Gospel Story Finder

One way in particular that Mallory and Macie had to rely on the Lord was in recommending their counselors and others for callings in Relief Society. It was a rather daunting task at first, considering they were as new to the ward as they were to the calling and thus hardly knew anyone. Each of them prayed and then went door-to-door trying to get to know the girls in her Relief Society. Mallory says, “I asked the Lord to help me seek those who would be able to grow in the callings and also be able to help the other girls grow.” After that it was a matter of being in tune with the Spirit to know who felt right for the position. She was grateful to be able to counsel with her bishop, who holds the keys to approve callings in the ward.
Through her prayers, Macie has been able to touch the life of at least one girl through inspiration. “One of the girls I had recommended for a calling came up to me and was in tears. She told me that she had been praying for something and felt like she needed to get involved. This calling was what she needed. I know the Lord was the one who called her, but it made me feel good that I could help her out.”
“One of my favorite things to do during Relief Society is to sit up at the front during the opening hymn and look at each girl’s face,” says Mallory. “It’s a different perspective. You see them all as equal—they are all great people. And I’ve learned that everyone has something to offer, which is a perspective that I have often prayed for.”
Mallory considers being able to see the girls through the Lord’s eyes as one of the biggest blessings of her calling. But she says that you don’t need to be the Relief Society president to feel that. Anyone can pray and ask Heavenly Father for the ability to see people as children of God and appreciate what they have to offer.
“It’s been really humbling,” says Mallory of receiving this calling. “I look around and see so many great girls, and I realize any of them could be a Relief Society president with the Lord’s help, because we are instruments in His hands.”
After all, you never know just when the Lord might call on you to lead, whether it be in your Young Women class presidency or as president of the Relief Society. Macie and Mallory admit they were surprised, but that hasn’t stopped them from accepting the opportunity to serve.
And now both of them also have a new perspective on Relief Society.
When she first moved into Relief Society at home, Macie thought it was a challenge to fit in with the older women. Mallory’s home ward tried to ease the transition by periodically inviting the Laurels to Relief Society lessons and activities, so she had a taste of what it was like, but in the back of her mind she still had a fear that they were going to spend a lot of time sewing. However, both Mallory and Macie now understand the reasons for programs like home, family, and personal enrichment and are able to gear them toward the women their age.
“I have a greater appreciation for Relief Society now,” Macie says. “I don’t think it’s just an old ladies society anymore.”
And just as both girls turned to their mothers for words of advice and comfort in their new callings, Mallory says that with the right attitude, the younger women can learn from the older women. Then, that sisterhood she and Macie have come to embrace can be extended across the generations.
For help with the transition to Relief Society, go to www.lds.org and click on Serving in the Church, Relief Society, and then Transitioning into Womanhood.

I will never forget the family home evening lesson we had during a power outage. Without power we could not read anything, and I thought that family home evening was going to be a disaster.
“How will we have family home evening without being able to read a message from the Liahona, or how will we be able to sing from the hymnbooks without light?” I thought to myself.
Fortunately my sister came to the rescue. She had the great idea for us to sing the hymns we knew by heart and then share what we had learned the Sunday before. We all shared a principle and learned from one another. In my opinion, learning together is the purpose of family home evening. I am certain that the Lord was very pleased that we kept the commandment to have family home evening, even without lights.

It was late on a Saturday night, and everyone in my family was tired after a long weekend. To make things worse, my dad was once again out of the country for his job. I was about to go to bed when I realized that my mom was cleaning! As she worked, she began to sing a song by the Beach Boys: “Help me, Rhonda; help, help me, Rhonda.” A bit puzzled, I asked my mom why she was singing that song. She explained that since no one else would help her clean our house, maybe Rhonda would.
I suddenly realized that I was being completely unfair to my tired and overworked mother. I dropped what I was doing and said, “Mom, what can I do?” She replied, “Well, if you could rinse and put the dishes in the dishwasher, I would really appreciate it.”
When I finished the dishes, I did a few other small jobs. By the time everything was done, it was about 11:00 p.m. My mom was sitting on the couch for a minute to get some energy back, so I walked over to her and asked if there was anything else I could do.
She shook her head. Then with a tired but grateful smile she said, “Thank you … Rhonda,” and gave me a hug. Though I had helped lift my mom’s burden that night, I knew that I had given her just an hour of my time, compared to the thousands she willingly gives to my family. It was one hour I wouldn’t have wanted to spend any other way.

When I was a student at Brigham Young University, I lived in a house with several young men. My roommate, Bruce, was the most optimistic person I have ever known. We never once heard him say anything negative about any person or any circumstance, and it was impossible not to feel buoyed up in his presence. His good cheer flowed from an abiding trust in the Savior and in His gospel.
One cold, wintry day, another friend of mine, Tom, was walking across the university campus. It was only 7:00 in the morning, and the campus was deserted and dark. Heavy snow was falling, with a brisk wind. “What miserable weather,” Tom thought. He walked farther, and out in the darkness and snow, he heard someone singing.
Sure enough, through the driving snow came our ever-optimistic friend, Bruce. With his arms outstretched to the sky, he was singing a number from the Broadway musical Oklahoma: “Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day! I’ve got a beautiful feeling, everything’s going my way” (see Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’” [1943]).
In the intervening years, that bright voice in a dark storm has become for me a symbol of what faith and hope are all about. Even in a darkening world, we as Latter-day Saints may sing with joy, knowing that the powers of heaven are with God’s Church and people. We may rejoice in the knowledge that a beautiful morning lies ahead—the dawn of the millennial day, when the Son of God shall rise in the East and reign again on the earth.

