Gospel Story Finder

As I surveyed the elderly people assembled for the nursing home sacrament meeting, I was worried. Several patients appeared to be asleep. One woman cried over and over, “I want to go home.” Most of those who were awake stared vaguely through clouded eyes. I wondered why the young men and young women of our ward had come to present this sacrament meeting. Other than giving these elderly Church members the opportunity to partake of the sacrament, why did we bother?
One of the young men conducted the service. It would be like any other sacrament meeting, with an opening hymn, an opening prayer, a sacrament hymn, the passing of the sacrament, speakers, and a closing hymn.
As we sang “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” I noticed one frail sister who, until this moment, had remained perfectly still, staring off into space. Now she sang every word from memory. When the sacrament was passed, almost every patient partook. I began to realize that the patients knew what was going on.
Following the sacrament, Shawna, the Laurel president, spoke on enduring to the end. I wondered how her words would affect people who had endured more than we could possibly imagine.
I was distracted from my thoughts by a very real presence in the room. I felt the Spirit as strongly as I’ve ever felt it before. Then I noticed that nearly all of the elderly brothers and sisters had their eyes focused on Shawna. The Spirit had linked us together as brothers and sisters, children of our Heavenly Father.
A scripture came to my mind: “And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity” (1 Cor. 13:13).
There may have been many reasons for that sacrament meeting, but the greatest of them was charity, the pure love of Christ.

Chase and Heston watched as Sister Lind interrupted their Primary lesson by placing an empty chair between them.
“President Benson has a family saying about chairs. Have any of you heard it?” she asked, glancing at the extra seat. When no one held up his hand, she gave the answer herself: “‘No empty chairs!’ What do you suppose President Benson means?”
When still no one responded, Sister Lind held up a picture of Jesus holding a lamb. Smiling, she continued, “Could it have something to do with our lesson on Jesus and His lost sheep?”
Sharla raised her hand hesitantly. “Is the chair missing a person, like Jesus was missing a sheep?”
Sister Lind nodded.
“That’s it, Sharla. Just as Jesus brought back His lost sheep, we’re supposed to find our friends missing from Primary and bring them back to their empty chairs.” She placed her hand on the chair between Chase and Heston. “Now, who is missing from our class? Who needs to come back and sit in this chair?”
The whole class turned to one another and mumbled just one name—“Charles.” No one dared to shout it out. They were all reluctant to talk about Charles because his mother had died only two months before.
Redheaded Charles had loved Primary, especially singing time, but he hadn’t come to church for almost three months. The empty chair in the classroom suddenly came alive with loneliness. Charles wasn’t in it, and the other children missed him.
“What can we do?” Heston asked.
“Well, Charles is what the rest of our lesson is about. We’re going to discuss what we can do for him, and then we’ll pray for help.”
The class erupted with ideas: “Let’s ask him to play baseball!” “How about inviting him to the Primary talent activity?” “Isn’t it almost time for his birthday? Why don’t we do something for his birthday?”
Sister Lind pulled out her roll and looked at the birthday list. “You’re right,” she announced. “His birthday is next Saturday.”
Jessica jumped up and suggested, “What if we took balloons and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to him at his house?”
