Gospel Story Finder

I thought of this as I sat once with a choice person who had been wronged, and in her anguish and anger had herself subsequently acted in error. Her sins were serious, innocent people had suffered, and the road back was difficult. But that was past. In contrition and humiliation she had followed the course to full forgiveness and had received it. There was a serenity of spirit and a sweet radiation of peace about her that made me think of parables of lost sheep and coin and son, and the language in them concerning the joy and rejoicing in heaven over “one sinner that repenteth.” (Luke 15:7.)
I said, “You really do understand the joy and rejoicing in heaven, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said with a warm smile. Then, not accusing and not condemning, “Brother Hanks, why isn’t there more rejoicing in the ward where I live?”
I have pondered that question in my mind and heart.

I recall a young man who, as a boy of 13, led his quorum of deacons in a successful search for the Christmas spirit. He and his companions lived in a neighborhood in which many elderly widows of limited means resided. All the year long, the boys had saved and planned for a glorious Christmas party. They were thinking of themselves, until the Christmas spirit prompted them to think of others. Frank, as their leader, suggested to his companions that the funds they had saved so carefully be used not for the planned party, but rather for the benefit of three elderly widows who resided together.
The boys made their plans. As their bishop, I needed but to follow. With the enthusiasm of a new adventure, the boys purchased a giant roasting chicken, the potatoes, the vegetables, the cranberries, and all that comprises the traditional Christmas feast. To the widows’ home they went, carrying their gifts of treasure. Through the snow and up the path to the tumbledown porch they came. A knock at the door, the sound of slow footsteps, and then they met.
In the unmelodic voices characteristic of 13-year-olds, the boys sang: “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright.” They then presented their gifts. Angels on that glorious night of long ago sang no more beautifully, nor did Wise Men present gifts of greater meaning. I gazed at the faces of those wonderful women and thought to myself, “Somebody’s mother.” I then looked on the countenances of those noble boys and reflected, “Somebody’s son.”
Not one of those boys ever forgot that precious pilgrimage. Christmas gifts had become Christmas blessings.

I first saw Karen Aydlotte at a multi-stake fireside at BYU. She was the speaker. She was smiling and joking and telling us that there was a good chance she might not live much longer, that she had cancer, an often incurable form of it.
Several weeks later I met Karen through a mutual friend. She was very open with her feelings. We talked a good deal about life and death. For me, for most of us, it is easy to put the reality of death into what Shakespeare aptly phrased as “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.” For Karen death was hard reality. She had to reconcile living with dying.

The last paragraph of the declaration is as important as the earlier ones. The signers of the Declaration of Independence pledged everything they owned, including their lives and their sacred honor, in order for America to become a free nation. Today we enjoy the blessings of a free land because of their sacrifice. The signers knew the risks when they put their names on the document. The declaration represented an act of treason against the British Crown. The penalty was death by hanging if caught. Each became a hunted man.

One of the signers, Francis Lewis, a delegate from New York,
saw his home plundered and his estates completely destroyed by British soldiers. His wife was captured and treated with brutality. Though she was later exchanged for two British prisoners through the efforts of Congress, she died from her abuse. [Rush Limbaugh Jr., “Lives, Fortunes, Sacred Honor,” Reader’s Digest, July 1998, 165]
Other signers experienced similar fates. Some lost their lives. Some of their family members lost theirs. Many lost their fortunes in support of the patriotic cause. But all of them were true to the promise of loyalty to their new country and to each other.

Hyrum served many missions for the Church. During one mission, traveling from Kirtland to Indiana, he endured one of his greatest trials when his first wife, Jerusha, died soon after giving birth to his sixth child. Hyrum’s mother, Lucy Mack Smith, wrote that Jerusha’s death “wrung our hearts with more than common grief. … She was a woman whom everybody loved.”
Although Hyrum was grieved, his faith was unshaken; his determination to serve Heavenly Father and his church never faltered. I believe God rewarded his faithfulness by bringing into his life one of the great women of Church history, Mary Fielding, whom he subsequently married. Together they built an extraordinary legacy of love and discipleship.

When I was a young mother with four children, my husband was serving as a bishop. It felt wonderful to be part of my idea of an ideal Latter-day Saint family. But my husband died of cancer, and I was left to raise my children alone. I had to return to school, finish a degree, and work. I had to reframe what I perceived an ideal Latter-day Saint family to be. I later married a man with six children, and we became a blended family with ten children. Once again I had to reframe what I thought an ideal LDS family was.