Dr. Walker came one evening with a book under his arm and a flower in his hand. “Kari, I want you to have this book. I noticed you and your mother reading together, and I guess I wanted to get into the act. I think you of all people might understand a little of what this young boy went through. He was about your age.”
Kari reached for the book and smiled when she realized it was about the Prophet Joseph Smith. As she read she began to feel that Joseph was a good friend as they traveled together through pain, trials, endurance, and above all, loneliness.
A few weeks after the operation, Dr. Walker told Kari she would have to have radiation therapy. The first snowfall had covered the old oak tree when Kari’s mother drove her to the first treatment. Dr. Walker had prepared her for the aftereffects as best he could, but she soon learned to hate the radiation treatments, even though she knew they were probably saving her life. She wrote in her journal, “A radiation treatment is 100 stormy nights all mixed into one.”
Kari’s mother kept her promise. She was there every step of the way. She was a cheerleader in a house dress and apron, keeping up the faith and the fight.
Christmas came and went. The words “Kari, make it just one more day,” became Mother’s battle cry. Or if the fatigue or nausea was unbearable, the words were, “Kari, make it just one more hour.”
As winter dragged on, the hours and days merged into a gray landscape of pain and exhaustion. Finally, on Valentine’s Day, Kari gave up. She lay in bed looking at an unopened valentine from her mother. Finally, she let it fall to the floor, still unopened. She was tired beyond caring. Her leg burned and itched. She was on the verge of vomiting. She lay back and gave herself up to “What if?” and “Why me?”
Turning her head as if to hide the pointless tears, she saw through her window the ropes of her swing. They moved lazily with the wind, pale lines against the bare oak limbs and gray sky. She struggled to her elbow, then slid heavily from her bed and limped to the window. As she looked down at the swing, a memory stirred and grew strong. She knew what she had to do.
She had made it down the stairs somehow and was halfway out the door when her little brother John found her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said. “Please get back to bed. It’s cold out here. You’ll catch cold and …”
“Just help me get to the swing.”
John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The swing? You want to swing? It’s freezing out here.”
Kari kept limping toward the swing. “If you won’t help me, I’ll get there myself.”
John put an arm around Kari’s waist, and she leaned on his shoulder. Together they moved on toward the swing. Each step took forever. Kari held her stomach to keep from retching, dragging her leg behind her.
Finally they reached the wooden seat. Kari sat down and John began pushing her. At first she could do nothing but hold on weakly, but then she felt a change. Her grip tightened. Her head felt less heavy on her shoulders. Slowly at first, then more swiftly, strength came flooding into her from some hidden reservoir. For the first time in weeks she felt fueled by a purpose. She began pulling hard on the rope and stretching her toes forward. She felt as if she were reaching with her legs for the height her soul required. With all the strength she possessed she struggled higher and higher, hanging at each summit in a weightless, timeless calm, then dropping back into a dizzy gulf. Soon she was higher than she had ever been before. Street on street opened to her. Suddenly the whole valley was before her, clear to the horizon. She could see to the edge of the world. Her toes touched oak twigs. She felt as if she had left her body behind while her spirit soared. With every swing the world looked new and different. The oak limbs blurring past were the color of Thomas’s new suit.
The pages of Dr. Walker’s book began to dance in circles through Kari’s mind. She thought of Joseph crying out to the Lord in the jail at Liberty, and she heard the answer:
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity … shall be but a small moment;
“And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes” (D&C 121:7–8).
She felt as if she were kneeling with the Prophet as he searched the heavens again for the height he needed, and again heard the voice. “If the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good” (D&C 122:7).
Bells chimed somewhere in the valley, and Kari thought they were ringing in her soul.
All her newfound strength suddenly drained from her. She was barely able to hold on as the swing slowed. She went limp as John grabbed the ropes and stopped her.
He came around from behind the swing and faced Kari, steadying her as she slumped forward. He was surprised to see a calmness about her. And something that had been missing much too long seemed to have come back.
“John?”
“Kari, what is it? Do you need the doctor?”
Kari shook her head. “I was just wondering how long a woman lives. How old is a woman usually when she dies?”
John shivered in the 35-degree weather. “I had a teacher at school tell me the average life of a woman was 70 or so. She was about 50, and I think she told us that to take away our hopes of getting a different teacher in the near future.”
The wind stopped blowing for a moment, and the air felt less harsh. “John, Dr. Walker says I’ve got three more months of radiation treatments. Right now that looks like forever, but when I think of living 50 or 60 years after that, it’s really just an instant.”
John took his jacket off and put it over Kari’s shoulders. He glimpsed his mother at the kitchen window and knew that in a few moments she would be running out to bring Kari back to the safety of the house.
Kari made circles for a moment with her toe. “The surgeons think they got all the cancer, but they won’t be sure for at least five years, and even then there are no guarantees. But, John …” She took his hands and found that they were strong, like Thomas’s, like her father’s. “Even if they didn’t get it all—when I think of even the longest life compared to forever, it’s like sitting here on the swing and seeing just beyond the yard compared to being so high I can see the entire valley. It’s just a moment.”
John looked a little dubious. “I’d have to say it was a long moment, in my opinion.”
Kari smiled despite the churning of her stomach and the screaming of her leg. “Okay, a long moment, but still a moment.”
“Now let’s go in, Kari. Please? Mom’s coming out of the house, and she’s going to be madder than wet hornets.”
John lifted Kari from the swing. Her head began to swim, and her stomach lurched. He held her tight and started guiding her back to the house. Suddenly she stopped and turned around to look once more at the swing. She knew, as some things are just known, that she would swing again when the bluejays began to fly and the sun warmed the house once more.
“John, Thomas was right.”
John turned around and looked at the swing too. “Thomas is usually right, Kari. He’s the brains in this family.”
The swing began to move slightly as the wind picked up. Kari saw her mother out of the corner of her eye, running to help.
Kari turned her back to the swing, and at the same time she turned her back on giving up. Snow began to fall, but Kari’s thoughts were on the coming spring. She was thinking about the hours she would spend on the swing, and about how far she would learn to see.

