nothing could make a boy’s heart beat faster than thoughts of a revival. A camp meeting in 1819 meant a holiday, with more going on than one could possibly take in. There would be picnics and games and friends to play with, along with the preaching and praying. But more fun than anything, though William didn’t ever speak it, was watching the weeping and wailing of the sinners.
“We’ll be going, I expect.”
“For certain,” Joseph answered.
On the morning of the great Genesee camp meeting, Joseph was up early to attend to his chores. Then the little handcart that his father had fashioned to use for selling refreshments was lifted into the wagon. Joseph and his father often traveled to other villages and camp meetings to sell Lucy’s pies and gingerbread, as well as hard-boiled eggs, root beer, and other “like notions of traffic.” Today the whole family was going and there was a feeling of gaiety in the air.
Sophronia brought out the baskets of baked goods that would be offered for sale to the crowds of people. “Some say there will be four to five thousand,” she said expectantly.
Joseph knew that some folks would attend because of a desire to “get religion” but many would be there just for the excitement.
By the time they were ready to leave, the sun had begun its daily climb. Joseph tried to appear calm as a farm-bred boy ought, but the happiness in his heart pushed out in a whistled song.
The family followed the road that ran diagonally between Palmyra and Vienna, where the meeting would be held in the woods. When the Smiths arrived there was already a confusion of people and wagons. Everyone was trying to find a place on the outer edge of the clearing. Some had already made tents by stretching bed covers between their wagons and small trees, with a layer of straw on the ground for sleeping.
Joseph’s father drove their wagon close to a platform made of rough boards. It was built off the ground so the crowds could see and hear the preachers.
Lately Joseph had been doing a lot of thinking about religion, comparing what the various churches believed with what Jesus taught in the Bible. And he wasn’t alone. An excitement over religion was affecting young and old alike.
As Joseph sold his mother’s baked goods among the crowds, he saw many of his friends from Palmyra. He stopped long enough to play a game of pulling sticks or to wrestle, but for the most part he listened to the preachers calling the sinners to repentance. Some of the sessions lasted all day and into the night. One minister after another took the stand to preach long, powerful sermons. Sometimes they directed prayer circles or the singing of hymns. While the meetings were going on, many people “got religion” by shouting and crying for mercy.
In his own thoughtful, quiet way, Joseph found himself caught up in the tremendous emotions of the revival. Much of what Joseph heard didn’t agree with what he read in the Bible, so the preaching and exhortations of each day added to the confusion he felt within.
Joseph was a thinker. He enjoyed debating with the other boys in the neighborhood. It helped to satisfy his yearning for understanding and truth.
One evening when Joseph reached the village of Palmyra, a light snow had fallen and the cold penetrated his clothing, carefully patched to make it last through the season. The lamplight flickering through the windows of the village store beckoned him on. His long legs lengthened their stride.
Joseph stood for a moment outside the door, studying the figures in the crowded room. Orsamus Turner and Pomeroy Tucker, two of the older boys, were already there, as were some of the men of the village.
Joseph stamped the snow from his shoes and entered the store. It smelled strongly of burning wood, cheese, and wet wool. He joined the group around the stove, scrubbing his hands in its warmth until he was scorched through.
When all the boys had gathered they discussed a subject to debate. Joseph’s penetrating blue eyes deepened as he offered a suggestion. “Ever since the big Genesee camp meeting people hereabouts have been stirred up over religion …”
Some mornings later, when the world was pink with sunrise, young Joseph slipped quietly out of his log home. His steps were quick with anticipation now that he had determined what to do to resolve his search for the truth.
Joseph thought it rather strange as he recalled the events of the previous night. He was reading a certain passage in the Bible, when the words seemed to leap from the page and found their way into his heart where they would not be stilled. Over and over his mind reflected on them. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could see those words in the first chapter of James clustered together on the page: “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.”
If anyone needs wisdom, I do, Joseph decided. And if God will give me an answer and not consider it a bother, I’ll venture it, he thought humbly.
Joseph cut directly across the clearing, striding over tree stumps that protruded from the earth like wooden eruptions.
The Smith family had moved to their new farm in Farmington (later Manchester), New York, some three miles from the village of Palmyra, a little more than a year ago. Joseph had helped log the trees, and hauled many wagonloads of wood into the village to be sold for fuel. Some of the stumps had been burned out, but mostly they were left and the soil was tilled around them. Soon he would help scatter kernels of wheat into the broken ground, rich and fertile from layer upon layer of decayed leaves. Then the earth would need to be dragged over with a large maple limb to level it.
It was wearying work to clear forestland and make it tillable for farming, though somehow it didn’t leave him as tuckered out as trying to clear up the confusion in his mind. For some time Joseph had been in the midst of a “war of words” over religion. Some settlers argued for one church, some for another, and many ministers claimed that theirs was the only true church. The bad feelings that arose were not too well hidden either.
Joseph thought of his mother as almost a saint, and he believed his father was as good as Moses back in ancient times ever was. But even they could not agree on a religion. His mother and three of the children, Hyrum, Sophronia, and Samuel, attended the Western Presbyterian Church in Palmyra. Joseph’s father agreed with his father, Asael Smith, who wasn’t satisfied with any religion. He just kept studying the Bible; said he was looking for “the ancient order, as established by our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and His apostles.” Joseph was somewhat inclined toward Methodism, and had attended some of their meetings. Yet in the midst of all the agitation around him, how could a boy be sure?
As he climbed a fence at the far end of the clearing he recalled how often he had asked himself: “What should I do? Who is right? How shall I know?” At times his yearning for the truth had almost been a hurt within him.
But now Joseph knew how to find the answer. Since he had read those words in the Bible, they were carved on his consciousness as clearly as initials on the trunk of a tree. He had decided to follow them implicitly, and he was going into the woods to pray. He would ask God which church to join, believing that God meant just what He said, “… and it shall be given him.”
Why didn’t I think of it before? he wondered. (To be continued.)

