Gospel Story Finder

A young boy and his parents are on the Brooklyn with other Latter-day Saints going to California in 1846. A storm so terrible that the captain of the ship told them to prepare to die was followed by being stuck under a blazing sun in the Doldrums. Finally a wind came up and blew the Brooklyn around Cape Horn—but it wouldn’t let them land in Chile! So they sailed 360 miles away from South America to an island where they got—for free—all the supplies needed to finish their voyage. Papa said that it was one of the times that God worked in a mysterious way to bless them.

—During nine months of pre-encampment training, the troop from the Greensboro North Carolina Stake always encouraged sportsmanship during patrol competition. One patrol consistently came in last but was awarded a fourth-place trophy just the same. “We told the other patrols they had just beat the best patrol in the camp,” explained Scott Oakley, 16, of Caswell Ward. “And when we got to the encampment, that patrol placed first in two events over the entire encampment!”

Where is this home I am referring to? Let’s say that as I came here today, I saw one of you that I recognized as a former student and said, “Julie, how are you?”

And Julie replied, “I feel wonderful today. I just bought my ticket to fly home for Christ-mas.” I would not experience any confusion about where Julie is going, no ambiguity about her sense of joy in knowing she would be with her family; and, because I knew that she came from a place halfway around the world, I would also know what the costs were for her to travel home—how she had worked and saved and denied herself many luxuries and maybe some necessities. Today, in a different sense, Julie could also say, “I feel wonderful. I’m on my way home.” So where is this home that is our ultimate journey?

This life is the time to work and to save and to prepare and, yes, deny ourselves some things, many things that we may at the time even consider a sacrifice. The gospel principles help give us a vision of that home, tell us what to do, how to save, where to buy the ticket, and the price we must pay. A current temple recommend is symbolic of that ticket. I urge you to remember the essential nature of the journey we are each on and the home that our journey leads us to. I testify that if we are devotedly intent on “being home for Christmas,” we will be guided in every major decision we have to make throughout our lives, and we will enjoy the journey.

In the Fall in 1986 I was a first-year student at a private liberal arts college in the Boston area. Every Sunday I took a University shuttle bus to Cambridge where I went to Church at the single student ward. After only a few weeks at school it was the beginning of October and time for General Conference. At that point not all meetinghouses had satellite receivers and we were told that General Conference would be broadcast at the Stake Center in Weston, Massachusetts. I was not from this area and didn’t know the geography well, but someone told me that it was near my campus. I remember going to a payphone in the dorm and looking up the Weston Chapel in the phone book, I didn’t have a phone in my room and no one had a cell phone back then, and I made a call to the Stake Center to get directions.

That Sunday morning I remember walking those four miles or so along the road to the Stake Center, admiring the beautiful changing colors of the New England Fall and enjoying the very pleasant weather. It might have even been what is called an Indian Summer, unseasonably mild weather in Fall. I don’t remember it being cold at all, but just having a wonderful peaceful feeling all the way through that walk. After I arrived I remember sitting close to the front of the chapel, surrounded by strangers and watching the Conference broadcast on the screen.

When I look back now, I am amazed that I was even there, that I had the faith to make that call and take that walk. When you’re out on your own it can be easy to take a Sunday off when no one is looking for you or expecting you. Likewise, being in an elite academic environment can potentially diminish interest in a life of faith and things of the Spirit. I have to give credit to my parents for raising me in a home in which attending Church and General Conference was something not only expected, but desirable. I also give credit for faithful youth leaders and Seminary teachers who had inspired me to read the scriptures daily, building my own faith in the importance hearing the voice of God’s servants.