Heston and Chase pulled faces. “The balloons are OK, but do we have to sing?”
Sister Lind laughed. “Of course you’ll sing.” She smiled at Jessica and said, “That’s a fine idea.” To the whole class, she added, “I also think that while we’re there, he’d like to be invited to the Primary activity. Let’s meet at my house on Saturday at ten o’clock.”
When everyone agreed, Sister Lind looked at the empty chair again. “Before we have the closing prayer, I want to remind you to remember Charles in your individual prayers this week.”
On Saturday morning the children climbed into Sister Lind’s van and went to Charles’s home. “Before we get out,” she said, turning around in her seat, “don’t forget about the talent activity.” She winked encouragingly at Chase as she challenged him to invite Charles to it. “The rest of you must show Charles that you really want him to come,” she told them.
The balloons bobbed gaily as the children piled out of the van. Only Chase walked slowly toward the house—he was wondering how to invite Charles to the activity.
A dog bounced out the door when Charles opened it. “Look who’s here, Dad!” he shouted with a surprised look on his face. “It’s Sister Lind and my Primary class!”
“Happy birthday to you,” they chorused. “Happy birthday to you. …”
“Ar-rooo!” a strange voice joined in, unheard by all but Sister Lind. …
“Happy birthday, dear Charles. …”
“Ar-rooo!”
This time they all heard Charles’s basset hound, Bowser, “singing” with them, his head thrown back for a full-throated sound.
“Ar-rooo-ooo!” he finished the song for them, then gave them a big doggy smile, rolling his head to one side and watching the children and Sister Lind laugh.
“Charles, Bowser likes to sing, too,” Heston shouted.
“He sure does,” Charles said, hugging his dog tightly. “He loves music as much as I do.”
Chase saw his opportunity. “Then how about singing with us for the Primary talent activity?”
The class stopped giggling at Bowser and looked expectantly at Charles. “Dad, can I?”
Charles’s dad was quiet. He just looked down at the floor. Their whole plan might have ended awkwardly right then if Heston hadn’t exploded with a fresh burst of giggles. “Hey, Charles,” he chortled, “can Bowser sing with us for the show? Do you think he’d do it?”
Bowser loved the idea! He lifted his head high and sang his loudest “Ar-roo.”
Charles’s dad lifted his head, too, and watched the happy faces of his son and his son’s friends as they again broke into helpless laughter. “Sure,” he said softly. “Maybe I’ll come too.”
During the next few weeks Charles, Bowser, and the rest of the class practiced their special act at Sister Lind’s house. Bowser enjoyed certain notes more than others, so Sister Lind played through her music until they found the song that appealed the most to him.
On Primary Talent Night, everyone’s family and friends crowded into the cultural hall. After the opening prayer, the bishop announced, “And now for a unique opening act: Sister Lind’s Valiant A class will accompany Bowser, the singing dog!”
Charles and his classmates led Bowser onto the stage, and Sister Lind stood below them. “Look across the room and tell me what you see,” she whispered.
The children looked out at the hall filled with people. Charles waved when he saw his dad sitting in the back, surrounded by Sister Lind’s family.
“No empty chairs!” Sharla told Sister Lind excitedly. “There are no empty chairs here tonight—or in our class, anymore.”
“That’s right!” Sister Lind gave them all a big smile and Bowser a pat, which made his tail wag with a thud on the stage. “Now let’s sing!”
The children’s voices rang, and so did Bowser’s. The room rocked with laughter at the hound’s musical howls. Everyone—including the children and Bowser—was having a good time. And best of all, there were no empty chairs.