Learning how to grieve and then go on with your life can build strength. When you can acknowledge and work through painful feelings, you develop emotional, spiritual, and psychological skills that can help you in other areas of your life. Your capacity for empathy can grow through a personal acquaintance with grief.

As a young boy living on a small farm in Fielding, Utah, I always wanted a horse. When I was old enough to take care of one, my dad bought me a big black horse, and I named him Smokey.
I loved Smokey and took care of him the best I could. One morning when I went out to feed him, he was not in his corral. I hunted around and found him in the haystack, which was fenced off from the corral. He had been making a mess—tromping on the hay and ruining it. All the gates were closed; Smokey had obviously jumped over the fence. His manger had hay in it, so there was no reason for him to go into the haystack.
A few days later Smokey was gone again. This time I found him out in the pasture. Soon he started jumping out of both the corral and the pasture. I had to ride my bike all over town looking for him. Sometimes Dad and I drove for miles before finding him and bringing him back.
Dad decided to buy some hobbles for Smokey. Hobbles are like handcuffs for horses to keep them from running away. “That will fix old Smokey,” Dad said.
It didn’t even slow him down. Jumping fences became a game to him, and he wasn’t much fun anymore. He was wild. I couldn’t catch him, and I couldn’t ride him very much. Finally Dad said, “We’ll teach old Smokey a lesson.” We tied a heavy log-chain to Smokey’s hobbles so that wherever he went he would have to drag an eight-foot (2.5-m) log-chain between his legs. We thought surely this would stop him.
But that night Smokey tried to jump the fence again. The chain caught and tripped him. He fell into the fence and got cut up in the barbed wire. We got him out and called the veterinarian, who came and patched him up.
My home teacher, whom I called Uncle Claude, was a real horseman. He had an idea for Smokey, so he traded a gray horse to me for Smokey. Uncle Claude raced chariots, and he thought that if he could team Smokey with a horse that was a good chariot racer, he could break Smokey’s bad habits and they could win some races. So Uncle Claude hooked Smokey up to the chariot, and they practiced a few times. Smokey seemed to be doing just fine—until the race. All of a sudden he veered off to the right and tried to jump over the fence that ran alongside the track. It almost killed Uncle Claude, and Smokey hurt himself so badly that he had to be put to sleep.
I’ve thought about my old horse many times since then. He had no good reason to jump over the fence that first time he got into the haystack. He was like some young people who decide that they want to be disobedient. Once we jump that first fence, it becomes easier to jump other fences—breaking the commandments and the principles of the gospel—and before long we can destroy our lives through disobedience.

Most of us know of instances where the Church and its members have been persecuted, criticized, or misunderstood. But perhaps we are less aware of individuals and groups who have risen to defend the Church. One of the best known of such people is Colonel Thomas L. Kane, a Pennsylvania military officer whose influence assisted the Saints after their expulsion from Nauvoo and during their travails across Iowa and at Winter Quarters, the trek west to the Great Basin, and the early years in the Salt Lake valley. He traveled by sea from the East to the West Coast and then cross-country to Salt Lake City to help avert war and bloodshed as Johnson’s army approached the Great Basin.

Long sympathetic to the Saints and their cause, Colonel Kane shared his feelings before the Historical Society of Pennsylvania in 1850. In a lengthy discourse, he reviewed his acquaintance and association with Church members over several years, noting their suffering and endurance; their industry and enormous accomplishments while destitute; their order and discipline; their happy, cheerful natures; their devotion to their families, to each other, and to their God; their hope and faith in the future because of their religion; the injustice of their persecution; and their loyalty to the government that had turned its back to them. He closed his discourse by stating that he had never “heard the single charge against them as a community—against their habitual purity of life, their integrity of dealing, their toleration of religious differences in opinion, their regard for the laws, or their devotion to the constitutional government” that he did not know to be unfounded (see Thomas L. Kane, “The Mormons,” in Daniel Tyler, A Concise History of the Mormon Battalion in the Mexican War [Salt Lake City, 1881], pp. 64–106).

Based on trust and the strength of personal conviction, Colonel Kane and the Saints forged friendships and genuine understanding that culminated in Brigham Young’s designation of Colonel Kane as “our constant friend.”