In stark contrast, consider the example of another young man. Through the years I have watched how his parents have taught him from infancy to unwaveringly live the commandments of God. By example and precept, they nurtured him, together with their other children, in truth. They encouraged the development of discipline and sacrifice to obtain worthy goals. This young man chose swimming to instill in his character those qualities. Early-morning practice sessions required discipline and sacrifice. Over time he excelled in that sport.
Then came the challenges—for example, a championship swim meet on Sunday. Would he participate? Would he rationalize an exception to his rule of not swimming on Sunday to help his team win the championship? No, he would not yield, even under intense peer pressure. He was called names, even physically abused. But he would not yield. The rejection of friends, the loneliness, and the pressure brought times of sadness and tears. But he would not yield. He was learning firsthand what each of us must come to know, the reality of Paul’s counsel to Timothy, “All that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution” (2 Tim. 3:12). Over the years this consistent pattern of righteous living—woven from hundreds of correct decisions, some in the face of great challenge—has developed a character of strength and capacity. Now, as a missionary, he is appreciated by his peers for his ability to work, his knowledge of truth, his unwavering devotion, and his determination to share the gospel. One who earlier was rejected by his peers now has become a respected leader of his peers. Is there a message for you in these examples?

“Wait a moment, Allie,” Grandpa said. “I want to tell you something. Do you remember when President Wilford Woodruff died?”
Allie remembered well. It had only been a year ago, and Grandpa Snow had been worried about the responsibility of being the next President of the Church. He had prayed that President Woodruff would not die. When President Woodruff passed away, Grandpa had come to the Salt Lake Temple as soon as he heard the news.
To succeed means to be the next in line to fill a position. Ever since the deaths of the Prophet Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, the Lord has chosen the man who has been an Apostle for the longest time to become the next President of the Church.
“It was right here that the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to me. He told me to go right ahead and reorganize the First Presidency at once and not wait as had been done after the death of the previous presidents, and that I was to succeed President Woodruff,” Grandpa said.
Grandpa held out his hand. “He stood right here, about three feet above the floor. It looked as though He stood on a plate of solid gold.”
Allie stood very still as she felt the Spirit confirm the truth of these words. The Savior had appeared in this very spot in the temple and told her grandpa about his calling as President of the Church! Grandpa continued to describe the Savior’s hands, feet, face, and beautiful white robes. He said they were so white and bright that he could hardly look at the Savior.
Then Grandpa put his hand on her head. “Now, Granddaughter, I want you to remember that this is the testimony of your grandfather, that he told you with his own lips that he actually saw the Savior, here in the temple, and talked with Him face to face.”