Carlos was excited for Christmas. This year there was something different in his home. A large tree made of shiny green paper was attached to the door.
Mom, why is there a tree on the door?
We’re going to do something a little different for Christmas this year.
Carlos wondered what would be different. His sister, Araceli, and his little brother, Diego, wondered too.
I made these paper ornaments for the tree. Each day we will write something about Jesus Christ on an ornament and then put it on the tree. By Christmas Eve, the whole tree will be covered!
Carlos liked that idea. Araceli ran to the ornaments and grabbed a red pencil.
Jesus was baptized.
That’s a good one. Can I write that Jesus did many miracles?
That would be perfect. You both have great ideas!
Every night after dinner, Araceli and Carlos made another ornament and put it on the tree. Diego helped by telling them that he loves Jesus.
When it was hard to think of more ideas, they looked in the scriptures. Carlos didn’t know there were so many verses about Jesus!
On Christmas Eve the whole family sang songs and read the ornaments they had put on the tree. Carlos was happy he knew so much about Jesus. He knew he was ready for Christmas this year.

I am sure every mother has thought her life would make a great television sitcom—either that or a good disaster movie. That’s how I felt one particular morning.
I had made hot cereal for breakfast, and my older children had gone to school with contented smiles on their faces. When my two-year-old woke up, I set him on a stool at the kitchen counter, put a bowl of cereal in front of him, and left the room for a few moments. Big mistake.
Some situations are so bad they defy a reaction—this was one of those situations. When I returned I saw that there was cereal on every inch of exposed surface from my son to as far as his spoon could catapult it. I stared in stunned silence. Still, I had to admire his thoroughness. I was amazed at the coverage he had achieved from one small bowl.
My gaze drifted to the clock on the stove. Through clumps of cereal I noticed the time and came to my senses. I had a meeting at my children’s school in less than an hour. Should I change out of my robe and slippers and hope this was a nightmare I would awaken from, or should I face reality and try to find my kitchen under its new textured coating?
I decided to remove the cereal while there was still a chance. With a withering look at my son—still perched on his stool, his hair spiked with granulated “mousse”—I rolled up my sleeves and slipped and slid to the sink. I retrieved a dishrag and started to clean.
After what seemed an eternity of scrubbing, I could see progress. I looked at my son again and realized this was the longest he had ever sat in one place in his life. Either he was getting an inordinate amount of pleasure from seeing me work so hard, or he was stuck fast to his seat with ever-hardening cereal.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at me. Then I saw it—something I had never seen before: remorse on the face of a two-year-old.
“Sorry, Mommy.” Big brown eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Why did he have to do that just when I was calm enough to scold him? I glanced at the clock and knew I had missed my meeting. So with a huff, I rinsed my rag and began to wash him.
When I had him clean enough to touch without getting stuck, I finally picked him up. He immediately slipped his chubby arms around my neck and snuggled into the fuzzy softness of my robe. With a sigh, I sat down and gently stroked his back.
My mind drifted to a dreamy world where the kitchen sparkled, few dishes were ever dirtied, the floor rarely needed to be swept, and cookies stayed in the jar for more than 15 minutes—where bathrooms smelled like pine forests, guest towels weren’t covered with greasy smudges, and the tub wasn’t full of assorted action figures. I pictured beds that were made, floors void of debris, and laundry that stayed in the hamper until wash day. How wonderful! Yet how sad.
No more little arms thrown around my neck or kisses planted firmly on my mouth. No unconditional hugs despite my temper. No bedtime stories or eager anticipation as new life nudged through the soil in a paper cup. No more homemade Mother’s Day cards or art projects. No clay toothpick holders wrapped in newspaper for Christmas.
That’s all it took.
Even though it was frustrating to have punch stains on the carpet, to constantly blaze trails through toys and dirty socks, and to remove crayon scribbles from the new wallpaper, I realized that these things were insignificant when compared with the magic my children brought into my life. I held my son tighter as I smiled and thanked heaven for messes, for they walk hand in hand with joy.