I don’t remember all the talks that were given that Autumn Sunday, but there was one statement that was planted in my heart that day that has continued to grow and bear fruit until this day. Elder A. Theodore Tuttle of the Seventy spoke on “Developing Faith.” In that talk he also referred to his home that had nurtured faith in him. “I am a product of a household of faith. I learned faith in my home. I was taught it. It was drilled into me. I need that faith now as much as I ever did. I think we all do.”1

Then he said these words that brought about a dramatic shift in my way of thinking. He said “We’re not going to survive in this world, temporally or spiritually, without increased faith in the Lord—and I don’t mean a positive mental attitude—I mean downright solid faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. That is the one thing that gives vitality and power to otherwise rather weak individuals.” I had grown up in an era where it was not uncommon to have many lessons and Sacrament meeting talks that focused on believing in yourself, setting goals, and having a positive mental attitude. In contrast, Elder Tuttle’s witness that only faith in the Lord Jesus Christ would be enough to save us sank deep into my heart. In academic circles we talk about having a paradigm shift or shifting to a new mental model. In scriptural terms I can say I was beginning to repent in the sense of the Greek word metanoeo, to take on a new way of thinking and feeling. I was starting to get a glimpse of the reality that only the Redemption of Christ has to power to save me. I was starting to know that Christ was the Being in whom I needed to put my faith and my confidence in order to get the help I needed to live life successfully.

A hurricane had hit the West Indies, and a bricklayer was sent to repair the damage. He wrote to the home office as follows, and I hope you can get this delightful picture:
Respected Sirs:
When I got to the building I found that the hurricane had knocked some bricks off the top. So I rigged up a beam with a pulley at the top of the building and hoisted up a couple of barrels full of bricks. When I had fixed the building, there was a lot of bricks left over. I hoisted the barrel back up again and secured the line at the bottom, and then went up and filled the barrel with the extra bricks. Then I went to the bottom and cast off the line. Unfortunately the barrel of bricks was heavier than I was, and before I knew what was happening the barrel started down, jerking me off the ground. I decided to hang on, and halfway up I met the barrel coming down and received a severe blow on the shoulder. I then continued to the top, banging my head against the beam and getting my finger jammed in the pulley. When the barrel hit the ground it bursted its bottom, allowing all the bricks to spill out. I was now heavier than the barrel and so started down again at high speed. Halfway down, I met the barrel coming up and received severe injuries to my shins. When I hit the ground I landed on the bricks, getting several painful cuts from the sharp edges. At this point I must have lost my presence of mind because I let go of the line. The barrel then came down, giving me another heavy blow on the head and putting me in the hospital. I respectfully request sick leave.
Life is like that—ups and downs, a bump on the head, and a crack on the shins.

I would now like to share with you an exciting adventure story of great personal interest to me that was brought to my attention a few years ago. I want to relate it to the theme of my talk today. I was shown an article in a Shropshire magazine (published in England) written by a man who found an old trunk in the attic of a house in the town of Shrewsbury. In the trunk was a handwritten manuscript. The manuscript represented part of the diary of an old clock-mender (Mr. James Hanny) who had lived near the England/ Wales border and whose hobby was to walk the hills of Wales. This manuscript related how in 1874 this elderly man, then age 73, had visited an old friend of his who had a farm in Wales. The story went on to say how his friend’s daughter (aged 18) agreed to take him to see the waterfalls near a small village called Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant. Apparently Mr. Hanny had sustained an ambition to visit the falls (called locally Pistill Rhaeadr) for approximately forty years. Now this area is close to where I was brought up, and I have some knowledge of the country and the terrain. The distance they walked would have been approximately eighteen miles round-trip over some quite rugged hills. Here I quote from the manuscript:

My host, Mr. Humphreys, was the very embodiment of Welsh hospitality, nothing was too much for him and his household to make my stay as comfortable as possible; his charming daughter Rosamond was a most beautiful and talented young lady, and she and I became great friends. She had a deep love for Wales in her heart, which became obvious as she described her lonely walks among the wild and legendary hills, amid the wind-swept heather. . . . Rosamond was very keen to be my guide to the falls, and she promised me a wonderful walk back over the mountains; a walk, she said, I would always remember. They were, indeed, prophetic words.

