Gospel Story Finder

Age 27
Freelance journalist
Ward Relief Society president
Before I received the gospel, my world was a dark place. I was slow to forgive and harbored ill feelings against anyone I felt had wronged me. I was disillusioned with marriage, seeing all around me husbands who were drunk and women who were battered.
Embracing the gospel of Jesus Christ changed me. It was wonderful to go to church and find families sitting together, to be taught about love, mutual respect, and understanding. I found myself abandoning traditions not in harmony with the gospel.
I felt compelled to make peace with a perceived enemy. We now keep in touch often. I met a wonderful returned missionary and will be married in the temple soon.
I am convinced that I am in the right place. The love and concern the members have for each other gives me a sense of belonging. My life has become more meaningful. I know it is absolutely essential that I remain faithful to the end by avoiding backward glances toward the darkness and remorse of the past.

When Bill and I decided we would like to go to college, we found it would take almost all we had saved since graduation from high school to pay the modest tuition required at the state university located about one hundred miles from our home. On a visit to the campus we did locate a place where we could get board and room for 20 dollars a month apiece but, to our dismay, found that even part-time jobs at less than 25 cents an hour had many takers. The fact that Bill and I had graduated at the top of our high school classes apparently did not qualify us for the few scholarships available; our mother was undergoing expensive medical treatment (she would die within the year), and our father’s small coal mine, still under development, could not be counted on for consistent support. Our determination to attend college seemed hopelessly blocked.
Then Boyd, who was still in high school and a truly extraordinary student, came home to announce that a local transfer company had offered him a job as bookkeeper for their entire operation at a salary of 40 dollars a month. He would have to work long hours after school and all day Saturday, but I can still hear the delight in his voice as he said, “Now Bill and Bob can go to school.”
How our parents and brother managed to send us the 40 dollars we needed each month I still can’t figure out; but, obviously, most of it came from Boyd. My guess is that he spent almost nothing on himself to be sure we had what we needed. Happily, over the years, Bill and I have had a chance to help Boyd, but the very essence of total sharing is that there is no attempt to balance the books. Gifts of pure love are never a sacrifice, and losing one’s life completely in the service of others is to find it completely. Now, after all these years, I understand the deeper meaning of what Mother was trying to instill in us: Unconditional love within the family can prepare us to appreciate the Savior’s gift of eternal life, for he is our brother.

In 1975 Janelle Griffin was in the tenth grade. An assignment to write a paper about population explosion started a series of events that eventually led to a tape and filmstrip called, “Very Much Alive.”
Janelle and her father, Dr. Glen Griffin, now members of the Bountiful, Utah Val Verda Stake, went through the family photos and selected some good slides. These were matched with an anti-abortion story-script that Janelle and her father wrote. The resulting slide presentation, emphasizing the sanctity of human life was enthusiastically applauded by students and teachers. Refinements and revisions followed. A sound track was recorded on cassette tape. Some who saw the presentation suggested that every LDS youth should see “Very Much Alive.”
Many revisions and refinements followed, and then followed distribution in 17 languages to all the Church (VVOF1420.).

When I first learned to write, I wrote everything backwards, in a mirror image. Later I learned to write my letters in the right direction, but my handwriting was very sloppy. My mother was worried, but Mrs. Leroy, my second-grade teacher, said, “He’s doing well in math and in other areas, so don’t worry about his handwriting. It will improve.”
Sometimes you wonder if you’re progressing or not. But if any of us looked back to when we were in kindergarten, we could certainly see we have made progress. You’re getting better and better in every way.