For an entire week, Sydney G., 14, from Utah, USA, visibly carried a copy of the Book of Mormon everywhere she went—to school, to her extracurricular activities, and to church. She was prayerfully trying to find someone to share the gospel with, and keeping the Book of Mormon out with her was a constant reminder of that goal.
One day, she went to the office at school and accidentally left the book there. Without even opening the cover, the office secretary knew immediately whose it was. That week, Sydney had become known at her school for carrying that Book of Mormon with her. And throughout her life, she’s become known for many other things as well.
For instance, she participates in student council. She dances for her school’s dance company. She was the lead in an Alice in Wonderland musical. She volunteers for a service group. She cheers. She crafts. She loves to spend time with her friends and family.
She’s also a strong advocate of type 1 diabetes awareness and research.
When Sydney was three, her parents noticed changes in her behavior. Among other things, she was extremely thirsty, moody, and fatigued. One day she slept for 22 hours, waking up only for moments before falling back asleep. Her parents knew something was wrong and took her to a doctor the next morning. The doctor said she was on the verge of a diabetic coma and was lucky she came in that day. Sydney and her parents now recognize that the timing was more than luck; it was a blessing.
Sydney’s diagnosis flipped her life upside down, but that hasn’t stopped her from living a life that gives back to others. Despite her age, Sydney is a leader, role model, and friend as she works to help promote diabetes awareness.
What Is Type 1 Diabetes?
Type 1 diabetes is a disease in which the pancreas produces little or no insulin, the hormone that converts glucose into energy. To treat this, people with type 1 diabetes take insulin every time they eat to help their bodies get the energy they need.
If left untreated, diabetes can have serious complications. It’s important to recognize the symptoms and be treated as early as possible. Type 1 diabetes requires constant care and vigilance throughout a person’s entire life.
In 2015, Sydney and her family participated in a fundraising managed by JDRF, an organization that helps fund research for type 1 diabetes. After the walk, Sydney wanted to keep helping. She says, “I was super excited to get out and do stuff, and I wanted to inform people of the symptoms of type 1 diabetes so they would know to get tested.” To do this, she and her mom created a social media page to promote awareness. Their first post included pictures of the walk, and they’ve continued with regular posts debunking myths about diabetes, promoting fundraisers, and showcasing diabetes-related events and activities Sydney participates in.
Sydney knows the impact youth can have in their communities, and she hopes to keep helping those around her. “Young people can make a huge difference,” she says, “and it’s good for them! They get to get out and help the community. It’s just good for the soul.”
She’s already seen some positive results from her efforts. One day, soon after they started the page, Sydney’s mom felt prompted to post Sydney’s diagnosis story. A woman in their neighborhood read the post and then, two days later, recognized the symptoms in her own daughter. As a result of a prompting, this five-year-old girl was able to receive an early diagnosis and get the medical attention she needed.
Sydney knows it’s important to have friends during times of trial, and she always strives to be that friend for people in times of need. When she heard of another young girl in the community who was just diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, Sydney immediately reached out and met with her. The girl’s mother later told Sydney about the great influence she had on her daughter. The daughter had felt alone in her trial because no one else she knew had diabetes. But immediately after Sydney’s visit, she had a friend, and that made all the difference.
Sydney also recognizes the importance of friendship in her own life and strives to include and love others. When she was about to turn 12, she was “probably more excited than anyone to go to the temple for the first time.” So for her birthday party, she invited some friends over to eat a formal dinner and then go to the temple to do baptisms and confirmations on behalf of those who have died. One of her close friends, Lindsay,* wasn’t a member of the Church, but Sydney still wanted to include her. So Sydney invited Lindsay to the birthday dinner with them and explained why the temple was so important to her.
Remember that Book of Mormon that Sydney carried around with her? She felt prompted to give it to Lindsay with her testimony. Though Lindsay respectfully said she didn’t believe in the book, Sydney didn’t focus on the rejection. Instead, Sydney just appreciated the opportunity she had to share her testimony with someone she cares about.
Though she sometimes feels discouraged, Sydney tries to stay positive and move forward in her goal to help others. She says, “I think it’s important to just keep going if you’re having a trial. It helps to focus on something positive. Like, if you fall off your bike, you just get back up and keep going, and soon you’ll forget you even fell off in the first place.”
Every day, Sydney chooses to focus on the positive of her situation by striving to be a leader in her community and a friend to those who need one. She’s learned that the smallest decisions—like deciding one day to go to a fundraiser walk with her family—can make a big difference.