As you can see, the old clock-mender had quite a graphic turn of phrase! Now, back to the narrative:

On the following day, after an early lunch, we started out. It was a long but interesting walk, and at last we arrived at the beautiful falls. I stood there for some time assimilating a sight that had been denied me for so many years. My companion stood by my side, a smile on her lovely face. She understood and appreciated this happy moment of mine. . . .

Amid the soothing influence of the tumbling waters, we ate the refreshments that Rosamond had thoughtfully brought, until she said that we had stayed longer than we should, and our walk back over the mountains must not be delayed any longer.

They started their return journey, but the day had been too strenuous for the seventy-three-year-old man. Again I quote:

I had completely underestimated my supply of strength for the arduous task ahead. My companion, bursting with the vitality of the young, and with a supply of seemingly inexhaustible energy, was well equipped for the journey, and like myself, had no conception of my limitations. The young do not understand the meaning of weakness in the old; they have never experienced it themselves and cannot conceive it in others.

His story then relates in some detail the path they took, the magnificent scenery, and the frequent stops for rest. Quoting again:

My companion called to say we must hurry on. I must admit I had been glad of the rest. Again we started off, Rose leading the way. My legs were now beginning to ache and I could feel a tightness in my chest. Once, seeing I was having difficulty in catching up with her, she ran back to me.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” I lied as cheerfully as I could. “But a little rest would do me good.”

A slight troubled frown appeared on her face for a fleeting moment. She smiled. “Of course,” she said, “But . . .” She looked up anxiously at the sky where a few black-looking clouds were looming up. “We still have a long way to go. We must not stay long.”

Once again we started off, and the going became even more rough and arduous. If I had been a young man, supple of limb and muscle, I would have enjoyed the climb to the full, but the acute pain in my legs betokened the opposite. . . . The darkness deepened rapidly, and all around took on a hue of deep purple. The heavens appeared to be closing down on us. Black clouds began to obliterate the remaining light, until it was difficult to see the ground beneath our feet. . . . In a short time we were soaked to the skin. We dare not stop long; we could never hope to survive a night exposed as we were to the elements. We were already soaked to saturation point. With the helping hand of my companion we practically felt our way in the darkness. After what seemed an interminable time, Rose suddenly stopped, and pulled me back a pace or so. In the gloom I peered closely into her rain-streaked face.

“Is there anything wrong?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” Rose replied, hesitatingly. “But I have a strange feeling we are on the wrong track. Stay here a moment.”

Carefully she lay on the ground, and as I looked on wonderingly, she crawled forward very slowly. Presently I heard her give a little cry, and following her example, I too, crawled forward until I reached her side. She put out a restraining hand to stop me venturing further. Picking up a stone she gently threw it forward. There was silence for a few moments, and then I heard the stone falling on rocks far below. I could hear it bounding from crag to crag getting fainter and fainter. We were on the edge of a dangerous cliff! We crawled back to comparative safety; I was now shivering as much with shock as with the cold. I found my companion’s hand and pressed it with a gesture of despair. Words failed me. Only one thought ran through my fevered mind. Lost! Lost on a mountain with the night in front of us. Soaked with rain; cold, and already weary to the point of complete exhaustion. What hope was there for us?

Rose’s voice broke through my bitter thoughts, and with it, renewed hope. “I think I know where we are,” she said. “In the darkness we have strayed from the right road. We must go back to find our bearings.”

She led me like a child, and amidst the howling of the wind we carefully retreated from that awful abyss. From that moment I seemed to have lost all sense of direction and time. Numbed with the cold, all my actions were those of an automaton. But for the supporting hand of Rose, I would gladly have been content to lay my weary body on the rocky ground. But somehow that frail figure kept me going. Somehow she managed to support me and we stumbled through the darkness of the night. For what seemed an eternity our passage continued until I fancied I could see little sparks of light that danced in front of my eyes like so many fireflies. My befuddled mind could not comprehend that safety was near at hand. Above the wind I heard Rosamond’s voice. “Here,” she cried. “We are here. We are coming.” The little spots of light came nearer and nearer, and it was with intense relief that at last I realized they were the lights of lanterns. For the rest of the journey we were half-carried to the blessed haven of Brynteg—the home of my friend.

