Gospel Story Finder

“Let’s get off the train here and walk home, Katja,” Michaela suggested. She put away her knitting, zipped her coat, and stood up. “We can be home before the train even starts for the next station.”
“Sure. Why not?” Katja said. She pulled on her warm knitted cap and followed Michaela off the train. The two girls had often walked from this station to their family’s small apartment in Switzerland. They went down the stairs to the walkway under the tracks. As they got to the bottom and turned toward the exit, they both stopped.
“We have to go back,” Michaela whispered.
“I know,” Katja said, nodding solemnly. “We have to get back on the train.”
Together, they climbed the stairs, got back on the train, and waited. They were quiet, each thinking about what had happened. At last, the train started, and they rode to the station near their home. They walked home in silence.
“Girls, what happened?” Mom asked, seeing the serious look on their faces.
“Mom, the Holy Ghost prompted us not to walk home,” Michaela said.
“Yes. We had to stop,” Katja said. “It seemed like there was a wall blocking the exit, but it wasn’t a wall we could see.”
“We both knew immediately that we had to get back on the train.” Michaela shook her head. “I never knew the Spirit could be so strong.”
“Oh, my girls!” Mom cried. She gathered them into a big hug. “I’m so glad you are in tune with the Spirit so He can prompt you and keep you safe.”
“But what would have hurt us?” Katja asked. “We’ve walked home from that station lots of times.”
“We’ll never know,” Mom said. She smiled. “I’m so grateful you are all right!”
As they knelt to give thanks for their protection, Michaela said, “I will never forget how it feels to listen to the Spirit and do exactly what He says.”

During a visiting teaching visit, Martha, a member of our ward, told my wife and her companion never to come back again. She had decided to stop coming to church. One of the visiting teachers asked Martha if they could sing a hymn together this one last time, and she agreed. As they sang, something special happened. Little by little, the Spirit began to fill the room. Each of them felt it. Martha’s heart began to soften. With her eyes filled with tears, she expressed to her visiting teachers the feelings of her heart. At that moment, she realized that she knew that the gospel was true. She now thanked her visiting teachers and expressed a desire for them to return. From that day forward, she received them with joy.
Martha began to attend church with her young daughter. For years they attended regularly, with Martha never losing hope that her husband might eventually choose to join them. At last the day came when the Lord touched his heart, and he began to attend with them, as did their other daughter soon thereafter. This family began to feel the true joy that comes from having gospel blessings in their home. Martha has since served faithfully as our ward Relief Society president, and her husband has served well in several callings within the stake. All this began with the singing of a hymn, a small and simple thing that touched Martha’s heart.

The members of the Asunafo Branch Relief Society presidency said they dedicated each Thursday to speaking to each other only in English. “It made some conversations longer that day because we could not think of the right words to say to each other,” said Evelyn Agyeiwaa, Relief Society president. “But we soon began translating for each other, finding the right words to say. Because we were learning together, none of us were embarrassed or afraid to say the wrong words. We simply helped each other.”

I was reminded of this lesson this past spring when I took my boys to a place called Snogression—an indoor practice facility in Salt Lake City for skiers and snowboarders. It has trampolines everywhere and a massive foam pit so that skiers and snowboarders can practice their tricks without having to worry about landing perfectly. The coolest feature of this facility is the practice ramp. A person stands up at the top, holds onto a bar, and, when ready, clicks a button. The bar pulls them down the ramp, accelerating them into the jump so they can go flying out into the foam pit. This foam pit is pretty huge too—it’s about fifty by fifty feet. It’s an enormous place. You’re not going to get hurt, but you’ll have a hard time getting out of it. It’s really deep.
Dallin, my thirteen-year-old son, was the most excited to go to this facility. He wants to be a professional free skier someday, and he could probably spend every day at Snogression and never get bored. But on this first day he was a little bit timid. He’d probably be the first to tell you that he was worried about looking foolish to all the other cool kids who were there. Their approval mattered a lot to him. As a result, he hadn’t tried anything really hard during the whole session. Then, on his last chance of the day, I yelled up to him from by the foam pit (where I was filming) that he should try a backflip. I knew he could do it because I’d seen him do much more difficult tricks on our trampoline, but I wasn’t sure he’d have enough courage to try with so many others watching him. Well, watch and listen carefully to this video clip to see what happened next. [A video of Dallin doing a backflip was shown.]
What you see here is Dallin jumping up and down, trying his best to relax and loosen up. Then he grabbed the bar and hit the button. I couldn’t believe my eyes as Dallin completed a near perfect backflip. Everyone there was cheering with excitement—and no one louder than me. Dallin floated around on cloud nine for the rest of the day.
When we got home from our trip to Snogression, we took out the video camera and watched Dallin’s flip forward and backward, in fast and slow motion. And we listened as well. It was then that I realized what I nut I had been when Dallin threw that trick. I was a little embarrassed at first, but later I thought to myself, “This has to be how Heavenly Father feels when we stop worrying about what others think of us and try to use the talents He has given us.” I think He is just as excited in celebrating our accomplishments as I was with Dallin’s jump.