My sisters came into the living room each carrying a shiny baking powder can. The cans tinkled with the sound of coins that they emptied onto the table to be counted.
“Bishop Isom will pat me on top of the head when I give him my money and say, ‘My what a fine tithing!’” Mildred said proudly.
“Then he’ll say, ‘You are good girls,’” Kate added.
The bishop’s last name was the same as ours because he was Papa’s cousin.
I didn’t have any nickels or pennies. I didn’t even have an empty baking powder can, but I knew a little about tithing. I liked sitting on top of a load of hay as the horses clopped along the dusty road to the tithing barn. And I enjoyed watching Mama push the firm yellow butter out of the wooden mold onto the wrapper. Some of it she set aside for “tithing butter.” And our chickens laid “tithing eggs.”
I went into the kitchen where Mama was mixing bread. “When can I pay tithing?” I asked.
Mama’s dough-covered hands stopped still in the big tin pan. She looked at me for a long minute then smiled. “My goodness, you are getting to be a big girl, aren’t you! You’ll be five next summer. Why of course you want to pay tithing. Tell your sisters to wait until I finish mixing and you can go with them.”
Dancing into the living room I happily announced, “I’m going to Bishop Isom’s too.”
“You can go, but you don’t have any tithing,” Kate said.
“Wait for Alice,” Mama called to my sisters. Then she washed the dough from her hands and said, “Come with me.”
I followed her to the barn where she scooped up a can of wheat, scattering it in the yard. “Here, chick, chick, chick,” she called.
Greedily, the chickens flocked around her, so it was easy for Mama to slip her hands over the wings of a young rooster and hold him firmly while the plump bird squawked in alarm. “Here.” she said, handing him to me, “hold him while I tie his legs.” From a bunch of used binding twine that hung on the corral fence, she selected a short piece. Securing the rooster’s legs she said, “You’ve worked hard feeding the chickens and gathering the eggs. You can take this rooster to the bishop for your tithing.”
“I’m going to pay tithing. I really, really am,” I cried, running to the house.
My sisters giggled at the rooster squirming in my arms.
Purple daisies were blooming along the fences and the leaves of the fruit trees fluttered about us as we walked the six blocks to the bishop’s house. I hugged my rooster and he cackled back at me. The sun on his shiny black feathers picked up glints of green and gold. He was as beautiful as any bird that ever went to see the bishop.
When Bishop Samuel Isom saw us coming through the gate, his front door opened wide. His ample front was made for hugging children. “Come in, come in,” he said merrily. Then, seeing the rooster in my arms, he asked, “Oh-ho, and what’s this?”
“He’s a tithing rooster,” I proudly announced.
“Oh, he’s a real dandy,” the bishop said. Taking the rooster from me he gently set him down on the porch and ushered us inside.
Sister Isom came into the room, tall and smiling. Her neat hair was wound in a bun on top of her head. Over her blue checkered dress she wore a snowy white apron bordered with wide handmade lace. “Have a chair, girls,” she invited.
The bishop sat at his rolltop desk and Kate and Mildred gave him the coins from their baking powder cans.
We sat on polished high-backed chairs, feasting our eyes on the cheerful room while the bishop made out our receipts. I hoped that when I grew up I could have a stairway with such a beautiful bannister sweeping down into my living room.
Tearing out the receipts the bishop arose. “Mighty fine, mighty fine,” he said handing us each a receipt.
“Will you please read my receipt for me?” I asked, looking up at him.
“I’d be glad to,” he replied. Taking it from me he read, “Alice Isom has voluntarily contributed to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints one young rooster.”
I sucked in my breath. “Oh, my!” The Church of Jesus Christ was so big and I was so small. I had really and truly contributed to this great big wonderful Church. Happily I took my receipt out onto the porch. “Look, rooster,” I said, holding it in front of him, “you belong to the Church now, because I contributed you. That makes you a Mormon rooster.”
Bishop and Sister Isom were in the doorway laughing heartily. I skipped to the gate ahead of my sisters, feeling that I was the happiest tithe payer in the whole town of Hurricane, Utah.

I eagerly glanced down at the basketball summer league schedule, and saw to my dismay that 8 of the 12 games were on Sunday. What was I going to do? I don’t play on Sunday.
I looked across the room at my talented teammate. I had worked so hard to win the starting forward position, and if I didn’t play, I was going to lose the job to him. But I had decided a long time ago to never play on Sunday, and that wasn’t about to change now.
The coach finished up his speech by saying, “Congratulations on making the team. The first practice is tomorrow at five. See you then.”
The team slowly filed out the door as I sat nervously in my seat. I knew my course of action, but that wasn’t going to make this any easier. I hesitantly walked up to the front of the room and said, “Hey coach, I have a little problem.”
“What’s that, Brad?” he asked.
“Well, I was looking at the schedule, and I saw that there were eight games on Sunday. I won’t be able to play in those games,” I said with a shaky voice.
“How come?” he asked with a surprised look on his face.
“It’s a religious thing. I believe in keeping the Sabbath day holy and part of that is not playing sports on Sunday,” I responded, feeling a little awkward with the situation.
“Okay, well listen. I would still love to have you for the other games—that is if you still want to play,” he said with a smile.
“I would love to,” I said, and we shook hands as if to seal the agreement. I turned and walked out the door, feeling less awkward and more satisfied.
True, I wasn’t going to play for most of the league games and I might lose my starting position, but I felt good all the same. If I hadn’t made the decision early that I was never going to play on Sunday, I might have chosen differently. But I knew I would be blessed for keeping the Lord’s commandments. I confidently walked away from that room knowing that everything was going to be all right.