The article then went on to say that as well as the manuscript, there was found in the old trunk a newspaper cutting describing the wedding at a town called Llanfyllin (in 1883), nine years later, of Rosamond Humphreys, youngest daughter of Mr. Humphreys (Brynteg) to Lewis Owen.

Rosamond Humphreys was my grandmother, whom I never met. She died before I was born, and I suspect my mother never heard about this particular exploit in the hills of Wales, because neither my brother nor I was told anything at all about it!

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.

During the next seven years, I would marry my husband, here with me today, and we would have two more children together. This would now give us six children, and we had been praying on a regular basis for the blessing to have our first four sealed into our family. This seemed like a blessing that would never happen, but the Lord works in mysterious ways and works other people's bad choices for the good of others. My ex had committed a felony, and his probation officer had contacted me to state some stipulations that I would like put on his probation decree. I requested that he pay his child support and medical obligations that were to the amount of about $6,000, or give up his rights as their father. It came as a great blessing to our family that he chose to give up his rights, and our family was sealed on February 18, 1995.

That was a great blessing that turned out to be even more amazing than we would have any idea, for later that year, on September 12, at about 4:05 in the afternoon, the Lord would call our oldest son home.

This is a picture of Tyler with his buddies the day before he was taken home. He was seven years old when this happened. Remember I had said that we were sealed as a family on February 18, 1995. That just happened to be his birthday. He was so excited that we were finally being sealed, and to have it happen on his birthday was an amazing, tender mercy from the Lord.

He was on his way to join his siblings over at the elementary school we lived across the street from. The kids had gone over there many times to play after school on the playground equipment they had there. The neighbor boy was driving back to his house with a propane container his dad had sent him to the store to fill. They had eye contact with each other, and so the boy thought he was safe to continue on his way when my son bolted across the road. I had been resting on the couch when I heard the noise and went to the door to see what had happened.

I stepped out on the porch to see the neighbor boy running my direction down the road. My first thought was he had just wrecked his dad's pickup into the telephone pole, but soon realized he was running to our house. He cried out, "I just hit your son. Call an ambulance." At that very moment, I knew what it was like to have the Holy Ghost with me. He immediately strengthened me in a way I knew was not my own. I had complete clarity of thought and made the call to 911 to get the ambulance on its way. Then I called my husband at work to get him on his way home. I proceeded out the door to where a crowd had now gathered around my son.

The principal of the school was there and asked me if I would like for him to give our son a priesthood blessing. I just remember feeling so relieved that he would offer, and quickly agreed. The words that were pronounced upon Tyler, I know for me, made the outcome something I could accept. He said he would live until proper medical help arrived; at that time, the Lord would decide whether he was to live or die. In that moment, there was absolutely no doubt in my mind the Lord was in control. I needed this peace in my life, especially now, because I was seven months pregnant with our seventh child.

I had found the boy that had hit him, and all I wanted to do at that moment was to help him. I knew in that moment the pain and fear he must be going through was one test I would never want to experience. I held him and told him I did not blame him. Somehow the Holy Ghost worked a miracle in us that day, and my heart, through the Spirit, was filled with forgiveness and compassion for him.

I returned to Tyler, and as I knelt beside him, I knew that he was gone. It was at that moment I came to realize what we feel when we are around others is their spirit, for at that moment, my father, whom I was very close to but who had died a few years prior, was behind me. I felt his presence so strong there was no doubt in my mind he had come to take Tyler home.

For me, this loss was full of many tender mercies and spiritual experiences. Some are too sacred to share, but I will tell you this: I came to know the Comforter personally, and I know there is life after death and that our Heavenly Father is in all the workings of our lives.