Christianity celebrates the life and ministry of Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God the Eternal Father. Christian churches with great variations of doctrine dot the land the world over. When 14-year-old Cortnee, a daughter of a mission president, entered a new high school as a freshman, she was asked by classmates if she was a Christian. They scoffed at her response that she was a Mormon, a common reference to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Upon arriving home, she asked her mother, “Mom, are we Christians?”
Cortnee asked, “Mom, are we Christians?” As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, you are a Christian, and I am too. I am a devout Christian who is exceedingly fortunate to have greater knowledge of the true “doctrine of Christ” since my conversion to the restored Church. These truths define this Church as having the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Like other members of the Church, I now understand the true nature of the Godhead, I have access to additional scripture and revelation, and I can partake of the blessings of priesthood authority. Yes, Cortnee, we are Christians, and I testify of these truths in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I used to think my best friend, Chase, would do anything. When I dared him to jump off the top step of my porch, not only did he do it, but he even took a running start!
When I dared him to ride the upside-down roller coaster, he didn’t just ride it, but he actually sat in the front seat!
And when I told him there was no way he would say hi to Julia—the prettiest girl in the whole school—not only did he say hi, but he sat and talked to her for five minutes!
I thought Chase would do anything. Until today, that is.
Chase comes over to my house almost every day. We live super close to each other. There is only one house in between ours. But Chase doesn’t come over on Sunday or Monday. On Sundays he goes to church. On Mondays he has some kind of a family night. He invited me a couple of times. We ate brownies and played games. It was pretty fun.
Chase usually comes to my house to play after school. It’s nice to have him around because my mom and dad are still at work. Playing with Chase is fun. We love to make up jokes. Chase is friends with everybody. I never hear him talk bad about other people—even if everybody else does.
Today Chase and I played basketball. It was pretty hot, so I asked Chase if he wanted a drink.
“Sure,” Chase said, as he rolled the ball into the grass and ran to my front porch.
We walked inside and went to the kitchen. As I opened the fridge, the rush of the cool air made the hairs on our arms stand on end. When I first peeked into the fridge, I just saw juice and milk. Then, an open can in the corner caught my eye.
My dad had left a can of beer open. He would never know if we took a couple of sips. I pulled the can out.
“Want to try?” I asked.
“What is it?” Chase asked.
“It’s beer,” I said. “My dad drinks it all the time. He won’t know if we just take a sip.”
Chase looked at me. He raised his eyebrow and put his hands on his hips. Then he said something I never thought I’d hear him say.
“No way!” Chase said.
“Did you just say no?” I asked.
“Beer’s not good for you,” he said. “We shouldn’t drink it. It makes you do dumb things.”
“Not if you just take one little sip,” I said. “Watch, I’ll show you.”
I raised the can to my mouth, took a small sip, and smiled. It tasted gross, but I didn’t want to look uncool.
“See? Do I look any dumber to you?” I asked.
“I think I’m going to go home,” Chase said. “Don’t drink any more of that stuff. It’s not a good idea.”
As I watched Chase walk out the door and run down the sidewalk back to his house, I couldn’t help but wonder why he would do almost anything but not take even a small sip of beer.
I took another small sip after Chase left. “Blech! This stuff really is gross,” I thought as I put the can back in the corner of the fridge.
Maybe Chase was on to something after all.