What have you done as a service project lately? Was it something that meant a lot to the people you were serving? Was it something that brought the love of Christ into their lives and showed them that people truly care?
Jessie and Steve Cota, twelve-year-old twin brothers who live in the Nogales Branch, Tucson Arizona Rincon Stake, performed that kind of service. But they didn’t do it as a quorum project or as an assignment from the branch president. They did it because they saw a need and found a way to fulfill it.
With help from their father, they built a house for a homeless family.
The house the twins built is similar to dozens of other houses that cover the hillsides of Nogales, Mexico, a town that straddles the border of the United States and Mexico. The house is small, is made mostly of plywood, and has no plumbing. But it is now home to a family of six—an abandoned mother and her five children, who used to live on the street.
“My aunt, who lives in Mexico, met this woman in the hospital,” Steve explains. “She found out the conditions the woman and her children were living in and knew they needed help. She talked to my father, José, who is first counselor in the branch presidency, to see if something could be done.”
Something could. Word spread quickly in the branch. Church members contributed what they could, and Brother Cota, a builder, was able to get materials donated from a construction project he was working on. The aunt donated property behind her own home as a site for the new construction.
“Everybody helped out,” Jessie says. “But to be honest, my dad did most of the work.”
Brother Cota, however, gives credit to his sons. “They really enjoy working. They helped put the floor in, hauling buckets of water so we could make the cement. They helped with the framing and with the roof. We’re especially proud of the roof, which has asphalt shingles and should last many years.”
It took three to four weeks, working on Saturdays, to complete the structure. “We felt good, knowing we were helping someone who needed help,” Steve says. “We learned a lot doing this together. We learned about how Church members can reach out to help others in the community. We learned about construction. And we got to be better friends with our father.”
“We like to nail things together,” Jessie says. “Maybe I’ll be a builder when I grow up, too.”
Brother Cota just smiles, then says, “The important thing about this is that now the children who live in this house will have a future. They have protection from the weather and a chance to go to school.”
We visit for a minute more, talking about birdhouses the boys are building as a hobby, about Steve’s baseball games and Jessie’s love of football, about future plans to build an outside bathroom to go along with the house.
Then the woman, surrounded by her children, greets the Cotas warmly and poses for a photo with them.
“These,” she says, “are the people who gave me my home.”

In my last year of teaching Year 1 children, I decided to share the real message of Easter with the children in my class. I borrowed the video of He is Risen, a cartoon version of the Easter story. The children sat and watched intently, which was a miracle in itself. At the end of the video, they were full of amazement, all asking questions. One boy asked if he would see his deceased grandfather again. Hearing the children ask these questions and being able to answer them made it feel as if I was hearing the message for the first time myself. I stopped and thought about how much I had taken this truly miraculous event for granted.