The young boy that hit him went on to serve a mission and, while out in the mission field, wrote a story about this experience. It was published in the March 2000 issue of the New Era. The talk is titled "Can I Be Forgiven?" He and his family are dear friends of ours to this day, and I know that, for me, this part of my testimony has been deeply rooted, for it would need to be, because in February of 2009, our second son was called home.

As a young girl, Elaine Schwartz Dalton found great joy in dancing. But as a young mother with six children, she found that dancing seemed impractical, so she started running as a way to enjoy movement each day. At first she would run 10 steps and then walk 10 steps until she could run a mile. Since that modest start, she has run 18 marathons.
“Running gives me a time to be still in my mind and contemplate life,” says Sister Dalton. It’s one hour when she can think about the scriptures she has just read.

The wagon lumbered along at a steady pace. Just two days before, the members of the Clawson family had left their comfortable home in Greenwood, New York. They were headed to Kirtland, Ohio, and then on to Missouri to be with the Saints who had gathered there. Twelve-year-old Ebenezer was driving the team of oxen at the front of the wagon, enjoying the lovely spring day. On such a day, it was more a privilege than a chore to be driving the wagon, his parents and six brothers and sisters walking alongside.
Ebenezer reflected on the events that led up to his family’s journey. His family had joined with the Latter-day Saints a year ago. Since then, they had experienced many troubles. Finally they had sold their home and land and bought supplies for the westward trek. It seemed as if all their problems were behind them now—they were going to Zion!
After traveling a considerable distance, the Clawson family arrived at the Genesee River.
“Eben, pull up here so that we can load the wagon onto the ferry,” Brother Moses Clawson directed his son.
“Yes, sir!” Ebenezer obediently eased the team toward the muddy bank of the river. The river was swollen with cold, brown water from the spring rains, and debris from recent flooding littered the whole area.
The oxen slogged through the mud steadily. All of a sudden, one of the oxen lost its footing and fearfully struggled to regain it. This startled the other ox, causing pandemonium. With the team confused and stumbling, the wagon started to slip. It turned sharply, throwing Ebenezer from the wagon. The oxen kept moving and bellowing, and with no one there to stop them, they pulled the heavy wagon over the boy’s head and body.
Sister Clawson handed the baby to fourteen-year-old Eunice and hurried to the side of her injured son.
“Whoa there! Whoa!” Brother Clawson rushed to gain control of the team and lead them to safety away from the river and away from Ebenezer. Accidents such as this were far too common, and they were almost always fatal.
Sister Clawson cleaned Ebenezer’s head wound and carefully bound it up. She offered a quick prayer, pleading for her son’s life. “Oh, Father, if thou wilt only spare my son …”
Soon Ebenezer regained consciousness. “Oh, my back!” he moaned.
“Quiet, my son. Your father is going to take you to find help.”
Brother Clawson carefully took Ebenezer in his arms and headed downriver. A half mile away, he found lodging for them in a hotel. “Please, sir, could you find us a doctor? My son is hurt very badly. He will surely die if nothing is done for him.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the hotel clerk replied.
While the clerk searched for the doctor, news spread that a “Mormon” boy lay near death at the hotel. People crowded in, as curious to see Mormons as they were to see Ebenezer.
After a time, the clerk returned. His face was grim. “I cannot locate the doctor,” he said. “Some say that he has gone to get new supplies in the next town and that he won’t be back until sundown.”
Brother Clawson knew Ebenezer didn’t have that much time.
People crowded around, murmuring and offering suggestions. “I say someone should bleed him,” an old man in the room shouted. “He’ll die for sure,” a woman whispered loudly to her neighbor. “I’ve seen enough wagon accidents like this, to be certain.”
Suddenly four well-dressed men entered the room.
“Brother Clawson, I am Elder Rufus Fischer. This is my companion Elder Moon, and these are two of our associates.”
Missionaries!
“We would like to administer to this boy and give him a blessing.”
“Certainly!” Brother Clawson let the elders take charge.
“Any of you who wishes may stay as we administer to this child,” said Elder Moon.
A few people left, but many curious onlookers stayed. Elder Fisher closed the door.
The missionaries anointed Ebenezer’s head with oil and laid their hands on his head. “Ebenezer Clawson, by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood which we bear, we anoint your head with oil that has been consecrated and set apart for the healing of the sick in the household of faith …”
After the blessing was finished, Elder Fisher said, “Brother Clawson, your son should be ready to travel in a few hours.” Then the missionaries left as quickly as they had come.
Ebenezer slept soundly for several hours, then awoke, his strength having returned. “Father, let us go on,” he said.
Brother Clawson and Ebenezer went back upriver to where the family was waiting. They all crossed the river without further trouble and traveled six more miles. Ebenezer drove the team part of the way. His head healed without ever swelling, and the only visible reminder of his ordeal was a scar.
Ebenezer’s faith in Jesus Christ, and that of his family and the missionaries who administered to him, brought forth a miracle that day. The Clawson family had obeyed Heavenly Father by traveling to Zion to be with the Saints, and He blessed them for their faithfulness.