One day Zoltán Szücs of Szeged, Hungary, surprised his kayaking coach by telling him that he wouldn’t be going to Germany for a competition.
“It was on the same day as my baptism, so I said no,” Zoltán said.
At age 17, Zoltán had won many competitions in kayaking. It’s a popular sport in Hungary, and Zoltán was good—good enough that becoming a professional was a real possibility. Beyond deciding to miss just one competition, Zoltán would soon give up kayaking entirely. He had something better to do.
Kayaking had been good for Zoltán. Over the years working with his coach, he had learned self-control, obedience, and hard work. Zoltán had also learned to avoid substances and habits that would hurt his performance. It wasn’t an easy life; it was lonely, and going pro would take up more time. Pros practice 12 hours a day and have to compete on Sunday.
“Kayaking took most of my time,” Zoltán says. “I was fanatical. Because of that, I left a lot of things out of my life.”
That’s why Zoltán decided that he couldn’t devote himself to both the gospel and kayaking. In 2004 he told his coach he wasn’t going to kayak anymore.
Earlier that year the missionaries started teaching Zoltán’s mom. He didn’t take part in the lessons. He grudgingly accepted his mom’s invitation to her baptism. But his heart was touched by what he felt once he entered the church building. Szücs agreed to meet with the missionaries, partly because he could identify with them.
“Missionaries were interesting to me because they were normal people but lived a higher standard,” he says.
Because of the higher standard that Zoltán was already living as a kayaker, he readily accepted the teachings of the gospel as valuable. He was baptized two months later.
At first he thought he could continue kayaking but not do competitions on Sundays. But because he’s the type of person who, once committed to an activity or course, wants to do well at it, he chose to give up kayaking entirely.
He tried once to kayak as a hobby after his baptism. When he did, his coach asked him to help teach others and organize trips since he wouldn’t compete. But he didn’t want to make commitments to kayaking—or any other activity—that could get in the way of his discipleship.
So Zoltán hung up his paddle and dedicated himself to Church service in a decision reminiscent of one President Howard W. Hunter (1907–95) made when he got married. President Hunter was an accomplished musician who played dozens of instruments. In the evenings he had been playing in an orchestra, but the lifestyles of those he associated with conflicted with gospel standards. So President Hunter put his instruments away and brought them out only occasionally for family sing-alongs.1
Zoltán misses kayaking, but he realized that his love for kayaking was strong enough to compete with, and possibly overcome, his love for the Lord if he stayed too close to the sport.
The same principle can apply to any activity that takes us away from who God wants us to be. For each of us it may be better to go through life without certain things—even if they are good things—rather than risk our eternal life to have them.
“The Church became my life,” Zoltán says. “Knowing that kayaking couldn’t be a living if I wanted to be active and that it would be just a hobby, it became easy to give up. Instead, I wanted to make Heavenly Father my focus.”
Zoltán began to study the gospel with the same intensity he brings to any pursuit. He set a goal to serve a mission. He wanted to stay in his country and teach others.
He served in Hungary and now works as a high school English teacher. He continues to set his priorities on the gospel. “There are things we need to give up because they get in the way of God,” he says. “It’s easy to give up the bad once we know we should. Often we don’t realize when we should give up something good for something better. We think that because it’s not bad, we can hold onto it and still follow God’s plan.” But Zoltán knows that we must give up the good if it keeps us from following God’s plan for us.

When I read the article “Darrell, His Mission, and Me” (May 1993), it made me do a lot of thinking. My brother left to go on his mission to North Carolina on July 28. I’ve never really gotten along with him because we’re five years apart. But I started writing him letters, and I feel a lot better about our relationship because he knows a lot more about my feelings. I’m really grateful for the article.
Becky BeldenColumbia, Tennessee

“I wish we didn’t have to take the tree down,” Jeff sighed. “It still looks so pretty.”
“I know it does, honey,” Mom said, “but Christmas was 10 days ago.”
Jeff and his mother carefully wrapped shiny ornaments, bows, lacy stars, and the treetop angel in pieces of tissue paper and put them in boxes so nothing would break.
“Next Christmas we’ll decorate the tree again,” Mom said, “and we can make lots of new ornaments.”
She took the last string of lights off the tree, and Jeff put away the ornaments he’d made in church.
“The empty tree looks lonely. It makes me feel sad,” Jeff said. “I wish we could have Christmas all year.”
“In a way, we can,” Mom said. “Christmas means giving, and we can do that all year.”
“But how?” Jeff asked.
“Well, for one thing, the tree doesn’t have to stay empty.” Mom went into the kitchen and got bread, cranberries, and nuts from the cabinet.
“Let’s take the tree outside and put it near the kitchen window. Then we can put the food on the branches for the birds.”
After Jeff and his mom put on their coats, they lugged the tree into the backyard and trimmed it with the food.
“Now the birds can sing while they eat,” Jeff said with a smile. “What else can we do?”
“Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here,” Mom said.
While Jeff looked out the window at the blue jays and cardinals eating food from the tree, Mom found a notebook. “Let’s make a Christmas All Year calendar,” she said. “We’ll fill it with good things to do that will make others happy. Each month we can do a different project. We did the food tree, so let’s write that on the calendar for January.”
Jeff enjoyed making the calendar. When it was finished, here’s how it looked:
JANUARY—Make a Christmas food tree for the birds.
FEBRUARY—Bake valentine cookies for neighbors.
MARCH—Make snowmen for friends.
APRIL—Plant flowers in our garden.
MAY—Help older neighbors clean their yards.
JUNE—Pick strawberries and give them to someone.
JULY—Have a picnic with our family.
AUGUST—Have a lemonade stand.
SEPTEMBER—Help my teacher keep the classroom neat.
OCTOBER—Have fun raking leaves in our yard.
NOVEMBER—Invite friends for Thanksgiving dinner.
DECEMBER—Decorate the Christmas tree.
“We can celebrate Christmas all year!” Jeff declared as he helped Mom hang the calendar on the kitchen wall. Outside it started to snow, so Jeff put on his hat, coat, and mittens and ran out into the front yard. His neighbors were taking down their outdoor Christmas decorations. They waved. Jeff called to them, “Merry Christmas to you for the whole year!”