It started, as such things often do, with an unkind remark. Something faded now, totally forgotten. And yet it turned her father away. Church became too long a drive, too inconvenient. Wouldn’t it be better to spend the time with the family? A cloud settled over Jean-Claude Ferland, something foggy and chilling.
Mother fretted, worried, talked to the branch president. She finally decided it was better to stay home. Marie Claude—always so constant—and Clément—tall, strong Clément, who used to tease the elders so—they stopped bothering with church.
Maybe it was the years in elementary school that made the difference for Christine, all those times of quietly defending what she knew to be true. Somehow, she would stand up this time, too.
She didn’t defy her family. She simply kept going to church. It meant hitching a ride into town with a member on Friday or Saturday night, staying with a family through Sunday. Sometimes she couldn’t get a ride back until Monday morning at 4:00 or 5:00 A.M. And then, if she missed the bus she’d have to pedal her bike for an hour to get to school.
But it also meant that she could keep her family in touch with the Church. In time, she was able to get Clément and Marie Claude to join her for meetings or activities. And mother fasted and prayed, and kept the hope alive that someday father would return to activity.
Christine stopped to catch her breath. She exhaled a cloud of white mist which slowly disappeared. Then she leaned against a green railing thick with chipped enamel. Out on the water, the sailboat maneuvered, tacking against the wind. She found herself wondering about the sailors on the boat. The gliding that seemed so effortless to her—was it work for them, the muscle-straining labor of tugging ropes and trimming sails, of leaning hard on the rudder? Did they find joy in the sailing, in the combat with deep currents and stiff winds? And it made Christine look to the past again, a deep look to a time when struggle seemed worthwhile.
Dinner at the Ferland’s was always a glorious affair—plates heaped with home-grown tomatoes, beans, and pickled beets, with lamb and potatoes browned together until the meat was tender and the vegetables sweet. In the wood-burning oven, an apple pie simmered. The room spoke of families and of love.
It was at such a dinner that father called his wife and children near. Christine noticed a happy mischief in his eyes, a spark of something that for too long had been distant.
“We have to make your mother happy,” he said, looking each teenager firmly in the eye. He let them guess what he was planning to do.
After a minute he said, “Whatever it takes, we’re going to the temple.”
Of course, saying and doing are two different things. But even when he wasn’t attending his meetings, Jean-Claude Ferland had never thought of himself as anything less than a Latter-day Saint. He was still friendly with people from the branch, still in contact with home teachers, still “active” in his heart. So when he decided to be involved, he gave full dedication.
Sunday meetings were not considered optional. Service projects, branch parties, cottage meetings, whatever was asked, the Ferlands would gladly participate. Callings were willingly accepted, instructions from the branch president explicitly heeded. Even tithing, which had been a struggle in the past, was now a privilege. Once, when it was paid twice by mistake, mother and father decided to “let the Lord keep it.”
Time passed quickly. In August 1986, interviews were held and recommends were signed. The dream was coming true.
Christine can see it still, every time she closes her eyes—the Washington D. C. Temple, its white spires bright against the woods. Inside, everything is calm and bright. People smile and share a great peace.
In a sacred room, maman and papa, dressed in white, kneel at the altar. Christine, Clément, and Marie Claude, also in white, kneel beside them. Hands are placed on hands, children and parents sealed. By the power of the priesthood they are given the promises of eternity.
It was a cold day, though the sun was bright and clear. Christine looked upriver now, searching for other ships. But the sailboat was by itself.
“I wonder if sailboats ever feel lonely?” she said to herself. “Do they ever wonder if anyone notices how well they turn, or how they bump when they hit a swell?” Clément might, she thought. Then again, so might father. They were both fascinated by movement.
From the day when father first brought home his truck, Clément was admiringly by his side. There was a wonder to all that chrome and steel, the thrill of thunder roaring under the hood. Clément wanted to climb in the cab, fire up the engine, shift the gears and roll through mile after mile of freedom. Whenever he could, he rode with his father, and he dreamed of the day when he would have his own rig and a route like his father’s to Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania.
Now, however, there was a competing dream. Not a barrier, not even a detour. A different road, but a good one.
“The prophet said it,” Mother would begin the conversation, like a dozen others already held in the kitchen. “All young men should serve a mission. You’re a young man. You should serve a mission.”
“But the openings in the military won’t wait. Or I could take that job working on cars. Or I could drive with Papa …”
“And those are better ways to spend the next two years?”
Clément would review his options, again and again and again. The chances for work were exciting, all that he’d hoped for. But the mission? It was a better thing.