Below the 13th article, Andrea saw the name Joseph Smith. “When did Joseph Smith write these?” she asked.
“Well, a man named John Wentworth, who was the editor of an Illinois newspaper, wanted to know how the Church was started and what members believed. Joseph Smith told him in a letter, which became known as the “Wentworth Letter.” The principles mentioned in that letter later became the Articles of Faith. They don’t go into a lot of detail about all the things that we believe, but they list many basic truths of the gospel.”
“I’ve been learning at home and at church all my life, but”—she grinned at her friend—“I had a little help from a newspaper man.” Then she told Jane about the Wentworth Letter and about how Joseph Smith’s reply had become the Articles of Faith.
“Andrea, the Prophet Joseph Smith would be happy that what he wrote to John Wentworth helped you to share the gospel. Remember to thank the Lord tonight for him and the great work he did.”

Forty-two years ago, Sister Henderson and I knelt at a beautiful blue alter in a small room in the Manti temple. The temple president asked us to look into his eyes as he pronounced words too sacred to repeat here. Through the sealing authority of the holy priesthood, he bound us on earth and sealed us in eternity as husband and wife, if we would be faithful to God and each other. We then stood and he asked us to hold hands and look into the mirrors that hung on opposite walls. There we saw the two of us in white, reflected a thousand times into infinity. We could not understand then as we do now, that the eternal reflections represented more than the two of us being together forever. Also represented in the mirrors were the eternal lives of children who were promised to us that awesome day.

Personal reflection such as that prompted by Alma can help us make difficult, but necessary changes in direction in our lives. To illustrate, I would like to share a story about our oldest son, Tyler, who recently climbed Mt. Orizaba, the highest mountain in Mexico and the third highest in North America.

Tyler and a friend started their grueling climb at 2:00 a.m. on a cold, clear April night. Navigating huge, unanticipated ice crystals growing on the glacier slowed their progress enough that they were climbing at a time of day when dangerous lightning storms might develop. As Tyler neared the summit he learned of a threatening, massive thunderhead that had been hidden from view by the mountain. So 100 yards from the top, he had to make a decision ... "do I finish the climb and risk the storm, or do I turn back now?" He later shared the self-reflection that helped him make the difficult decision to turn around, "If I die on this mountain," he thought, "someone else will raise my daughter." As you ponder this story, you may want to reflect on your path. Will it lead to spiritual security? Are you willing to make the hard decision to turn around if a friend warns that you are headed towards a spiritual storm?