Rebecca Scanlan, a Laurel, and her older sister, Ruth-Ann, have always enjoyed Christmases that are something close to the ideal. The only thing missing from their picture-perfect holidays might have been a light dusting of snow, since they rarely see any at their Woodstock, Georgia, home.
“I remember that at Christmas we’d listen to my dad tell the Christmas story. We’d eat dinner by candlelight and talk about our blessings. At Christmas I remember that I always felt loved,” says Rebecca.
But since Ruth-Ann and Rebecca’s dad, Fred, is on the board of advisers for a volunteer group that works with abused and battered children, they knew all too well that for many kids, Christmas holds no happy memories, no exciting anticipation. They had heard their dad tell stories of children who had never received a gift or a happy greeting at Christmas, children whose only Christmas wish was for harmony at home. It was a wish that hardly ever came true.
So the girls and their family put their heads together to think of ways to give these children the kind of Christmas they had never known. They decided a Christmas party would not only be a lot of fun but also a great Laurel project. The first time the family hosted the party, Ruth-Ann was in charge. The most important aspect of the party would be a spiritual message about the birth of the Savior. The party would also include food, games, and presents.
It was a tall order, but Ruth-Ann felt confident she could do it. Soon she had help from the missionaries, who had permission to tell the Christmas story and re-enact the Nativity with the children. Her dad dusted off his Santa outfit, ward members baked cookies and provided other goodies, and the youth in her ward dressed up as elves and reindeer to run games and other fun activities.
Presents, however, were another matter. With such a large group of children—many of whom had never had a real Christmas present—Ruth-Ann wanted to get nice gifts for everyone. So she contacted community groups, local businesses, neighbors, and friends to tell them what she had in mind.
What happened next surprised everyone. Gifts and money to buy gifts started to pour into the Scanlan home. When all was said and done, each child got exactly what he or she wanted from Santa Claus.
The community and ward had such a great time helping with Ruth-Ann’s project, she decided to do it again the next year. Now, younger sister Rebecca is a Laurel, and she spends the holiday season coordinating elves and reindeer, cookie bakers and present wrappers. It’s an overwhelming job at what is already a very busy time of year.
“I feel like I have been so blessed. I just want to give these children a little taste of what we have in our home,” says Rebecca.

But the Kirtland story doesn’t end with these marvelous manifestations. A year after the temple’s dedication, the community was fraying. An international economic crisis led to massive unemployment in the United States. Banks failed across the country, including a small bank established by Church leaders in Kirtland to spur development of the community. Joseph Smith and other Church leaders desperately tried to save the economy of the community. But the tide of the global economic crisis was too much. People began to lose jobs and homes. Many began to murmur against God and the Church. Why had the Lord allowed His people to fail economically? Some began to whisper and then proclaim that Joseph was a fallen prophet.
At one meeting in the summer of 1837 in the Kirtland Temple, Joseph Smith Sr., the Church patriarch, spoke in his son’s absence. As he spoke, a dissenter tried to pull him from the pulpit. When William Smith defended his father, a fellow Apostle threatened to kill William with a sword. Other men with knives and pistols surrounded William. The temple, which had been a place of sacredness and spirituality a year earlier, was now a place of violence, dissension, and chaos.
When Joseph Smith returned to Kirtland, most Church members sustained him as the prophet, but three Apostles were removed from the Quorum of the Twelve. Economic problems had turned into spiritual problems. Within a few more months, the Lord told Joseph to leave Kirtland for the safety of his family and for the sake of his own life.

A few weeks ago we attended a conference back in New Jersey where we heard a wonderful sermon by the stake president on the importance of love. He said something to indicate how important that was in his boyhood life in his own home. He said, “Some of my greatest resources come from lessons learned in my youth from acts of love shown by my parents. I well remember when I was very young my mother was seriously ill. I had gotten up in the night to get a drink of water, and going into the kitchen, I noticed a light in my parents’ bedroom. On going to the door, I found father sitting quietly next to mother’s bed. She was asleep. He was just sitting there, appearing to be doing nothing. And so startled, I asked him what was wrong. Why wasn’t he in bed? My father’s answer was ‘Nothing is wrong, son. I am just watching over her.’ Later I learned that he sat each night by her side during the crisis, watching over her. And thinking of this I have often thought that truly love is kind and never faileth. The memory of this act of love, the light and warmth of that occasion have always had special meaning to me. It made me feel safe and secure, to see this strong and gentle man so concerned about those of his household. It gave me a deeper appreciation of my father and set a high standard for me to try to follow.”