He prayed. He spoke to the branch president, then the district president. He submitted his papers. One by one the obstacles to serving disappeared.
The job with cars would wait. He couldn’t get a license to drive a big rig for at least two years. He had signed a preliminary agreement with the military, but turned it down the same day his call to the Louisiana Baton Rouge Mission arrived in the mail.
Then Christine thought of another day, just last October. It was overcast, gray, cool. The heavy air smelled of rain. Papa and Clément were up early, as usual on a Monday. The big diesel engine was already throbbing, mildly vibrating the entire house.
Clément stuffed the compartment behind the cab with blankets, canned pudding, instant soup, snack food. He ran inside to get some tapes, his earphones, and a tape player.
Then he thought again, and laid them aside. This was his last trip to Mechanicsburg for two years. He and father would be talking all the way there, talking about his mission.
The stairs were steep at the south end of the terrasse, but Christine took them easily. Hours of volleyball practice had conditioned her to run, and her lungs pulled in air that was crisp and pure. She reached a narrower boardwalk, the Promenade des Gouverneurs, which stretches along the cliffs to reach the Plains of Abraham.
The French love to tell of a great struggle here, when the Chevalier de Lévis, battling to reclaim Quebec, lured the British far from the city and beat them. But those assigned to cut off the retreat failed, and the rest of the army, too tired to pursue, let the enemy escape. British reinforcements arrived soon, and what should have been a French victory turned to defeat.
Christine breathed deeply and let the air out slowly. It surprised her when she thought of a scripture: “Look unto me, and endure to the end, and ye shall live” (3 Ne. 15:9).
“Endure,” she said aloud. “Sometimes you just have to endure.” And then she was remembering again.
It was a routine, the same routine Marie Claude had followed every morning for years. Get up early and care for the animals. Feed Daisy, Belle, and Lady, the horses. Feed Fido, the bull in the barn. Feed three pigs, three sheep, two dogs, four ducks, and any other animals calling the farm home at the moment.
From upstairs, Christine heard Marie Claude come in the house and bolt the back door against the wind. She could imagine her hanging her flannel coat on the peg in the kitchen. Then she heard her pull a chair across the floor and put breakfast dishes on the table.
For as long as Christine could remember, Marie Claude got up early to take care of the animals. But today the routine was different—the movements slower, the pauses longer, the sighs heavy and audible.
And Christine knew why. Last night, Marie Claude had finally told her boyfriend good-bye. He was a decent fellow, a nice man. But he didn’t understand. He’d had the missionary discussions, even been to church a time or two. But all this religion, meetings every Sunday, marriage in a temple—for him it just wouldn’t do.
And now Marie Claude, who loved him and had dated him for a couple of years, who had argued with him before, had sent him away. She sat at the breakfast table, numb, almost crying, wrenching solace from the everyday routine.
At the end of the promenade, there’s a gazebo. To get there, Christine had to mount steps again. Quickly she bounded up them, the end of her run in sight. And as she ran, her mind flashed ahead, like a video on fast forward.
Here was Marie Claude again, but this time she was smiling. Dressed in embroidered chiffon, she sat by a cheery window in a friend’s house, holding hands with an amiable young man in a blue sweater.
It was amazing. When they laughed, it was the same laugh. The smile was the same smile. They looked like each other, they talked like each other. They both had kind eyes. You’d think they were brother and sister, not fiances.
Yet there on the table was their wedding announcement, and it really did seem like a dream come true—“C’est avec joie que nous vous annonçons notre mariage qui aura lieu au Temple de Washington, D.C., mercredi le six mai.” (It is with joy that we announce our marriage in the Washington, D.C. Temple on May 6, 1987.)
André and Marie Claude. They met at church, and fell in love quickly. But after years of struggling to feel right about something that was wrong, it was easy for Marie Claude to do something that felt so true.
At the gazebo, Christine stopped.
She thought about the family. She pictured her mother, joking with the visiting teachers, happily discussing her hobby of decorating cakes. She saw Father, smiling broadly, the proudest sacrament meeting usher the Branche de Québec has as ever had. She imagined Clément, Elder Ferland, teaching missionary lessons in broken English. And she pictured Marie Claude, in her own home as a newlywed, so happy she was almost dancing.
Then she thought of spires of white, rising from a green woodland, and she cherished the promises of eternity.
Christine looked across the ancient battlefields. The rolling hills seemed to be resting, calm now as she was calm. In the distance, a calèche, a carriage, bobbed along the folds of green. From so far away, it seemed to be in slow motion. But in the evening air, she could hear the clip-clop, clip-clop of the horse’s hooves.
She turned and looked again at the river. It was shining still, but it was no longer silver. The setting sun had turned it to gold. And the sailboat, still a silhouette, pulled up to its moorings.
Dusk was past. The time for returning was here.