When I started teaching at BYU–Hawaii full-time in 2019, I had just found out that the baby I was five months pregnant with had a rare disorder that meant he would likely not be born alive, and if he was born at all, he had a 90% chance of passing away within the first year. While pregnant, I rocked in a rocking chair, sang songs to him, read to him, told him I loved him, in case I didn’t get that chance when he was born, if he was born.
I prayed and pleaded. I don’t know why but I kept saying I just wanted to meet him alive. I talked to my baby and told him we would love to meet him, but if he didn’t want to come, we understood. There were rare cases of one or two people in the world with this disorder living into childhood or even adulthood, with severe physical and mental disabilities, sometimes never being able to move, talk, see, or hear. Others were able to interact somewhat. I wanted my son to live, but I didn’t know if it would be selfish of me to want him to live if he would suffer more in this world. I didn’t know what to pray for. I ended up praying and asking God if our baby could have a life of joy; that he would live, whatever that life of joy looked like. That seemed like the safest conclusion to pray for.
I feel like that prayer was answered. He ended up being born alive and living for 6 hours. He was beautiful. He was able to see and hear. He could turn his head. These were all miracles. He looked so alert. We named him Dominic, one possible meaning being “belonging to God,” because he did not belong to us. Derek had gotten permission from our bishop to give Dominic a name and a blessing in the hospital. We didn’t know how much time he would have, so in whatever time he had in this life, I wanted him to experience as much beauty as possible.
I had prepared a playlist of the most beautiful pieces of music I could think of that we played for him to hear. I got to hold him and rub his back. My scented candle warmer I had prepared for him had broken, so a nurse ran and got a lavender-scented pod for him to experience the sense of smell. A couple of hours later, our son died in my arms, with both of us touching him. There was a sacredness and a peace that passed understanding in that room that night. The next days and months were the hardest of my life, but between the sorrow were moments of peace.
I am so grateful I got to meet him alive for even those few moments. I was not prepared for the immense love that flooded my soul the moment I first saw him. I am so grateful for all that I learned from him. He taught me so much about God’s love. If I, in all my human weakness and imperfection, could feel that immense love for my child, how much more does a perfect God love us? Now I also have so much more respect and appreciation for Mary, who had to see her son suffer and die.
God has been kind, and while I’ll probably always cry for my baby, He has also blessed me to feel the joy of life again. At the funeral, my husband said, “Dominic’s life was filled with love, beauty, and meaning. Whether we live 6 hours or a hundred years, what more can any of us ask for?”

Wilford Woodruff learned early in life to trust deeply in the power of the Lord. According to his own record, he had many accidents and other hardships and was spared only because of the mercy of the Lord. He fell into a caldron of scalding water at the age of three; he slipped from a beam in his father’s barn, landing on his face on the bare floor; he broke his arm by falling down some stairs; he was kicked in the stomach by an ox; he was buried beneath a load of hay when his wagon tipped over; he was in a wagon that overturned when a runaway horse bolted down a hill; he fell fifteen feet from a tree, landing flat on his back; he was saved from drowning; he narrowly escaped freezing to death when a passerby happened to see him crawl into the hollow of an apple tree; he split open the instep of his left foot while chopping wood; he was bitten by a dog in the last stages of rabies; he was thrown from a runaway horse and broke one of his legs in two places and dislocated both ankles. And all of this happened before Wilford was twenty years old!
Later he fell twice from the top of a mill wheel, narrowly escaping being crushed to death. On other occasions, he was dragged behind a runaway horse; a gun aimed directly at his chest snapped accidentally but fortunately misfired; and a falling tree hit him in the chest, breaking his breastbone and three ribs and badly bruising his left thigh, hip, and arm.
It is no wonder that he recognized early the Lord’s power to preserve him. Contemplating these accidents later in his life he said, “I, therefore, ascribe my preservation on earth to the watchcare of a merciful Providence, whose hand has been stretched out to rescue me from death when I was in the presence of the most threatening dangers.”
A thoughtful young man, he wanted to do what was right. In his early teens, he wrote, “My age is an important period in the life of every man; for, generally speaking, at this period of life man forms much of his character for time and eternity. How cautious I ought to be in passing this landmark along the road of my early existence! I feel that I need care, prudence, circumspection and wisdom to guide my footsteps in the path which leads to honor and eternal life.”
Wilford Woodruff’s constant search for guidance led him often to the Lord in prayer. Then, when he finally did have the opportunity to hear the gospel, he was well prepared to receive it.
He describes his introduction to the gospel: “Elder Pulsipher opened with prayer. He knelt down and asked the Lord in the name of Jesus Christ for what he wanted. His manner of prayer and the influence which went with it impressed me greatly. The spirit of the Lord rested upon me and bore witness that he was a servant of God. After singing, he preached to the people for an hour and a half. The spirit of God rested mightily upon him, and he bore a strong testimony of the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon and of the mission of the Prophet Joseph Smith. I believed all that he said. The spirit bore witness of its truth. …
“Liberty was then given by the elders to any one in the congregation to arise and speak for or against what they had heard as they might choose. Almost instantly I found myself upon my feet. The spirit of the Lord urged me to bear testimony of the truth of the message delivered by these elders. I exhorted my neighbors and friends not to oppose these men, for they were the true servants of God. They had preached to us that night the pure gospel of Jesus Christ. When I sat down, my brother Azmon arose and bore a similar testimony. He was followed by several others.”
Three days later, after carefully searching the Book of Mormon, he was baptized on 31 December 1833. He wrote: “The snow was about three feet deep, the day was cold, and the water was mixed with ice and snow, yet I did not feel cold.”
Soon after this, he went to Kirtland, where he met the Prophet Joseph Smith. From Kirtland, he and other new members accompanied the Prophet on the march of Zion’s Camp. During this period he was “moved upon” to start recording the significant events of Church history. Later he commented on this heavenly direction:
“The devil has sought to take away my life from the day I was born until now, more so even than the lives of other men. I seem to be a marked victim of the adversary. I can find but one reason for this: the devil knew if I got into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I would write the history of that Church and leave on record the works and teachings of the prophets, of the apostles and elders. I have recorded nearly all the sermons and teachings that I ever heard from the Prophet Joseph, I have in my journal many of the sermons of President Brigham Young, and such men as Orson Hyde, Parley P. Pratt and others. Another reason I was moved upon to write in the early days was that nearly all the historians appointed in those times apostatized and took the journals away with them.”