Just minutes before, the fairgrounds were alive with the excitement of the rodeo. High school students were brushing, saddling, and warming up the horses. Cowboy music rang loud, reminding all to have a “good-ridin’, fun-timin’” rodeo. The lilting music, the country drawls, and the masses of cowboy hats created a nostalgic feeling of excitement, a feeling that causes a non-rodeo attender to feel as if he’s either been placed back in time 20 years to the old small-town get-together days or else placed in a Hollywood scene for the newest western. At any rate, the cowboy inside the slickest of city slickers comes alive.
Now, as the rodeo begins and the clouds begin to roll in, the lively atmosphere becomes more subdued. The setting sun silhouettes the announcing stand, the bleachers, and the rows of horse trailers. The announcer’s country drawl booms out from the loudspeaker and spills into the dusty haze that smells of horses and hay.
“And, ladies and gentlemen, our next team ropers are the brother and sister team from American Fork, Utah, Janice and Brent Ault!”
Bursting out of the chute, a calf turns, twists, and dodges, kicking up mud as he’s chased by Janice and Brent. Quickly Janice swings her coiled rope over the calf’s neck. Brent then throws his rope on the ground, pulling it up around the calf’s hind legs. The clock stops, and smiles replace the determined looks on the faces of the brother-sister team.
It’s not often that a brother and sister compete in team roping, yet team roping is only the beginning of the Janice-Brent team. Just last fall, serving the governor of Utah, his wife, and other judges a meal consisting of garlic lamb steaks, baked potatoes, tossed green salad, carrots, a melon-ball appetizer, braided yeast bread, and a raspberry cream dessert was—yes, the Janice-Brent team.
Adorned with aprons and hats, and reminded by 3-by-5 cards printed with such phrases as “Put plates in oven to heat,” “Cut green peppers,” “Set fruit on table,” “Change aprons,” and “Call guests,” the efficient team won first place in the state 4-H contest and a trip to Denver, Colorado.
Ah, but this team doesn’t stop at cooking together. As the early morning sun sparkles on the dew-kissed June grass and glistens on the auburn-colored horses, Janice and Brent can be seen together, buckets in hands, feeding the softly neighing animals.
Or one might see them on a winter-white afternoon riding snowmobiles, letting their laughter ring out above the snowmobiles’ hum. At evening time, one might find them doing homework, leatherwork, or making cookies—together—and the list goes on!
Why is it that Janice, who is 18, and Brent, who is 16, work so well together at an age when many teenagers, although secretly admiring their brothers and sisters, avoid and label them as “pests” or “bossy”?
“We do things together because we like the same things,” says Janice. “And by doing things together we learn more about each other and how to get along.”
“Also,” says Brent, “when we do things together, we’re happier.”
Janice enjoys cooking, being outdoors, camping, photography, traveling, and participating in rodeos. Brent enjoys riding horses, riding motorcycles, hunting, fishing, and snowmobiling—to name a few.
Together, they also enjoy photography. Janice has won the 4-H state competition two years in a row. Brent has won the Utah county title and “will soon win state,” Janice adds.
They both ride horses, and they both cook. They both ride motorcycles, and they both bake bread. And that’s the key! They are both totally involved in family and Church activities. They both enjoy the same things!
However, Brent and Janice aren’t just a twosome team. Most of the time it’s a family team, with the extended family often participating.
It’s a father-son team when it’s planting, plowing, and haying. Brent farms with his father, and whether it’s on the tractor, feeding the sheep, or riding the horses, Brent and his dad are having fun, and, Brent reminds, working hard.
But don’t overlook the mother-daughter team when it’s time for baking and keeping house. By participating in meal preparation, Janice has learned to be better organized in the kitchen. “And Janice,” according to her proud mother, “makes the best bread you’ve ever tasted!”
It’s a family team when it’s rodeo, vacation, or 4-H time. When dad needs help on the farm, everyone pitches in. With mother as 4-H leader, everyone joins 4-H! And when Brent and Janice are competing at the rodeo, huddled from the rain under umbrellas and blankets cheering them on are mom, dad, and sometimes even grandma!
Of course, Sundays, Monday evenings, and other times find the Aults attending their meetings and serving faithfully. Brent is a counselor in the teachers quorum, and Janice is a counselor in the Laurel class.
We feel that it’s important to be together as a family, so we’ve chosen interests and activities that involve the whole family,” Brother Ault remarks.
Instead of isolating themselves with their personal hobbies, the Aults participate in activities that everyone can join. Instead of becoming strangers, they become friends; instead of tolerance, there is love.
Yes, Brent and Janice do have their own interests and friends, but they’ve learned, by doing things together, how to love and respect their family. It’s not uncommon for Janice to go outside to saddle up her horse and find the horse all brushed and saddled. Standing close by with a shy smile is Brent. Of course, Janice quickly returns the kindness.
As the sun begins to set, casting shadows on the quiet ten acres backgrounded by mountains, the horses are fed and brushed, the chores are done, and mom has just served a big garden supper, complete with Janice’s hot homemade bread. Voices and laughter echo in the peaceful stillness because the Aults are together—again.

I felt sad when we moved from Bogotá to Barranquilla because I had to leave my family, friends, and school. But when I went to the Barranquilla Colombia Temple open house, I felt happy. I’d never been inside a temple before. I saw the baptistry, celestial room, and sealing rooms. It was cool to think that our ancestors can be sealed to us and we can see them again. I love the temple and am preparing to return again soon.
Martín G., 11, Barranquilla, Colombia