The first free-lance article I submitted to the New Era was … well … much like wearing a tuxedo to a pool party. Inappropriate.
Without opening the magazine, I had mailed off a six-page essay on what I had learned being a convert to the Church. The rejection letter arrived in my college dorm mailbox a month later. “How dare they?” I demanded, showing the story to a few young people in my Sunday School class.
“Uh, good spelling,” one said, handing it back without turning the page.
“It’s very neat,” said another, not getting past the first paragraph.
It quickly became obvious there wasn’t a 15-year-old in the Church who would read my dry essay. I hadn’t done my homework, and the rejection letter proved it.
I tried again. This time I dug a stack of New Eras out of my drawer and read. It took a few days, but I got a feel for the style of the magazine—the way the anecdotal leads drew you into more serious topics; the up-tempo, spiritual kids featured in the stories; the faith-building experiences people wrote about.
And, as I read, I learned a few important points—that the New Era is particular about what it prints, and how it is presented.
A few days later, I again found myself in front of my typewriter. I stopped trying to summarize all I had learned since becoming a member of the Church. Instead, I focused on one event that happened while I was growing up in Canada and what I learned from it.
It took a lot of writing and rewriting to make the piece fit the style of the magazine. But a few weeks after I sent the article off, the editors mailed me a nice letter saying they’d like to purchase my story. The New Era wasn’t unreachable after all.

Harlow Ward members in the St Albans Stake enjoyed a wonderful morning of outdoor service at a meadow nature reserve in Harlow town in October. Members of all ages, including teenagers and full-time missionaries, helped to rake, clear and dispose of grass cuttings. Their work allowed for the growth of a wild-flower meadow in the spring, which will add to the beauty of the area and improve its ecology.
Ward community outreach specialist, Edith Cells, who organised the activity, was delighted to receive feedback from Volunteer Conservation Coordinator, Andrew Tomlins, who said; “Your efforts have made it possible to mow almost the entire meadow – it is looking a lot more like it should at this time of year. If it was just our small group we would have done only a fraction of what was achieved.”
Andrew hopes the Church members will return in the spring to do more work. This is the second time the Harlow Ward has worked with Andrew on local conservation projects, and the members and missionaries are becoming known to Harlow Council’s parks department as a force for good in the town.

As a junior in high school, I thought that my dark blonde, shoulder-length hair meant everything. My morning included nearly 30 minutes of trying various hairstyles until the right one looked nearly perfect. I did this every morning—until one day when my routine changed forever.
The day began like any day. I woke up, washed my face, and put my contacts in. Then I sleepily glanced in the mirror and caught sight of something terrible—a small bald spot on the top of my head. I looked closer and ran my fingers across it to make sure my morning eyes were not fooling me. They weren’t.
I began to panic, and in tears I searched for my mom. Together we discussed the possibility my hair got caught on something while I was sleeping. Or maybe I was not eating enough vegetables. But with no definite answers I finally parted my hair to somewhat hide the bald spot and rushed off to school.
From that day on, I continued to lose patches of hair. These spots varied from the size of a coin to the size of a fist. I went to numerous doctors who examined every part of my head. I also spent a lot of time on my knees in prayer, seeking comfort and strength to handle what the doctors would tell me.
In September 2000 I found out I had an autoimmune disease known as alopecia areata. I can still hear my doctor’s voice when he explained this meant “total hair loss with no known cure.” Immediately my mind filled with thoughts of doubt, thoughts like “What’s next?” and “Why me?”
After seeing a specialist the next month, I shaved my almost-bald head. Without my hair, I felt like a completely different person. My sense of self plummeted, and it was almost impossible to drag myself to school. “What would everyone think? What would everyone say?” I wondered.
Scarves became my everyday hairstyle. Instead of spending a half hour every morning on my hair, I spent five minutes carefully tying a scarf around my bald head. The scarves were colorful and comfortable, but they weren’t my hair. At one point I tried wearing a wig the same color as my hair. This only brought constant worry of it falling off in front of everyone at school. I went back to scarves.
School was a challenge. I knew my Heavenly Father loved me and I could count on Him to be there when everyone else was turning away. But that was hard to remember when my peers gave me quick, odd glances. It was also hard when rumors began to spread, and I knew I was the topic of conversation. I didn’t understand why, of all times in my life, I had to deal with this during high school—a time when I wanted so much to be accepted and liked by those around me.
I made it through my senior year only because of certain things I made myself remember as I walked the halls of my high school. Each morning I prayed and thanked the Lord for the blessing of being alive and for the beauty around me. I prayed for strength to endure the day ahead and to remember I was loved by many. I also thanked my Heavenly Father for the things I was learning from this experience. It seems simple, but it made a difference. Whenever someone gave me a funny look or made a cruel joke, I simply remembered my motto, “It’s just hair. It really doesn’t matter.”
I knew I had no control over what was going to happen with my hair, but I also knew I had complete control over how I was going to face it. I could make it a blessing and an opportunity, or I could look at it as a punishment and simply give up.
It has been almost three years since the morning I found the small bald patch on my head. In that time I have had to shave my head five times because I still have small patches of hair. Each time I have shaved it with a little more enthusiasm and appreciation for life.
I know I couldn’t have done it alone. The Lord has become the one I trust. He does not judge me or laugh at me; I know He loves me just as much without hair as He did when I had hair. I have also relied on the love and support of my family.
I know we are all children of God with divine potential. We are all here to learn and grow in different ways with different challenges. We have a Heavenly Father who loves us for who we are and for what we can become. He is there in our darkest hours. I am thankful for the atoning sacrifice of the Savior Jesus Christ and for the comfort the Atonement brings. I know He lives and has suffered and endured even more physical and spiritual pain than I have felt and will feel in the future.