Earlier this year, I had a precious experience that opened my eyes to His simple yet tender mercies. I was having a hard day. I stopped the project I was working on and said a little prayer at my desk. As I ended the prayer, a thought entered my mind: “This is a chocolate kind of day!” Taking this as direct, personal revelation, I stepped away from my office and headed to the Wilkinson Center to buy some chocolate.

It was a beautiful day, and the quad was filled with students sitting on the grass and eating lunch, talking, studying, and enjoying the nice weather. But there was one student who caught my attention. Sitting on the grass, she took a bite of her sandwich while giant tears streamed down her cheeks. I didn’t know the burden she carried, but I felt God’s love for one of His children. I thought, “Yep, this is definitely a chocolate kind of day!”

I walked into the BYU Store and purchased two Dove chocolate bars with the intention of sharing one with the student I had seen crying. I started to walk in the direction where she sat on the grass, but doubt quickly entered my mind: “What if I embarrass her?” and “What am I even going to say?” The Spirit nudged me on, and as I extended my hand to offer her the chocolate, the thought—as clear as someone talking to me—entered my mind: “God sees you!” I shared this message with her.

As I walked away, I saw that she still had a tear running down her cheek, but she had a smile too—and so did I!

So, to the student I saw on the grass and to every one of you, I testify that you are a child of God. He sees you and loves you enough even to send someone for chocolate.

We started the research on Leone Jacobs by reading Leone’s obituary, which included the names of her children, and I immediately felt that I should call Geraldine, Leone’s daughter. The results were extraordinary.

At the outbreak of World War II in Europe, Leone lived in the Palestine-Syrian Mission with her two children and her husband, Joseph, who was mission president. The mission encompassed Palestine, Lebanon, and Syria. She kept two diaries while she lived there and wrote articles about the mission for the Deseret News when she returned.

Geraldine was generous. She let us borrow and scan these priceless documents, so now digital copies are available for visitors to study at the Church History Library. Reading the diaries gave me a more intimate sense for who Leone was and what it felt like to help run the mission, and I tried to bring that to the introduction that I wrote.

When I read Leone’s promises that we can change our lives, “One of the most glorious principles of life is that we can always rise above our present level,” I imagined her in Beirut, helping with a program at her children’s school, teaching a young woman to play the organ, greeting Church members at the mission Christmas party that she planned.

Coming to know Leone through her diaries felt sacred.

This story took place in New Zealand.
Carlan and her family went to a cemetery to learn more about their family history.
Mummy, where do people go when they die?
Well, their bodies stay here, but their spirits go to the spirit world.
What do they do there?
They learn and teach about Jesus.
Will we ever see them again?
Yes, we will! After Jesus died, He lived again. Because of Him, we will live again too. That’s called resurrection.
This is my cousin’s grave.
Will your cousin live again too?
Yes! We will all live again. And our family can be together forever.
Wow! I can’t wait to meet your cousin someday.
Illustrations by Book of Lai

James Edward Talmage was 13 years old when his family emigrated from their native England and settled in Provo, Utah.
Intelligent and thirsty for knowledge, James was a part-time member of the faculty of the Brigham Young Academy in Provo, Utah, by the time he was 17. He went on to study chemistry and geology at Lehigh University in Pennsylvania and at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Maryland. Membership in many prominent scientific societies gave James Talmage access to important people and publications and helped him combat much of the prejudice faced by Latter-day Saints at the time.
In 1888 he married Mary May Booth. They became the parents of eight children. From 1894 to 1897 he was president of the University of Deseret in Salt Lake City (now the University of Utah). During that time he bought one of the popular new chain-driven bicycles and rode it often. One evening he arrived home an hour late for dinner, bruised, bloodied, and dirty. Near his home was a single-plank bridge across a ditch. Normally, he dismounted and crossed on foot. But this time he felt he could ride across. He kept at it, crash after crash, until he mastered the maneuver.
Elder Talmage was an effective lecturer, and some of his talks and lessons became the basis of some of the books for which he is well-known, including The Articles of Faith. Prior to his call to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in 1911, the First Presidency had asked him to write a book on the life and ministry of the Savior. Later, a room was set aside in the Salt Lake Temple where Elder Talmage could concentrate on his writing. His 700-page book, Jesus the Christ, was published in 1915 and has been reprinted several times since then.