I remember the first time Jenni walked into my seminary class and said hi to me, her new teacher. She had a very difficult time speaking, her words were slurred and hard to understand, and she limped and hobbled as she tried to make her legs carry her body toward her desk. During Jenni’s first week of “main-streaming” in my class, she seemed content to be mostly ignored by her classmates, who appeared to be struggling to figure out how to interact with her.
Jenni would try to speak, but very few students could understand her. She had a difficult time keeping her nose wiped, and sometimes she would drool and soil her shirt. The students in my classroom were unaccustomed to the needs and actions of someone like Jenni, so most of them distanced themselves from her both physically and socially and, as a result, proceeded to politely ignore her.
However, they weren’t aware that inside Jenni’s deformed body was a keen mind, a heart of gold, and an indomitable spirit crying out to be heard, to be understood, to be accepted, and to be loved. She wouldn’t be ignored, politely or otherwise.
I’ll never forget the day when Jenni asked me if she could say something to the class. I wondered what she wanted to say to everyone, but I never expected her to deliver the message she did.
“I neeeeed a frrriennnd,” she stuttered. “I neeeeeeeed sommeonne toooo ssiitt bbyy mmee attt lllunnch.”
As she finished her last word, a hush settled over the class. Jenni stood erect and, rather than doing the socially acceptable thing and taking her seat, waited for a volunteer. Finally, from the back of the classroom, Treasure raised her hand and said, “I’ll be your friend, Jenni.” Jenni responded by asking, “And sit by me at lunch?”
Treasure responded, “And sit by you at lunch.”
“Every day?” asked Jenni.
“Every day,” answered Treasure.
This conversation relieved the class and also gave Treasure’s friend Wendy the confidence to raise her hand and tell Jenni that she would also be her friend and sit by her at lunch every day. The “miracle of Jenni” had begun!
The next day Treasure and Wendy sat by Jenni at lunch and then helped her through the school parking lot to the seminary building. I noticed as the days turned into weeks that Treasure and Wendy began to translate Jenni’s words when we couldn’t understand her.
As the students began to see what a beautiful, intelligent person Jenni was, they began to invite her to activities, to pick her up, to help her with her difficulties. On one occasion, Jenni excitedly told me she had a date with a young man named Kurt. “He’s so cute!” she told me. This led to other dates, more recognition, and more fun.
Often during class when someone would be sharing their feelings and begin to weep, Jenni would, unannounced, get up and walk over to this person and put her arm around them and hold them. This would touch the class, and soon we would all be weeping. Jenni would often bear her testimony to the class. She would express her gratitude for her many blessings, especially her family, and then share her firm faith in Jesus Christ.
The months turned into years, and soon it was time for Jenni to graduate from seminary. I remember the love I felt for her as she awkwardly walked up to receive her diploma, and I realized all over again how she had blessed my life. As the ceremony and the meeting ended, I encountered Jenni’s mother at the back of the chapel. Her eyes watered as she said something like this: “You’ll never know what you’ve done for my little girl.”
I replied, “Oh, not me. Look around,” as I pointed to Jenni’s classmates. “They’re the ones.”
Jenni’s classmates helped her realize what a wonderful person she is. They’re the ones who included her in their circle of friends and helped her feel like she belonged. They’re the ones who saw through her disability to the special needs of her heart—a young woman wanting to be accepted and understood. They’re the ones who came to see into the beauty of her soul, the ones who helped perform a modern-day miracle—the miracle of Jenni.

This next experience was shared by a member of the Church whose father took his life after an extended period of illness. The references to recent discoveries by medical science are enlightening.
“I will never forget telephoning home that morning in 1977 and having a police lieutenant answer, informing me of my father’s suicide. My father was a sweet, kind man who never intentionally hurt anyone. He always thought his body was a temple. Yet something had become wrong with Dad’s body, and he had been a very sick man.
“Then, in 1980, I experienced a terrible physical change in myself that gave me some insight into my father’s state of mind during the weeks preceding his death. I was diagnosed as having hyperthyroidism. My body went through many of the traumas that Dad experienced. I spent a four-month period without sleep. Sleeping pills gave no relief. If I did fall asleep, I awoke soon after, soaked in perspiration. Many of the symptoms were emotional ones. I was frightened and suffered a deep depression. For eighteen months I received medication, and the disease was finally brought under control. I am thankful that I had a doctor who could help me.
“Living through my experience helped me to understand my father’s death better. I spent hours doing research and found that little information on hyperthyroidism could be found before 1979. Thyroid disease can be hereditary, and since my experience, we have discovered it in two of my cousins on my father’s side. I also found an article by a doctor who wondered how many people have been in mental institutions with chemical imbalances that could have been corrected.
“Maybe Dad had this same disease. With everything I’ve studied, I choose to think he did. It helps me deal with his death. For a man who took such good care of himself to fail so fast and become ill so quickly makes me believe he had an undiscovered disease.
“Dad believed in the Lord with all his heart and had a strong, solid testimony. His cause of death may have spoiled his entrance into the spirit world, but not the beautiful life he had led for fifty years.
“I know my Heavenly Father loves me and watches over me and gives me the peace I now enjoy.”

I am a compulsive journal keeper. I began keeping a journal back in the days when it was called a diary. In those days, there were no rows upon rows of books with blank pages filling the bookstore shelves. I wrote on scrap paper stuffed in an old stationery box. It took a little more effort to feed a journal-keeping habit in those days.

It’s much easier now. Today you can choose leather-bound, gold-embossed, parchment paper journals where you dare not write anything but the truly profound. Or, if you’re a bit intimidated with these, you can buy a three-ring plastic binder with loose-leaf paper.

Whatever journal you choose, just remember one thing. Somewhere along the line, you might want to reveal the “real” you and not a plastered smile imitation of someone else. Don’t fall into the same pitfalls I did in my early years of self-expression.

My interest in journal keeping started way back in prehistoric times when school’s main attraction for me was the lunchtime menu. I wish someone had told me that detailed lists of “what I ate today” wouldn’t satisfy the requirements of great literature.

I remained naive enough to believe that someday my family would have to hide in a secret room upstairs in the attic while World War III exploded in the world around us. I just knew that someday my writing would be “discovered” and that Anne Frank would have to step down a notch to make room for me.

Of course just the thought of someone actually reading what I wrote was enough to make my writing style a bit unnatural. To let someone discover the real me would be, in my estimation, as bad as getting caught with oily hair and an old flannel nightgown, complete with mascara under my eyes on Saturday morning by a recent heartthrob who had dumped me. It made my toes curl.

Just the thought of someone actually reading what I wrote distorted my journal entries. For example, here’s what really happened:
I lost the election for sophomore vice president by the widest margin in our school’s history. I can’t think of one good reason why anybody would vote for Carol instead of me. I felt so rotten that I cried all night.