I began to reflect about how we could discover the right church. I knew that there were many different Christian churches with different doctrines. I thought, “Well, the Internet has a lot of sources,” so I searched for “the true persecuted church.” I don’t know why I typed it in that way, but several lists of churches appeared, including The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. There are many Christian churches in Brazil, but I had never heard of this church.
Upon entering the Web site, I read the story of a 14-year-old boy who had seen God and Jesus Christ face-to-face and had translated the Book of Mormon by the power of God. I had never heard anything about Joseph Smith or the Book of Mormon before, and I thought it was interesting. But what caught my attention was that the Book of Mormon told of Jesus Christ appearing to the ancient inhabitants of the American continent.
I had a great desire to read this book, so I requested a copy. I told Julyette about the site, and after she read the story of Joseph Smith, she was certain this church was the Church of Jesus Christ. She said I had been prepared by the Lord to find the Church for her.
I was impressed with her conviction and wanted to know for myself. I asked my mother if she knew about the Book of Mormon. She told me my sister had a blue book from two missionaries. I borrowed the book and read it from cover to cover in one week; I wasn’t interested in anything else. What a feeling of peace I had! I remembered a promise that everyone who read the book should ask God if it were true, and He would respond (see Moroni 10:3–4).
Early in the morning I went to my room to offer a prayer. I placed my trust in God and asked Him if the book was true, and I felt a burning inside. I did not know what the feeling was, but I felt joy. That night I had a dream in which a Book of Mormon prophet appeared. I asked him if the book was true, and he said it was. When I woke up I thought, “The Book of Mormon really is true.”
I asked around until I found someone who knew the directions to the church. One Friday I rode my bicycle to the chapel, but no one was there. I prayed for help to know when meetings were held. I went again the following week. When I arrived, an elderly lady told me that Church meetings were on Sunday mornings. I returned home happy and excited with my heart beating rapidly.
When I arrived on Sunday morning, I was well received by the members. I was impressed with the organization of the Church. I felt peace and joy in my heart during the meetings, and I asked the missionaries to come to my house to teach me. I returned home and told my mother that I had found the right religion.
The missionaries taught me about the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I already knew the story of Joseph Smith, so when they invited me to pray to learn the truth, I told them I had already received an answer and told them about my experience. They were impressed with my testimony and suggested a date, May 15, 2004, for my baptism. In the meantime, my friend Julyette was also baptized. My baptism was the greatest joy of my life, and my friend and I are very happy we found the true Church of Jesus Christ.

We are all familiar with the life and work of the late Mother Teresa, who spent most of her life laboring among the world’s poor and impoverished and did much to relieve sorrow and suffering. Once when she was in Australia, she offered to clean the hut of a lonely Aborigine man. In his hut was a beautiful but unlit lamp. When asked why he didn’t light it, he replied, “Nobody comes here.” She made him promise that he would light the lamp, and she promised to have the sisters visit him. Later the man sent word to Mother Teresa: “Tell my friend, the light she lit in my life is still burning!”

Illustrations by Scott Jarrard
My mother and I arose early on a wintry Saturday morning to drive two hours to my all-day volleyball tournament. I quickly became absorbed by the music and games on my iPod.
With music streaming through the headphones and my eyes looking down at my game, I heard a distinct voice urgently say, “Aubrey. Aubrey. Help. Look up.” The voice was audible through the sound in my headphones, and I was confused. As I looked up, I realized our car had gone off the road and was speeding down a grassy median. I looked over at my mom; she had fallen asleep at the wheel! I screamed, “Mom! Mom! Wake up!” She immediately awoke, grabbed the steering wheel, and tried to gain control of the car. Luckily, the car eventually slowed to a stop. We sat in silence and unbelief for several minutes.
I explained to my mom that I had felt prompted to look up. In amazement, we both knew what had happened. That prompting from the Holy Ghost had probably saved our lives. He was the one who warned me about the danger and instructed me to help. I will never forget this experience or the prompting that I felt that day.

Many years ago I took our only son on his first camping-fishing trip. He was just a boy. The canyon was steep, and the descent was difficult. But the fishing was good. Every time I hooked a fish, I would give the pole to the eager boy, and with shouts of joy he would reel in a beautiful trout. In the shadows and coolness of the late afternoon, we began our climb back up to the rim high above us. He scrambled rapidly up the mountain ahead of me with a challenging, “Come on, Dad. I’ll bet I can beat you to the top.” The challenge was heard but wisely ignored. His small frame seemed literally to fly over, under, and around every obstacle, and when every step that I took seemed ridiculously like my last, he had reached the top and stood cheering me on. After supper we knelt in prayer. His small voice rose sweetly heavenward in benediction to our day. Then we climbed into our large double sleeping bag, and after a bit of pushing and pulling I felt his little body snuggle and settle tightly against mine for warmth and security against the night. As I looked at my son beside me, suddenly I felt a surge of love pass through my body with such force that it pushed tears to my eyes. And, at that precise moment, he put his little arms around me and said, “Dad?”
“Yes, son.”
“Are you awake?”
“Yes, my son, I am awake.”
“Dad, I love you a million, trillion times!”
And immediately he was asleep. But I was awake far into the night, expressing my great thanks for such wonderful blessings clothed with a little boy’s body.
Now my son is a man with a son of his own. Once in a while the three of us go fishing. I look at my little redheaded grandson beside his father, and I see in my mind’s eye the image of that wonderful moment long ago. The question so innocently asked, “Dad, are you awake?” still rings in my heart.