I never met my great-grandmother Hettie, but I have always felt a connection to her for many reasons. She was described to be similar to me in appearance, with her very pale skin and dark hair; she was from England (which I believe is where my love of all things British stems from); and she was known especially for her astounding faith in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I was casually studying her life a short time ago when I remembered a story I’d heard about how she had helped her husband, my great-grandpa, miraculously recover from an illness that had brought him to his deathbed.
As I researched further, I found a journal entry from my grandpa (Hettie’s son), and I found out that this illness wasn’t just any sickness—my great-grandpa had contracted the deadly Spanish flu during the pandemic that lasted from 1918 to 1920.
I was shocked.
The journal entry explained that my great-grandfather had come home from work feeling sick. A doctor came, diagnosed him with the dreaded Spanish flu, and put up a red quarantine sign in the yard to make sure no one visited their home.
The Spanish flu was highly contagious, just like another virus I know.
My grandpa described how most of the homes in their city had these quarantine signs in their yards and explained how terrifying the whole ordeal was for those two years.
It’s not often I can fully relate to my ancestors, but when I read this, I felt tears prickling my eyes.
It was no coincidence that I was reading this story at this time.
In the journal, my grandpa went on to explain how the doctor visited their home again about five days later, when his father had grown so sick that he was unresponsive. After seeing how quickly people were dying from this terrible disease, the doctor concluded that there was nothing more he could do for my great-grandfather and told Hettie that all she could do was keep him comfortable until he passed away.
My grandpa wrote that Hettie cried quietly for a few moments after the doctor left, but then suddenly looked up with a determined look on her face. She told my grandpa and his brothers to kneel and pray for help. She explained to Heavenly Father that she knew He had the power to help her save her husband if it was His will, and that she would do whatever she could to save him. She pleaded with Him to let him live.
After the prayer, my grandpa explained that Hettie was inspired to create a thick paste out of mustard and hot water and to spread it over thick strips of fabric. She then wrapped them all around her husband’s chest in one last effort to clear his lungs. She covered him with blankets and stayed up all night, holding his hand, squeezing it every now and again to see if he would respond.
At around four o’clock in the morning, she finally got a good, strong squeeze of response from him, and eventually he opened his eyes. That night he was able to hold full conversations. Because of the Lord and because of Hettie’s faith in Him, my great-grandfather was going to live.
It was a true miracle.