But here’s how it appeared in my journal account:
Running for student-body office was a real growing experience for me. I’m so glad Carol won. She’s a wonderful girl.

Of course I tried my luck with a little honesty. But then someone at church told me that the angels in heaven would read from my work and that my life’s deeds would be shouted from the rooftops. That was enough to make my page-long detailed description of my latest crush on the bag boy at the grocery store seem so subject to ridicule that I ripped out the page and burned it.

Then a strange thing happened. I kept getting older, and World War III was still waiting in the wings. I was also starting to zero in on a new world’s record for the number of rejection slips I had collected from publishers of my unsolicited manuscripts.
The thought actually occurred to me that I might be the only one who ever read or benefitted from my now overcrowded bookshelf full of journals. I started to realize for the first time that my journal was a history for my sake as well as any future readers.
From that point on, the real me started to emerge. I found, rather surprisingly, that the real me was much more interesting, oily hair and all. Spending time with myself while writing in my journal became more valuable because I was finding time to really listen to my own voice.
My journal took on a whole new role. Sometimes it was my best friend or trusted confidant. Sometimes it was a good place to sort out my feelings and remember friendships and experiences. Sometimes it was a goal-setting instrument or just a convenient place for creative expression. Sometimes it became my psychologist or a means of solving my problems.
I was beginning a friendship with myself. I was finding out that I was unique and important, a discovery that flowered only after an honest and intimate acquaintance with myself. And after learning to appreciate my own uniqueness, I was better able to transfer that love to others.
When I read back over these less self-conscious entries, they made the dramatic and everyday parts of my life seem real enough that I could relive them and be inspired. I could actually see the hand of the Lord in my life. I could sense a pattern emerging that gave me a more eternal perspective to my life. I felt excited to be alive and looked forward to the future. I felt an increased awareness of God’s love for me.
I found that I could be truthful without concentrating on the negative or even washing over my less admirable traits. I found I could truthfully portray my challenges as well as my successes. I found out that it was all right just to be me.
Now I know that you and I may never write for generations of yet unborn dedicated fans. But even if none of our great-grandchildren ever chuckles over page 762,493 of our personal pencil trottings, it will have been worth the effort. If you already keep a journal, never relinquish your enthusiasm. If you haven’t developed the habit yet, get started. Journal keeping is really a fantastic road to discovering the real you.
You and I may never make the best seller list or even be remembered for our profound thoughts at age 15. But not even Shakespeare can tell you exactly what my mother said and how her eyes looked on the day I first left home; or what shade of blue the sky was on Friday, June 27, 1975; or how an old woman with her nose pressed tight against the glass door made me feel when I drove away after volunteering at a rest home; or …

On May 18, 2020, my beloved dad, my hero, died from COVID-19. His death came so suddenly that we were not prepared. He was only 61 years old. I learned that just as God respects agency, we must respect God’s timing. That’s why I am grateful for His promise, taught by the prophet Alma, “that the spirits of all men, as soon as they are departed from this mortal body, yea, the spirits of all men, whether they be good or evil, are taken home to that God who gave them life” (Alma 40:11). All men and women!

Karl ran down the boat dock, excited to see his dad. Karl’s father was a fisherman, and Karl often ran out to the boat to meet him at the end of the day.
“Hurry, Papa!” Karl called. “I want to show you a picture I drew for you today!”
“Great!” Papa said. “But I need to tie up the boat first.”
Karl watched Papa carefully tie the boat to the dock with a thick rope. “Why do you have to tie it so tight?” Karl asked as Papa pulled on a large knot.
Papa pointed to a boat on the shore that had a large hole in the bottom. “That boat wasn’t tied up well. In the last storm, it got loose and crashed onto some rocks.”
Karl’s eyes widened.
“Can you think of how Heavenly Father helps us stay tied to Him so we can be safe?” Papa asked.
“The scriptures?” Karl guessed.
“That’s right,” Papa said. “He also gives us priesthood ordinances like baptism and the sacrament. Mama and I got married in the temple so our family could be tied together forever.”
Karl grabbed the rope and helped Papa give it a final tug. “We make the tightest knot of all!”

It felt just like any other Sunday morning in Primary. Brother Barrow and Brother Jensen sat at the front of the class.
“Good morning,” said Brother Barrow. “Did everyone have a good week?”
Miles popped up in his seat next to me. “Yeah! I had fun this weekend!” he said. He told about a park he went to.
After everyone had taken a turn to talk, Brother Jensen began marking the roll. “Hmm,” he said, looking up at us. “Samantha isn’t here again. Does anyone know who she is? I’ve never met her before.”
I raised my hand. “I know who she is,” I said. “I’ve seen her at school.”
“Thank you, Grace. Could you tell us more about her?”
I thought about Samantha. It seemed like she always played by herself. “She’s pretty shy,” I said. “I don’t think she has very many friends.”
“I think we should do something special to invite her to Primary,” said Brother Jensen. “How would everyone feel about coming to my house this week to make brownies and a card for her?”
“That’s a great idea!” said Miles.
“I want to come too!” said Haylee.
“Sounds good,” said Brother Jensen. “I’ll call your parents so we can find a time to get together.”
Finally the day came. We met at Brother Jensen’s house, and we were ready to bake!
“Who wants to mix the cocoa and baking soda?” Brother Barrow asked.
“I do!” said Mason.
Soon we all had jobs to do. Before we knew it, the brownies were in the oven.
“OK, everyone, while we wait for the brownies to bake, let’s make the card,” said Brother Jensen.
Our card was actually a big poster. We got out crayons and markers and wrote things like “We miss you!” and “Come to Primary!” By the time we were done writing and drawing pictures, the brownies were done.
We put the brownies on a plate and went together to Samantha’s house. Brother Jensen knocked on the door, and Samantha’s mom answered.
“SURPRISE!” we shouted.
“We just want to invite your daughter to Primary,” said Brother Barrow.
“That is so thoughtful,” she said. “Thank you all so much.” She called to Samantha, and she came to the door. “Look, Samantha. See what they brought you!”
“Thank you,” she said shyly.
I waved to her from the back of the group. “Hi, Samantha! I’m Grace, from school.”
“We hope you can come to our Primary class this week!” said John.
At recess the next day, I was sitting with my friends and saw Samantha. “Hi!” I said. “Do you want to play with us?”
“No,” she said, looking down. “But thanks anyway.”
I smiled at her. Samantha smiled back a little bit. “OK,” I said. “Some other time.”
Later Samantha and her mom started coming to church! Just shows the power of friendship … and brownies!
Samantha didn’t come to Primary that Sunday. I was kind of sad, but I was still glad we invited her. It felt like what Heavenly Father wanted us to do. Samantha wasn’t ready to come to Church, and that was OK. We could ask again another time. And we could definitely keep trying to get to know her. Who knows? Maybe we could all be friends!