Jacquie Simonet of Nancy returned home one evening in 1969 and found his wife, Suzanne, weeping. A copy of L’Etoile, the Church’s French magazine, was in her lap. “I have been reading about eternal marriage,” she said softly to him. “We can never have these blessings unless you are baptized.”

Jacquie had attended church with his wife for four years and had listened to the missionary discussions twice. “I had not been baptized because I smoked,” he says. “My heart was touched as I talked to my wife that night, and I realized that I already knew the gospel was true. I love my wife, and I knew that I wanted to be with her for eternity. So I threw away my cigarettes and never smoked again.” Jacquie was baptized, and the following year the Simonets were sealed in the Swiss Temple. Today he serves as the president of the Bordeaux France Stake.

The Simonets reared five sons, a niece, and a nephew. Now grown, these children live in Paris, Thoiry, Bordeaux, and the United States, and nearly all are rearing a third generation in the gospel. The nephew, Christian Soulé, is a counselor in the Paris Stake presidency.

The two months that I spent in the Missionary Training Center had prepared me well for the mission experience; I had a reasonable command of the language and felt comfortable teaching the memorized discussions. Culture classes had been sufficient to prepare me for the cultural conditions that abounded in Central America, and with daily vitamins I seemed to be staying healthy in spite of food that I was unaccustomed to and never seemed to get enough of. Sure, there were a lot of things about living in Honduras that took awhile to adjust to, but the actual missionary work didn’t seem to be a big adjustment.
I truly believed in and thought that I really understood most of the truths that I was sharing. I had grown up in an LDS home and was confident that my background had provided me with just about as much as there was to know about basic concepts like faith, baptism, and service. I’d probably heard Sunday School lessons on service a hundred times. I’d always participated in Church service projects and had even done a big community service project to earn an Eagle Scout Award. And now I was giving up two years of my life to share the gospel with people I didn’t even know. When I left on my mission, I was sure that if I hadn’t understood the meaning of service before, I certainly did now. However, in this foreign land, I was finding out that there were quite a few things that I didn’t fully comprehend—and service was one of them.
The rough and dusty trails that led from hut to hut among the palm and papaya trees had become familiar to me in the short time that I had been in the village of Santa Barbara. I had also grown accustomed to cold showers at 6:00 A.M. and was actually developing a taste for bananas at every meal. Our area was small enough that my companion and I knew the location of the homes of every member, and we were able to pass by at least once a week to encourage them to attend Sunday meetings.
The Sortos were a humble family with great faith, and I knew them as the family whose dog always came with them to the small rented building that we used as a chapel. He would sit patiently and wait for the meetings to end and then disappear along with the rest of the family up into the hills. Brother Sorto made adobe bricks for a living and would pick up an odd job here and there cleaning the brush from someone’s field. This he did with a machete, inch by inch, as he literally crawled along the ground.
One day as we approached the one-room, thatched-roof home of the Sorto family, the little dog with near perfect church attendance ran down the trail barking and wagging his tail to greet us. Looking into the open doorway we could see that Brother Sorto was lying on the floor, and the other family members were gathered around. As my companion and I got closer we could see that one of Brother Sorto’s thin brown legs was covered with a mixture of dirt and blood. A moment of explanation from Sister Sorto painted a sickening picture. While cleaning a field that morning Brother Sorto had been swinging his sharpened machete from side to side, cutting away the weeds and brush. The machete had slipped and, instead of swinging along the ground, had dug into his shin. He had made his way home and was now lying quietly waiting for the bleeding to stop.