Illustration by Jennifer Tolman; sketches from Getty Images
I have always wanted to be a great contributor in science. During my undergraduate studies at Brigham Young University–Hawaii, Dr. Douglas Oba, a very supportive professor, introduced me to and trained me in the world of molecular biology and biotechnology. I even had the opportunity to work at the molecular laboratory at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, USA, for a summer internship.
When I went home to the Philippines, I landed a job at the DNA Analysis Laboratory at the University of the Philippines. The highlights of my career included working on various community projects, attending trainings and conferences, and being recognized by local and international science communities for my scientific publications. I also started my graduate program. I felt fulfilled in my new career.
After two years of working, I married my childhood friend in the temple. A little while later, we had our first baby and for the first time I found myself struggling. I didn’t know how to balance caring for the baby, spending time with my husband, keeping up with classes in my graduate program, juggling projects and papers at work, and fulfilling Church callings. I talked with my husband about my struggles, and he gently suggested that I consider stepping away from my career. I saw some wisdom in his advice, but I wasn’t ready to give up my professional life yet.
When I was pregnant with our second child, I had pre-term labor that required me to be on bed rest. I finally realized that I couldn’t do it all at once. I knew I had to make the choice that would be best for me and my family. After much pondering and prayer, I decided to leave my scientific work and instead devote my full time to my children.
I had planned for motherhood my whole life, but I never realized how much of a sacrifice this choice would be. I tried my best to keep a positive attitude, but I often felt sad that my career and graduate program had been cut short. I prayed to Heavenly Father for the spiritual strength to fulfill my role as a mother wholeheartedly. My husband patiently listened to my concerns. He encouraged me to write out my thoughts and feelings in my journal, which I had been unable to update for a while because of my busy schedule.
One day, while my kids were sleeping, I decided to look through my old journals. As I reviewed them, I was struck by how consistently I had written about my great desire to be a mom when I was a youth and young single adult. One statement in particular touched me: “I will strive to excel in my academic and spiritual learning so I can be an intelligent and noble mom to my kids.”
That enlightenment was what I needed the most! I felt the Spirit testify to me that I had made the right choice for my family. I realized that my education and work experience were not just for my benefit but for my children’s. It was a renewal of my testimony and eternal perspective of motherhood.
I was a stay-at-home mother for five years. Eventually, I completed my graduate program and went back to work when our children were a little older. I am continually learning to balance my limited time in performing my duties at work, home, and church, but I know it all works out with the Lord’s help. I continue to gain valuable experience in the “laboratory of life” and find joy and purpose in motherhood.

During this past summer, over 200,000 of our young people all over the world grew in faith at one of the hundreds of weeklong sessions of For the Strength of Youth, or FSY, conferences. Coming out of pandemic isolation, for many it was an act of faith in the Lord to even attend. Many of the young participants seem to follow a similar upward arc toward deeper conversion. At the end of their week, I liked to ask them, “So, how’s it been?”
They sometimes said something like this: “Well, on Monday I was so annoyed with my mother because she made me come and do this. And I didn’t know anybody. And I didn’t think it was for me. And I wouldn’t have any friends. … But now it’s Friday, and I just want to stay here. I just want to feel the Spirit in my life. I want to live like this.”

The Lord chose Three Witnesses who would see the Book of Mormon gold plates so they could “testify to the truth of the book and the things therein” (2 Nephi 27:12). One of these witnesses was David Whitmer.
David heard about the gold plates while visiting Oliver Cowdery, who was acting as scribe as Joseph Smith translated. Oliver later wrote to David, asking if he and Joseph could stay with him and finish the translation.
David traveled 100 miles (160 km) to Pennsylvania to bring Joseph and Oliver to his parents’ home in New York. David’s interest grew as he watched Joseph translate the Book of Mormon.
Along with Oliver Cowdery and Martin Harris, David was shown the plates by an angel and heard the voice of God command them to testify of what they had seen.
Unfortunately, David left the Church a few years later and never returned, but he never denied his testimony. Near the end of his life, David wrote: “I have never at any time denied that testimony or any part thereof, which has so long since been published with [the Book of Mormon], as one of the three witnesses. Those who know me best, well know that I have always adhered to that testimony. And that no man may be misled or doubt my present views in regard to the same, I do again affirm the truth of all of my statements, as then made and published” (An Address to All Believers in Christ [1887], 8–9).

Like many of you, I am frequently before those who are not of our faith, and the challenge is great and wonderful. Not long ago I was given a little honor before a great group of non-Latter-day Saint athletes. In the proceedings of the convention, one of my great idols, a Hall of Famer, was to take the rostrum and speak to us. Being the great athlete that he was, respected by many, I was shocked to hear his language as he repeatedly took the name of the Lord in vain. As I sat there, I wondered, “What do you do as a Latter-day Saint in these kinds of social situations?” And then I remembered—again, a great influence in my life—the counsel from a prophet and an experience that he had had one time coming out of surgery. An orderly who was wheeling the prophet back to his hospital room on a little metal cart caught his hand between the door and the cart in the elevator and, not thinking, let go with a few adjectives, taking the name of the Lord in vain in the process. And a prophet, sick as he was physically but very well spiritually, lifted his head and said, “Please don’t talk that way—that’s my best friend.”
Those thoughts went through my mind as I listened to my idol. As he concluded and sat down, I put my hand on his knee and said to him, “You’re terrific! Did you know that when I was growing up I had you on a high pedestal? But, if I might level with you, tonight you fell off that pedestal.”
He said, “Didn’t you like my workshop?”
I said, “I loved it. But every time you opened your mouth, you offended me and a lot of other people out there. I’m going to challenge you tonight, as your friend, to clean up your language.”
I thought of the apostle Paul and Joseph Smith and particularly of a prophet today, Spencer W. Kimball; and I learned on that occasion, as I have on many others, that people really want what you and I have, if we have the courage to give it.