My husband, Yves, was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1989. I was an atheist and had no understanding of the gospel. And even when I heard all the discussions with my husband, the teachings of the missionaries didn’t touch me in the least.
I soon realized that my husband was serious about the gospel. He had quit smoking and drinking alcohol; I waited to see how long it would last. Several years earlier he had tried to quit smoking, but he made it only three months before he started again.
After Yves’s baptism the missionaries came to our home every week to try to teach me the gospel and to read the Book of Mormon with me. But they didn’t have much success.
Then one day I was reading the Book of Mormon by myself. I was smoking at the same time. Because I wasn’t able to concentrate, I put my cigarette down and gathered my thoughts. I began reading again, and this time I was able to understand what I was reading. Not only did I understand, but I wanted to know more.
That night I had a strange but marvelous dream. I believe the Savior was inviting me to join His Church. When I woke up I had a smile on my face and I felt very good.
The months passed, and my husband continued to live the Word of Wisdom. I told myself he must have a good reason to do so, but I didn’t make any changes in my own life.
At the beginning of 1990 I became close to two sister missionaries. They fasted and prayed that I too would be able to quit smoking. It was extremely difficult for me because I had smoked for 22 years and smoked about 40 cigarettes a day. Finally I told them that when I finished the pack, I would quit and would be baptized.
I quit smoking on 1 April 1990, and I was baptized a week later. I am very happy to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I am grateful to my husband who changed his habits for good and showed me the way.

I couldn’t help looking back. My feet were moving one way and my heart the other. Through my tears I could see Mama still standing on the porch. She was getting smaller with each step I took.
So many times I had asked her, “Must I be the one to go, Mama? I am only eleven years old. Are you sure I can do it all by myself?” And each time she reassured me. Yes, I was the one to go. And yes, this was Heavenly Father’s way for me to reach Zion. With Mama praying for me, I knew I shouldn’t doubt.
Mama wanted awfully bad to go west with the Saints. She had no money for such a great undertaking, but she was a woman of faith and knew that her prayers would be answered.
Then Mama found a way for me to go. An elderly blind lady needed a companion to help her walk across the many, many miles of hazardous terrain to the mountains of Utah. So that is how I came to leave my mother and my family and cross the plains without them.
When I left, tears were streaming down my face. With all the courage I could muster, I clasped hands with the blind lady and walked away.
My blurry eyes became her eyes. I guided her with my sight; she guided me with the wisdom of her years. Together we walked every step of the way through the dust and the dirt of the crude trails. After many long, tiring days, and weeks, and months, we made it!