A few years ago I visited a family with a teenage son who was looking at a copy of Preach My Gospel. I encouraged him to write in the margins of the book the impressions he felt while reading.
I recently received a letter from this young man who is now serving a mission. He wrote: “I’ve been in the mission field for six months and want to thank you for reminding me to write down my impressions. I’ve just been called to be a trainer, and I have a new missionary companion. When my companion saw my agenda and a small notebook under my pillow, he asked me why it was there. I told him what you taught me: if I would listen, God would speak to me, so I keep it there to write down the personal revelations He gives me.
“The next night at 2:00 a.m. I had an impression come to me, and I wrote it down in my notebook. My companion said, ‘Now I understand.’”

My father was also a great one to serve others. He loved to tinker with clocks. People brought their clocks to him, usually mantel clocks that struck the hour. He’d take the inner works out, clean them up, and put the clocks back together. Then he would just touch the mechanisms with a feather dipped in very, very light oil. He kept the clocks for three or four weeks while he regulated them. Sometimes we had twelve to fifteen of those clocks, and then every midnight sounded like New Year’s Eve!

One day I was in our kitchen and my foot felt funny. I started rubbing it on the wall. After a while I started bouncing it, but I did it too hard and made a hole in the wall. Later that week as I was getting ready for bed, I heard my mom and dad talking about the hole and wondering how it got there. Before I went to bed, I told my mom that I made the hole. I was honest like Jesus is honest. It felt good to choose the right.

There was an architect in that first company, William Weeks, who had designed the Nauvoo Temple. But the hopeless desolation was too much for him. When President Young went east in 1848, Brother Weeks left, saying, “They will never build the temple without me.”

Truman O. Angell, a carpenter, was appointed to replace him. He said: “If the President and my brethren feel to sustain a poor worm of the dust like me to be Architect of the Church, let me … serve them and not disgrace myself. … May the Lord help me so to do.”

As a young boy growing up in Firth, Idaho, population 292 and dropping, I approached my eighth birthday wondering about the boy prophet and the hardships he faced at such a tender age. I knelt on the banks of the Blackfoot canal and prayed about the first vision and to my surprise no startling revelation occurred. Our church was a very old red brick building with no air conditioning but large cottonwood trees in back for shade. The kitchen was our Sunday School classroom and because of limited space the boys sat on the kitchen counter with the girls in front on a row of chairs. On a spring Sunday I sat squirming behind Janette Lyons and probably after pulling her pigtail I was struck by a clear and powerful feeling. I recognized this feeling as an answer to my former prayer. In essence, I knew from that time forth that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God and he had knelt in a sacred and holy place.