It quickly became evident that no one quite knew what to do, so my companion and I went right to work. He took the oldest son with him and went down into the pueblo to round up some gauze and perhaps a little rubbing alcohol. I remained with Brother Sorto to clean the dirt and blood from his leg. Sister Sorto brought me a large towel and a basin filled with water that she had been warming over the fire. I tied the towel around my waist and knelt down on the dirt floor next to Brother Sorto. The floor was smooth and hard from being constantly swept with large, dried palm branches. As I began to bathe his feet with the clean water, Brother Sorto looked up, smiled, and took my hand. With the other I continued to clean away the dirt and blood.
“Esta bien, hermano.”
“Te quiero, elder,” he replied.
My heart filled with love for this man, and suddenly my mind was flooded with images from the scriptures:
“He riseth from supper, and laid aside his garments; and took a towel, and girded himself.
“After that he poureth water into a bason, and began to wash the disciples’ feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith he was girded” (John 13:4–5).
So many times I had read the account of Christ performing that sacred ordinance. So often I had sat through lessons on service and humility, and now, suddenly, kneeling on the floor in a little adobe hut in the hills of Honduras, it all made sense. Jesus, throughout his ministry, showed us the perfect example through the love and service he gave. Service should be given because there is love, not because there is an obligation.
“Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver” (2 Cor. 9:7).
As the dirt and blood were washed away I could see that the wound was not as deep as I had first anticipated, but the lesson I had learned affected me more deeply than I could have imagined.
Maybe the true meaning of service isn’t found in all of those big projects but rather in the simple everyday kindnesses that we can show one another.

A short time later we had our own opportunity to be receivers of service. After living in a community for only one month, it became necessary for me to stay completely down for two months while expecting our eighth baby. Our first reaction was that we could handle this challenge all alone. The children were used to helping and had regular jobs around the house. However, we soon recognized that despite careful planning and added responsibilities, we needed help.
Even after years of teaching and hearing lessons on serving others and accepting service, we found that to actually let someone help us was difficult to do. But, as we allowed them to help us, we soon found our hearts full of thanks for their thoughtfulness.
A retired couple came by and picked up the youngest children for a morning outing. Our bishop organized a sacrament meeting and brought it in our home. Several busy sisters came by regularly just to chat, because they knew that I enjoyed adult company. A couple prepared and brought in a candlelight dinner to share with us for a date night. A batch of white shirts disappeared and then reappeared, freshly ironed.
The phrase “Call me if I can do anything” took on new meaning. We learned that you will rarely take someone up on such an offer. Instead, we witnessed people who came by saying, “Is it the kitchen you want cleaned, or would you rather have me vacuum?” Many were good examples to us as they not only thought of helpful things to do, but did them.
Another thought came forcefully to mind. Any time service was rendered they could probably have been doing the same thing for their own family at home. Yet a large family brought a canister of homemade ice cream to us. A lovely lady made our daughter’s eighth grade graduation dress. A sweet friend brought fresh loaves of homemade bread by the armsful each week, insisting that our family was used to homemade, not store-bought, bread. One of our grandmas left her home and came to stay with us for two weeks.
A line from my journal says: “If only I can remember the same gift of kindness to others when I am well.” Service had become a living principle, and we felt an overwhelming desire to be able to serve others.