When I started my first job following Graduate School, I was hired as a caseworker at the Youth Services Center in St. Anthony, Idaho, which served as the State institution for incarcerated delinquents. I was assigned to work at the cottage which housed the older youth on the campus. When introducing me to the inmates, the psychologist pronounced, “This is Mr. Miyasaki. He has a black belt in karate, so no one mess with him.” I didn’t quite know how to respond, so I didn’t and the legend began. By the way, the only black belt I had was used to hold my pants up. However, rumors flew, and I quite enjoyed the instant respect and fear. Then one night I was called to come in as there was a fight in the dorm. We decided that we needed to place one of the boys in lock-up until the situation cooled down. As I escorting this young man to the lock up room, we first entered a small locked cubicle that was a safety area between the hallway and the lock up room, with just barely enough room to have two people standing together. In these crowded quarters this young man challenged, “Okay, Mr. Miyasaki, let’s see what you got. It’s just you and me.”

A quick twinge of fear of exposing my lack of martial arts skill arose, but I quickly countered with, “Oh, you don’t want to do that because I going to plant this right foot into your left jaw.” He then replied, let me in lock up, I was just kidding. What he didn’t know was if he would of said go for it, I would asked him to kneel down. In contrast with my dependence upon a faulty image, again, the Savior has shown the perfect example of being steadfast and immovable in those situations that were most trying, For in his life despite the world judging him to be a thing of naught; “…wherefore they scourge him, and he suffereth it; and they smite him, and he suffereth it. Yea, they spit upon him, and he suffereth it, because of his loving kindness and his long-suffering towards the children of men.”[19] The Savior never faltered or relied upon worldly measures of power and strength in the end of his mortal existence, for He knew who He was and was steadfast and immovable, as His will had moved to be swallowed in the will of His Father’s. So it is the task of each of us to move to that same state.

Appreciating my ward sisters. For the first two years after my divorce, I was surrounded by supportive and loving friends in the Relief Society presidency. They cried with me, they laughed with me, and I felt close to them. Through my calling I became aware of some of the needs of my ward sisters, and giving service to them helped me keep my perspective and find healing within my own heart.
Other blessings came. My friends in the presidency, worried about my first Valentine’s Day without my husband, sent a beautifully wrapped gift, which was waiting for me when I arrived home from work. Another time they made me “queen for a day.” I was asked to attend an early-morning meeting. When I arrived, a sister was waiting to do my nails. A couple of friends came to do my hair. Then I was told we were going to lunch and out shopping. They purchased a new outfit for me, the first I’d had since the divorce. My heart overflowed, and I felt the Savior’s love through the actions of these sisters.

Mom and Callie were making cookies.
Callie squirted green icing onto the cookies.
SQUIRT!
Callie picked up three pink candies. She dropped them on top of the frosting.
PLOP! PLOP! PLOP!
Callie and Mom decorated all the cookies.
“It looks like a flower garden,” Callie said.
Callie helped Mom wrap the cookies. They wanted to give the cookies to Sister Jones. Sister Jones was sick.
Mom and Callie drove to Sister Jones’s house.
Callie rang the doorbell.
DING-DONG!
Sister Jones opened the door.
“We brought you a yummy flower garden,” Callie said.
Sister Jones was happy. Callie was happy too.

By the autumn of 1838, the spirit of his missionary calling began to press so heavily on his mind that he longed to engage again in its labors, though he had been ill through much of the summer. His strength was depleted, but he felt that if he would make the effort to embark in the Lord’s service, God would supply the needed strength. Therefore, when the call came, he set out to share the gospel, contrary to the advice and wishes of his parents. At first he could walk only a short distance before he was forced to sit down and rest. But gradually his strength returned, and he was completely restored to health.