President George Albert Smith, the eighth President of the Church, was born on 4 April 1870 in Salt Lake City. When he was 13, he attended Brigham Young Academy. He later said:
“Dr. [Karl G.] Maeser one day stood up and said:
“‘Not only will you be held accountable for the things that you do, but you will be held responsible for the very thoughts that you think.’
“Being a boy, not in the habit of controlling my thoughts very much, it was quite a puzzle to me what I was to do, and it worried me.”
A week or two after this, young George Albert Smith came to a realization: “Why, of course, you will be held accountable for your thoughts because when your life is complete in mortality, it will be the sum of your thoughts. That one suggestion has been a great blessing to me all my life, and it has enabled me upon many occasions to avoid thinking improperly because I realize that I will be, when my life’s labor is complete, the product of my thoughts” (“Pres. Smith’s Leadership Address,” Church News, 16 Feb. 1946, 1).

In 1952, Elder Benson was astonished to receive a telephone call informing him that U.S. President-elect Dwight D. Eisenhower, a man he had never met, wanted to talk to him about becoming U.S. Secretary of Agriculture. Farm leaders had recommended Ezra Taft Benson as the best man for the job. With Church President David O. McKay’s blessing and President Eisenhower’s assurance that he need never endorse a policy that he did not agree with, Elder Benson became Secretary Benson. The Benson family returned to Washington, D.C., for the eight years of the Eisenhower administration.

In that period, controversy was raging about how to stabilize supply and demand in an uncertain farm economy, and Ezra Taft Benson’s face appeared on the covers of national magazines as he dealt with the problem. He spoke forthrightly, without regard for how popular his opinion might be. Speaking to farmers and politicians, he dared to suggest that the solutions to economic and political problems are based on spiritual and moral principles, without which no nation can have prosperity or peace. In Washington, Elder Benson instigated the practice of opening Cabinet meetings with prayer, and the Bensons presented a family home evening program to the Eisenhowers.

Actually, for Elder Benson, the time in Washington was not really an interruption in his service to God. He was a patriot who found in the Book of Mormon answers for his country’s needs. He loved the choice land where the gospel had been restored, he revered its Constitution, and he took very seriously his responsibility to help preserve it. Twenty years later, one of the choicest assignments of President Benson’s life was to review the St. George Temple records showing ordinances performed there for the founding fathers of the United States.

6 In May, Sidney Rigdon, Newel K. Whitney, and the Prophet Joseph started back to Kirtland, Ohio. Near New Albany, Indiana, the horses pulling their wagon became frightened and bolted.
7 Joseph jumped out of the wagon unhurt, but Bishop Whitney caught his foot in a wheel and broke his leg and foot in several places.
8 Sidney Rigdon went on to Kirtland, but the Prophet stayed with Bishop Whitney for four weeks while he recuperated.
9 One day during that time, Joseph Smith ate something poisonous. When Bishop Whitney gave him a blessing of health, the Prophet was instantly healed. Soon they, too, continued on to Kirtland.

I arrived in Utah with practically nothing, but I insisted on bringing my hygiene kit because it meant so much to me. One day, my companion and I were taking a tour of the Humanitarian Center in Salt Lake, and I recognized a blanket that had the Relief Society logo embroidered on it, just like the one I’d had in Sierra Leone. I looked around and saw hygiene kits like mine and familiar bags of beans and rice, and I began cry.
“This is where they came from!” I thought to myself. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I remembered what these things sitting in stacks in the Humanitarian Center meant to my friends and to me in Sierra Leone. I was so grateful to the Lord for preserving me, for bringing the gospel into my life, and for allowing me to serve a mission. I knew that His angels truly had been round about me, to bear me up.