On my third day in the hospital, my neurologist requested an MRV (magnetic resonance venography) of my spinal column and brain, looking for a tumor or blockage. At 4:00 a.m. two days after I woke up blind, I began a five-hour MRV. In preparation, my family planned to pray and fast for me that morning. My father, who slept by my side on a bench each night in my hospital room, gave me another blessing—the second of several blessings I received.

When a hospital technician asked if I wanted to listen to music during my test, I asked for songs from my favorite singer. The tech placed a set of rubber earphones into my ears and pinned my head down with a facial mesh to hold me in place. In the process, he bumped the headphones nearly out of my ears. I could barely hear any music as the MRV began.

The longer the procedure took, the hotter I felt inside the tubular imaging machine. After what seemed like forever, I was told I was doing great and to keep going a little longer. But I felt scared and distraught from the heat, loud sounds, and constraints holding me still.

In silent prayer, I cried out: “Heavenly Father, please comfort me. I’m so alone. I need Thy help. I need my family.”

Immediately, a soft piano chord echoed in my ears. It was from one of my favorite songs—one that my younger sister, Morgan, plays on the piano. I would not have expected to hear it from the loose earphones over the noise of the machine. It seemed like Morgan was with me, and I wasn’t alone. The noise went away. The heat went away. The claustrophobia went away.

I felt out of my body, like I was floating on a sea in space. I felt surrounded by God’s love and by my family’s love. Just like that, I was calm. It was 7:30 a.m., the time my family started fasting for me. The rest of the five-hour MRV passed in an instant, and then I heard, “You’re done.”

The love I felt from that experience left me in tears and eased the weariness I felt during the rest of my stay in the hospital. I didn’t know if my sight would return, but I knew that God was there and had heard my prayer. After four days in the hospital, I was released.

The children were enjoying their last day before school started. The day was filled with bike riding, baseball games, pizza, and trying to have as much fun as they possibly could. Toward the end of the day, a new boy appeared looking for someone to play with. My son John began playing with him. Soon afterward, John was invited to go swimming, but his new friend was not. Rather than leave the new boy alone, John turned down the offer. I’m thankful for John’s good example.

For some reason, the last month or so, my mind has turned to a colleague of many years ago at the University of Utah. Dr. Reed Merrill was a distinguished educational psychologist. He had, for instance, done pioneering work in establishing the process of licensure associated with clinical psychology, as well as important work in educational psychology. However, he had been inactive in the Church and inattentive to spiritual things, though a good person. Then, in the early 1980s he was stirred spiritually by the Lord. I could see it when he came to visit me twice. He wrote two powerful letters regarding the comparative emptiness of his secular discipline with the fullness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. These observations meant a lot because they came from a man of unquestioned intellect and integrity. Other catalytic things were happening, unbeknownst to me, including his daughter’s service on a mission, to say nothing of a wonderful wife.

Reed called me sometime before his daughter’s sealing, asking if I would perform her sealing. I said, “I would be delighted.” I think I had an intervening trip overseas, but asked, “Reed, will you be there?”

With his typical integrity, he said, “Neal, you know me well enough to know I won’t be there unless I am fully worthy to be there.” When the morning came for the sealing in the Salt Lake Temple, I waited with particular anticipation. Then Reed came down the corridor of the temple. We embraced, and he said, “Neal, I made it!” He had come home! Subsequently, he taught in his high priests group and in various classes. It was a spiritual renaissance in his life, a marvelous thing to see. How wonderful it is when anybody comes home!