One of my new friends, Rick, was a member of the Church too. The night before he left on his mission, I told him I was feeling frustrated. I couldn’t go into the military, I didn’t want to go to college, and I didn’t know what to do. He looked right at me and said, “You should go on a mission like me.”
That statement hit me like a ton of bricks. I said, “All right, I’ll go on a mission.”
He laughed and said, “Well, you have to be a member of the Church first.”
I met with the missionaries with Spencer’s family after Rick left for his mission. Six weeks later, Spencer baptized me. I was almost 19 years old.

With one of my daughters, I was baptized a member of the Church on 25 July 1993. One of my other daughters, however, listened to the missionary discussions with us but was not baptized. She later took the discussions again but still was not baptized. I eventually decided to give her a subscription to the Liahona (Spanish). This added help opened the way for the Spirit to witness to her, and a few months later she was converted. Now I wait eagerly for the messages that inspire and uplift the spirit.
Mireya Josefina Almea de Rodriguez,Bolívar Branch, Barcelona Venezuela Stake

One evening my mom read “The Secret Giver” from the December 2008 Friend to us. We liked the story a lot and thought it was a great idea. So, we made a plan with our mom and decided who we would give gifts to for Christmas and when we would do it. We even did some detective work to discover what some of our recipients would like. We dressed in dark clothes and planned to drop the presents and run. We thought that we were just having fun, but we got more than fun out of this service mission. We felt really good inside after delivering the presents, and we were excited about doing something nice for others. We are already thinking about next year’s “secret giver” mission.

A few years ago late on an April afternoon, three other men and I got out of a small dugout boat at Agua Azul, Chiapas, Mexico, on the Usumacinta River. We entered a small one-motor plane to fly hundreds of miles westward to Tuxtla, Chiapas, on the Grijalva River.
In order to reach Tuxtla, which we had left that morning, President Ernest A. Strong from Springville, Utah, Gareth W. Lowe, manager of the New World Archaeological Foundation, William A. (Bill) Devenish, and I had to fly over one of the most dense jungles in the world and over ranges of mountains.
Heavy black clouds had settled over the jungles. We anticipated that we might run into trouble. For safety’s sake our pilot, Bill, flew the plane very high to get above the clouds. We could not see the ground at any time through the dense clouds. The radio frequency at the Tuxtla airport did not match that on our plane, and so our pilot had to estimate our course back to Tuxtla.
We had traveled a few hours when darkness came on with the immediacy it does in the tropics. Suddenly, the Holy Spirit told me that we had crossed the Grijalva River and were headed westward away from Tuxtla toward a range of mountains and that if we did not change our course quickly we would all get killed.
I immediately told Bill that we were going the wrong direction, that we had crossed the Grijalva River some distance up the river south of Tuxtla. Bill tried to determine the proper course, but because of the turbulent weather conditions, he was unable to do so.
A very depressing, dark feeling came over me. It was a feeling of gloom and despair. I said to President Strong, “We are going to be killed if we keep going in this direction. We’re headed for destruction. If Bill doesn’t change the direction of the plane soon, we will crash.”
President Strong said that he had an oppressive feeling also. We were sitting in the back seat, and Bill heard our conversation. He asked, “President Hunter, which direction do you think we ought to go?”
I quickly replied, “Turn immediately to the right and go north.”
Bill turned the plane to the right. A sweet, peaceful feeling came into my heart, and the Holy Spirit let me know that all would be well. I said, “Everything will be all right with us now. We shall arrive safely at Tuxtla without any mishap.” We had not traveled very long before we saw lights shining from Tuxtla. We circled over the small, dirt airstrip with the lanterns showing us where to land. It was by now very dark.
Our plane landed safely. We observed that there were three or four hundred people at the airstrip. President Strong’s son, Bert, also a stake president, was there and was very delighted to see us back safe. We asked Bert why so many people had collected at the airstrip that evening. He informed us that three Mexicans had gone in a two-motor plane across the jungles and mountains to the Usumacinta River that morning about the time we had flown there. They had not returned and the people of Tuxtla were out waiting for them. Some months later Gareth Lowe wrote informing us that the Mexican plane and its occupants had hit a mountain, and all were killed.
Thus, our lives were spared by heeding the directions given to us by the Holy Spirit. When we arrived at our hotel, we kneeled down and thanked God for his guidance and for saving our lives.