I was baptized on 17 November 1996 in Samara, Russia. Immediately after my baptism, I was filled with the desire to serve a full-time mission and bring souls to Jesus Christ. Eagerly I waited for a year to pass so I could talk to my branch president about a mission.
When the time came, I had the necessary interviews and filled out the missionary recommendation forms. Then I realized I had a problem. Although I had lived in Russia for two years, I was a citizen of Armenia. I had not yet served in the Armenian army, which I was obligated to do.
I began fasting and praying that God would open a way for me to serve a mission. In March 1998 I was drafted into the army and had to return to Armenia. I trusted in God, knowing that He loved me and wanted me to be obedient.
While I was in the Armenian army, I kept the covenants I had made and lived the Word of Wisdom. I often bore my testimony to the other soldiers, and I prayed throughout the day. I fasted and asked Heavenly Father to protect me. And I also asked that I might be able to serve a full-time mission as soon as possible.
After two and a half months in the army, I became ill and was admitted to the hospital. When the doctors examined me, I was surprised to learn I had a heart disease—an illness they believed I had had since childhood. It was now affecting my lungs, liver, and spleen. My body swelled, and I looked as if I had gained considerable weight.
The diagnosis meant I might be released from the army, but the reality of a serious illness scared me. All I could do was trust God to help me.
After I had been in the hospital for a month, an Armenian member of the Church, Brother Ararat, unexpectedly visited me there. He and two missionaries gave me a priesthood blessing.
Three weeks later I was released from the army. Before long I was feeling strong enough to serve a mission.
Now I needed my military release papers. I fasted and prayed. When I rose from my knees, I had my answer. I would rely on the Lord.
Days passed. Whenever I would inquire about my military papers, the officials would say, “Don’t expect them this year. It is not possible.” Still I trusted in the Lord and waited. Finally on 15 December I received word: “Come in and get your papers; they are ready.”
My next problem was getting a passport. The end of the year is a difficult time to secure one, and I was told I could not expect a passport until June. Again I prayed. And again I felt inspired to be patient and rely on the Lord.
And so I trusted, believed, and waited—but not for too long. On 5 January 1999, I received my passport, and on 7 January, my visa. I could begin my missionary service.
All I needed to do now was complete my interviews, finish some paperwork, and receive the required medical examination. Although I felt well, I feared that my heart disease might prevent me from serving. The doctor who examined me knew my medical history and ordered a test of my heart. When he looked at the results, he blurted out in surprise, “You are completely healthy! There is no sign of heart disease. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”
I smiled and said, “I believe in God. I received a blessing from bearers of His priesthood and was healed.”
Soon I was called to serve in the Russia Moscow South Mission. I know God lives. I know He performs miracles now just as He did anciently. And I know He blesses us when we exercise faith in Him.

Growing up, I loved watching how Grandmother’s hens would gather their chickens under their wings during storms to keep them safe and protected. This image became more important to me after reading about it in the Book of Mormon (see 3 Nephi 10:4–6). As a young adult, my bishop and his wife, who traveled a lot for their business, told me that they shared a Book of Mormon with someone on every trip they took.
That inspired me. I admired them, and their examples touched my heart. I decided that if I ever got the chance to travel outside of Utah, USA, I would follow their example and share a Book of Mormon each time.
As a cheerleader for Brigham Young University, I traveled frequently with the cheerleading team. Before my first trip, I bought a Book of Mormon and wrote my testimony in it. I wanted to develop the courage to share what I valued most with others: my testimony and the Book of Mormon. I wanted to be like my bishop and his wife. I wanted to be like Jesus Christ. I wanted to help gather others and help them to come unto Him.
I quickly learned that if I prayed before each trip to be led to the one who needed it, a person would show up at the right time and the right place for me to make sharing the Book of Mormon natural and easy. The more I practiced, the easier my sharing became. My journeys became more meaningful for me. I was always thrilled to find Heavenly Father’s blessed recipient of this sacred testament of Christ.
When I traveled, I pondered, “Where should I go to find the one whom Heavenly Father is sending me to this time? What can I say to him or her to convey how precious the Book of Mormon is to me?” My thoughts and actions became focused outside of my own needs and entertainment, and I felt increased love for everyone I met. I tried to look at them through the Savior’s eyes. I prayed for them to accept the divine gift that Heavenly Father had sent me to offer them.
I was sad when my senior year came to an end. Being a cheerleader for BYU was a lifelong dream for me. I would have enjoyed the incredible experience to cheer no matter what, but the opportunity to share a copy of the Book of Mormon on each cheerleading trip enriched my life in beautiful, unexpected ways.
Sharing the Book of Mormon was a valuable and easy way to add an extra layer of meaning to my university experience. I know that the people with whom I shared the Book of Mormon were specifically guided to receive it. I also know that into the incredible tapestry of my life, Heavenly Father wove a loving and sweet tender mercy: He allowed me to feel His love for His children in a special way every trip I took.
After I graduated, I decided to always continue looking for someone with whom I can share my testimony. Over time, I developed greater ability and comfort with sharing my testimony. I learned to no longer fear sharing it. I believe everyone can become more comfortable sharing their testimony with practice and by asking for divine help.
Choosing to follow the examples of my good bishop and his wife made my life more meaningful in many ways. It taught me to see that the Lord is aware of every single one of His children. He loves us and is eager to gather us all under His wing. What a blessing to understand the beautiful imagery that He uses when He describes His gathering. He gathers us as a hen gathers and tenderly protects her chickens.