Tomorrow marks the 37th anniversary of my convert baptism and confirmation in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Although I had been in contact with members of the Lord's church as I grew up in Mesa, Arizona, I had no particular interest in religion. But a simple[5] invitation from a courageous young woman changed all of that. I remember very well Colette Christensen[6] asking me what I was doing while I was standing outside waiting for the lunch bell to ring. After I told her I was waiting to eat a second lunch, she simply said, "Why don't you come to seminary with me?" To be honest, she was cute and so were the other young ladies I saw going to seminary, so I said okay. The next day, she invited me to go again, and I went. I went almost every day that year because she or someone else invited me to go. Sometime during the very first week of seminary, the teacher showed the movie, The First Vision.[7] This was the first time that I had ever seen this movie, and I was riveted. As I watched the portrayal of the Prophet Joseph's experience, the Holy Ghost bore witness to me that it was true; that God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ appeared to Joseph Smith to usher in the restoration of the Gospel of Jesus Christ in its fullness. And I testify to you that it is still true today!
Despite the fact that I knew the First Vision was true, it took me a while to join the church. I received a lot of pressure from others not to join; and I also did not think that I could live up to those covenants that we make in the waters of baptism. I didn't think that I could change. I didn't think that I could put off the natural man.

Serving a mission can be a financial burden to any missionary and his family, but what do you do when you have three sons all wanting to leave at the same time? The Rozsa family has foreseen this, and the boys have been working since the age of 13 toward their missions. In addition to those icy Boston paper routes, they’ve sold avocados, worked in construction, and held other odd jobs. Last summer all three worked at the same taco stand at the same time, guaranteeing considerable confusion among unsuspecting customers. They report their bank accounts are in good shape for the missions to come.

Sixteen-year-old Dieke Mphuti of Welkom, South Africa, lost her parents years ago, leaving her to care for three younger siblings on her own. It was always daunting for her to find enough food, but COVID supply shortages and quarantines made it almost impossible. They were often hungry, scraping by only with the generosity of neighbors.

On a sunny day in August 2020, Dieke was surprised by a knock at her door. She opened it to find two strangers—one a Church representative from the area office in Johannesburg and the other an official from South Africa’s Department of Social Development.

The two organizations had teamed up to bring food to at-risk households. Relief washed over Dieke as she glimpsed the pile of cornmeal and other food staples, purchased with Church humanitarian funds. These would help her to sustain her family for several weeks until a government aid package could begin to take effect for her.

Dieke’s story is one of thousands of such experiences taking place across the world during the COVID pandemic thanks to your consecrated contributions.

I was sitting in my advanced neuroscience class during my last semester of undergraduate work at Brigham Young University. One of my favorite things about BYU was that most of my classes began with a prayer. This morning, it was Josh’s turn to pray (name has been changed).
I had met Josh in a biology class the previous year. He had a quiet confidence that set him apart from the other premedical students, and he was someone I looked up to. He seemed to get good grades effortlessly. While the rest of us scrambled for scientific research experience to pad our graduate school applications, he had chosen to study with a renowned religious scholar instead.
In contrast, my own college experience had been frustrating. I didn’t do poorly, but I was never the top student in any of my classes. Despite the time I spent doing homework and working with professors, I never felt that I was performing as well as I could have. What was Josh’s secret? What was he doing that I wasn’t? That morning, his simple prayer held the answer.
He began by reverently addressing Heavenly Father. He respectfully thanked Him for the opportunity to be at school that morning and to learn from our accomplished professor. He thanked God for blessing us with good minds. Then he asked Him to help us remember that our talents and gifts were not ours alone but to be used in His service. He humbly concluded by asking that we be blessed with the Spirit that morning so that we could internalize what we were taught and ultimately use that knowledge to perform well on our tests, provide for our families, and serve our fellowmen.
I was touched and edified by Josh’s prayer. His attitude toward learning was quite different from mine. While I had felt I was entitled to a college education, Josh seemed truly grateful for the opportunity to learn. My goal was to get into medical school and make a good income as a doctor, but Josh was praying that what he learned would make him a better servant.
I believe our Heavenly Father blesses those who will, in turn, bless His children. When we have service as a goal, I believe that God will aid us in our righteous endeavors. As a result of Josh’s class prayer, I resolved to be more grateful for my blessings and opportunities and to approach my education with the goal of serving others better.