Nik’s brown eyes sparkled with excitement as he thought about the trip that he and his father would take to Chiang Mai that evening.
There were many parasol makers in Thailand, and Nik’s father was the best in his village. Someday Nik would be a parasol maker too. He was already helping his father make parasols, and he’d practiced painting on some. And just last week his father had promised that one day soon Nik could paint some parasols to sell in the market.
“Tonight we will see loy krathong (a festival) in Chiang Mai,” Nik said, as he carefully opened an unpainted parasol for his father.
“That’s right. Tonight in the city you will see thousands of decorations with small candles on them floating down the river. It is a sight you will never forget.”
“I can hardly wait!” Nik said.
“You catch some fish for our lunch while I paint these parasols,” Nik’s father said. “A buyer is coming to see them late this afternoon. Then we will leave for the festival. Maybe we will see someone there making merit.”
“What does it mean to make merit?” Nik asked.
“To make merit is to do something good for the right reason,” Nik’s father explained.
“Do you think I will make merit?”
“You do already, Nik, and when you are a man, I am sure you will make much merit.”
“I saw a woman who bought a cage of birds and then let them fly free. She said she was making merit.”
“Each one must make merit in his own way.”
“I want to make much merit,” Nik said.
Nik’s father smiled. “You run along now and fish, or I will not get these parasols painted.”
Nik picked up his fishing net and headed toward the river. He splashed his way through the edge of the rice field, dipped his net, and gazed into the yellow green waters. He tried to imagine the festival he would see that night.
Before long the sun was overhead. Nik checked his net. He could tell by his growling stomach that it was time to kin kow (eat). He gathered in five fish. They would be tasty as the gup kow (any dish served with rice) for lunch.
As Nik neared his home, he was surprised. He had expected to see a great number of freshly painted parasols drying outside. Instead, there were only three or four.
Nik broke into a run. As he burst into the house, he saw his father with his arm in a makeshift sling.
“I was reaching for a bundle of bamboo and fell off a ladder,” Nik’s father explained. “I think it’s only a sprained wrist, but I’m so slow and awkward with only one good hand that I’ll never finish the parasols before the buyer comes.”
“Don’t worry about that now, Father. I can help you.” Nik stirred the paints until they were smooth, then, with his father helping him hold some of the pieces, Nik finished assembling and painting the parasols. Some were a soft yellow. Some were as pink as a cloud at sunset. A few were blue and red. By midafternoon, a rainbow of parasols stood drying in the sun.
Luckily the buyer was a little late when he came, so all the parasols were dry. “These are fine, indeed,” he said. “I will take them all.”
Nik’s father smiled. “I will have more for you next time. I now have an assistant.”
“Excellent!” the buyer said, and he went his way.
“I’m sorry it’s too late for us to get into the city to see the festival tonight,” Nik’s father said apologetically.
Nik saw the sorrow and disappointment in his father’s face. Nik was disappointed, too, but he was glad that he had been able to help his father and that the buyer had liked the parasols. “We can have our own festival by the river,” Nik said.
Nik and his father each put a small, flat candle onto a strip of bamboo. Then they knelt on the riverbank and sent the candle-lit floats downriver.
Nik watched the candles bob and blink. How could the Chiang Mai festival be more wonderful than this? he thought.
“Today you have made much merit,” Nik’s father said.
Nik and his father smiled at each other. Under the full moon they sat watching until the flickering lights disappeared into the night.