Yesterday, when I reviewed my handwritten notes used ten years ago at Reed’s funeral, they included words of gratitude for what I called, even back then, “the intersections of our lives”—Reed’s and mine. The most important thing to be said about Reed Merrill when he departed from this life was that he exited “in spiritual crescendo.” Such things bring joy!

In 1991 we moved into a small branch. Several months before our youngest son’s eighth birthday, my wife, the Primary president, asked him who he wanted to perform his baptism. Of course he wanted his father to perform the ordinance. My wife told him that probably was not going to happen. He did not accept that answer and set about the task of activating his father. He was quite relentless, and in short order I found myself serving as the Scoutmaster, and I later baptized and confirmed my son.

One day I had a spiritual prompting that I should invite my best friend from school to a devotional. I wanted to ignore the prompting, but I finally sent her a text the day before. As we sat together at the devotional, I was nervous. But when the meeting was over, she had a big smile on her face. It was a reminder to me that God knows His children better than I do and that I should always follow promptings to share the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Eliza, Minnesota, USA

I have had hard times in real life too. In 2021, I tore my ACL in gymnastics. I was devastated and didn’t know what I was going to do.
I remember sitting in church before my surgery. Someone was speaking, but I wasn’t listening until they said one verse: “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me” (Philippians 4:13). That moment helped me because I knew I needed to pray and get close to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ so I could receive Their strength.

I have a little bit of a strained relationship with my brother, Michael. Just normal sibling stuff, like we get on each other’s nerves. But I’d been praying to God for a few weeks to bless Michael and to help me love him and be kind to him.
Then one Sunday in sacrament meeting, my brother was up at the sacrament table so that he could bless the bread. While the bread was being passed, I said another little prayer in my head: “Lord, please bless my brother Michael with happiness.”
In that moment, I just felt this enormous sense of love for my brother, and I realized how much God loved him. The feeling was quiet and reverent, but it was extremely powerful to me.
After the sacrament, Michael came and sat down. It felt so awkward, but I turned to him and told him that God loves him.
I have felt God’s love for people around me, and I’ve felt it for me personally. I know that He loves you, too.

Coach Ken Jenks has some good news and some bad news for the boys on his soccer team. As members of a recreation-league soccer team, they’ve had incredible success. The LDS boys, who have teamed up with nonmember friends, are some of the best soccer players in the area.
The coach starts with the good news. “Well, boys, we’ve got a great team, and the Southern California Soccer League championship is in the bag,” he says. Then his face clouds a bit, and he delivers the bad news. “But we’ll be playing three games, and one of them is on a Sunday. How do you feel about that?”
Five hands reluctantly but firmly go up. Eric Miller, 14, Jeff Jenks, 14, Justin Bonsey, 14, and twins Trent and Travis Weaver, 15, stand up and tell the group, “We can’t play on Sunday.” The boys, who are members of the Cypress First Ward, Cypress California Stake, aren’t happy about the idea of missing out on the biggest game of the season, but they are sure about their decision.
Although the controversy of the games on Sunday still continues in Orange County sports leagues, the boys’ stand is beginning to make a difference. Many local sports organizations are holding Sunday games less often.
So, as expected, the soccer team plays well on Saturday and wins easily. Then the Mormon boys wish their team the best and go to church on Sunday. The non-LDS members of the team play the championship game and lose. The team takes third place.
Eric shrugs his shoulders, “This game is a temporary thing. I really would have liked to play that championship game if it hadn’t been on Sunday, but I know that keeping the Sabbath will help me return to my Father in Heaven.”
Justin echoes Eric, “It was an individual decision for me, too. I know that it is right and so it didn’t bother me either. The next day some of the kids at school were a little upset, but I think they respected me for staying with my standards.”
And respect from peers, parents, coaches, and other players is a valuable by-product of the sacrifice these boys have made. But perhaps even more important than that is the fact that their example does not go unnoticed by the younger boys waiting for their turn to play the game—but not on Sunday.
Editor’s note: Because of the stand these and other LDS boys have made, regular-season soccer games are no longer held on Sunday in Orange County, California.