I have a dear friend with whom I went fishing. He seemed uneasy during the trip and shortly confided to me that he had just returned from a visit with his son-in-law in another state. During this visit he had a strong feeling that he should give his son-in-law a father’s blessing but felt somewhat constrained because he was not his father.
As we discussed his uneasy feelings, it was decided that he should phone his son-in-law immediately upon our return from the fishing trip. During the phone call my friend’s son-in-law, with considerable emotion and tears, confided the great need and desire he had felt for a father’s blessing. He had earnestly prayed that his father-in-law, to whom he felt very close, would know of his desires and give him such a blessing.
When we pray to our Father in Heaven for help, he often answers us by inspiring one of his other children here on earth to provide that help. Generally speaking, the Lord does not speak with a clap of thunder but through the whisperings of a still, small voice as he inspires one of his children to help another in need.

One of my biggest worries about going back to church was how ward members would treat me. My first Sunday back happened to be stake conference. I went feeling a little scared and a little frazzled from trying to get four children ready for church.
Some neighbors were sitting a few seats away from us, and I felt reassured to see some familiar faces. The opening hymn was “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” (Hymns, number 136). I started crying as I followed the words, and I continued crying through the rest of the inspiring talks and hymns.
Near the end of the meeting, a sister passed me a note. As I looked down to read it, I noticed that my two-year-old had unbuttoned my dress. I quickly buttoned it and thought, My goodness, who else noticed? But when I read the note, all it said was that the sister was very impressed with my children and thought they must have good parents to be so well behaved. The note helped me feel reassured that I was in the right place and that people would accept me and my children. I never found out who the woman was, but I will never forget her simple act of kindness.

“Some two or three years after I was baptized, one day while engaged in my studies, I began to reflect upon the fact that I had not obtained a knowledge of the truth of that work—that I had not realized the fulfillment of that promise, ‘he that doeth my will shall know of the doctrine,’ and I began to feel very uneasy. I laid aside my books, left the house, and wandered around through the fields under the oppressive influence of a gloomy, disconsolate spirit, while an indescribable cloud of darkness seemed to envelop me. I had been accustomed, at the close of day, to retire for secret prayer, to a grove a short distance from my lodgings, but at this time I felt no inclination to do so. The spirit of prayer had departed and the heavens seemed like brass over my head. At length, realizing that the usual time had come for secret prayer, I concluded I would not forgo my evening service, and, as a matter of formality, knelt as I was in the habit of doing, and in my accustomed, retired place, but not feeling as I was wont to feel.

“I had no sooner opened my lips in an effort to pray, than I heard a sound, just above my head, like the rustling of silken robes, and immediately the spirit of God descended upon me, completely enveloping my whole person, filling me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, and O the joy and happiness I felt! No language can describe the almost instantaneous transition from a dense cloud of mental and spiritual darkness into a refulgence of light and knowledge that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the Holy Priesthood, and the fulness of the Gospel. It was a complete baptism—a tangible immersion in the heavenly principle or element, the Holy Ghost; and even more real and physical in its effects upon every part of my system than the immersion by water; dispelling forever, so long as reason and memory last, all possibility of doubt or fear in relation to the fact handed down to us historically that the ‘babe of Bethlehem’ is truly the Son of God; and also the fact that He is now being revealed to the children of men, and communicating knowledge, the same as in the apostolic times. I was perfectly satisfied, as well I might be, for my expectations were more than realized; I think I may safely say, in an infinite degree.

“I cannot tell how long I remained in the full flow of the blissful enjoyment and divine enlightenment, but it was several minutes before the celestial element which filled and surrounded me began gradually to withdraw. On arising from my kneeling posture, with my heart swelling with gratitude to God, beyond the power of expression, I felt—I knew that he had conferred on me what only an omnipotent being can confer—that which is of greater value than all the wealth and honors worlds can bestow. That night as I retired to rest, the same wonderful manifestations were repeated, and continued to be for several successive nights. The sweet remembrance of those glorious experiences, from that time to the present, brings them fresh before me, imparting an inspiring influence which pervades my whole being, and I trust will to the close of my earthly existence.” (Preston Nibley, The Presidents of the Church [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1974], pp. 139–140.)