This story happened in the Philippines.
“Mano po! Hello!” Arkin said to Grandma when he got home. He greeted her by bowing and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.
Grandma smiled. “Your dad is waiting for you with the fish. Hurry and go help him!”
Arkin’s dad was a construction worker. He worked very hard to earn money for their family. But they didn’t have much. And sometimes Dad couldn’t find work. When that happened, Arkin helped him sell homemade tinapa (smoked fish).
Arkin and Dad put the packs of tinapa in a basket and carried it outside.
“Thank you for helping me,” said Dad. “I hope we sell enough to pay for a ride to church this week.”
Arkin’s family lived in a small village near rice fields and a fishpond. It was just him, Dad, Grandma, and his older sister. They were far away from the chapel. To get to church, they had to pay to ride a tricycle (a motorcycle with a sidecar). If they didn’t have the money, they had to walk for two hours.
“I have faith that Heavenly Father will help us,” Arkin said. “Let’s go!”
First they went to their neighbor Aling Nena’s house. She always bought tinapa from them.
“Good afternoon!” Arkin said.
Aling Nena opened the gate for them. “Oh, my two favorite people are here!” she said with a smile. She gave Dad some money, and he gave her two packs of tinapa.
“Thank you for buying from us!” Arkin said. “It really means a lot.”
Arkin and Dad walked back out to the street.
“Tinapa! Tinapa! Delicious tinapa!” Arkin called. More people bought fish from them.
It was hot outside, but Arkin didn’t mind. He and Dad sang “Count Your Blessings” as they walked. Every day was a blessing for them!
They kept singing and selling. Arkin almost didn’t notice that their basket was empty.
“Look, Dad! We sold all the fish!” Arkin said.
Dad smiled. “Yes, it’s a blessing.”
Arkin was glad they had sold so much tinapa. It would help pay some of their bills, and there was enough for a ride to church on Sunday!
But tomorrow was Saturday, and that was when they helped clean the church. So early the next morning, Arkin and Dad woke up to start the long walk to the church building. They always walked to save money for Sunday.
“Aren’t you tired of cleaning your church every Saturday?” asked Grandma before they left.
Dad put his hand on Grandma’s shoulder. “Cleaning the church is one way we serve the Lord.”
Arkin nodded. “We get blessings for cleaning the church. Heavenly Father helps our tinapa sell out so we can buy food!”
While they walked, Arkin and Dad sang more hymns. Then they worked hard to clean the church. Arkin wiped the dust from all the windows and chairs. Dad swept and mopped the floor.
When they were done, the bishop shared pandesal (sweet rolls) with everyone who helped. Arkin ate his snack with a big smile. It would be a long walk home, but his heart felt joyful and thankful. When they came back to church tomorrow, the building would be clean for everyone to enjoy and remember Jesus Christ. He was happy he could help.
Illustration by Margarida Esteves

The doctors said she wouldn’t live, but Iris JoAnn Alvarado is thriving. Her faith, and the faith of her family, has preserved her life many times. When her mother was about to give birth to JoAnnie, the stake patriarch came to their home. He felt impressed to give Sister Alvarado a blessing. She didn’t understand then why she needed a blessing, but she did after JoAnnie was born. Her little girl weighed only a little more than four pounds, and the doctors discovered that throughout the pregnancy she had not gotten much oxygen and that the last three months she had probably not received enough nourishment. The Alvarados were told that she would die and that if she didn’t, she would have severe brain damage from the lack of oxygen.
But JoAnnie’s family prayed for her, and their prayers were answered, because she lived. At four months she was standing; at eight months she could walk. When she started talking, it was in short sentences and the words were very clear—there was obviously nothing wrong with her brain. Today, at nine years of age, she continues to excel, getting straight As in all her school classes.

For instance, James Moyle was a stonecutter in Plymouth, England, when he was baptized at the age of 17. Of that occasion he wrote: “I then covenanted with the Lord that I would serve Him through good and evil report. It was the turning point in my life, as it kept me from evil company” (in Gordon B. Hinckley, James Henry Moyle [1951], 18).

Notwithstanding his skill as a mason, he had little money. He borrowed from the Perpetual Emigration Fund and left England in 1854, sailed to America, crossed the plains, and almost immediately secured employment as a stonemason on the Lion House at $3 a day. He saved his money, and when he had $70, the amount of his indebtedness, he promptly repaid the Emigration Fund. He said, “I then considered that I was a free man” (Moyle, 24).