As a young elder, I had been called to the old Primary Children’s Hospital on North Temple Street … in Salt Lake City. There were children to be blessed. It was the Christmas season. I had never been in a children’s hospital before.
As our group entered the foyer, we noticed an attractively decorated Christmas tree, with beautifully wrapped gifts beneath its boughs.
A feeling of sympathy welled up within me as I noticed these tiny children, many with legs or arms in large plaster casts. Some were ever so weak and pale.
A young lad called out to us, “Will you give me a blessing?” Of course the blessing was given. I shall ever remember placing my hands on the … head of that faithful boy who was desperately ill. As we left his side, he looked up into my eyes and said, “Thank you, Brother Monson.”
We walked away, only to hear him call out, “Oh, Brother Monson, merry Christmas to you.” I could scarcely see him for the tears in my eyes. He had that glow about him that comes only at Christmastime. That boy trusted in his Heavenly Father. He acknowledged the priesthood of God. His faith was unwavering. I felt I was on holy ground.
What made the glow emanate from the presence of this faithful boy? It was the Christmas spirit.

“I started ballet at age seven because I wanted to be a princess,” says Bianca Carnovale, from Sydney, Australia. Soon after she began training, she learned that the dance world does not stop to remember the Sabbath day. She had to decide where she stood.
As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Bianca strives to keep Sundays free from work and other activities that take her away from worship. Whether it’s sports or performing arts, the decision for Latter-day Saints to set these activities aside on the Sabbath can sometimes be emotionally challenging.
Not wanting to let anyone down, knowing that Sunday pieces would have to be choreographed without her, Bianca also struggled. Her teachers would say, “No company will want you; why would they choose you over someone who will dance on Sunday?”
But Bianca remembers, from as young as seven, talking with her mother about dancing on Sundays. When she had to miss out on exams and performances, those talks helped Bianca understand that pleasing God was more important.
She studied at Marni’s School of Performing Arts until the age of 14, then won a spot in the pre-professional program at the National College of Dance in Newcastle, which was two hours away from home. For the next three years, Bianca lived in Newcastle five days a week, an experience that prepared her to move to New York City, USA on her own.
Although she still never danced on a Sunday, at age 17, Bianca was accepted into New York’s prestigious Ballet Academy East, where she had the exciting opportunity to study the Balanchine ballet method.
It wasn’t always fun. “There were times in New York, away from all my friends and family, I felt I had no one,” Bianca remembers. “Crying one night . . . I remember praying to my Heavenly Father and asking Him for [a hug]. I will never forget the warmth that flooded my chest. Although it made me cry more, they were definitely happy tears, and I did not feel alone anymore.”
After almost two years, the COVID-19 pandemic shut down New York and sent Bianca home, where she had to find a job, but kept up her ballet training. Later, she prayerfully considered a full-time mission, but was prompted to move to Melbourne where she hoped to get into the Australian Ballet Company.
Then the lockdowns started again, and Bianca soon missed performing. She began dancing in the park, just to get outdoors, but then her mother suggested she try ballet busking when the lockdowns ended. At first, Bianca thought the idea was crazy, but when her friends from Church also encouraged it, she gave it a go.
Bianca choreographed dances in her flat, then ventured into the city streets to perform them. “At first, I only had headphones, but started dancing anyway. Then I got speakers. From there, I learned all the tips and tricks of busking: using cones and roping off a stage area . . . perfecting choreography . . . [managing] a crowd. Busking was a whole new world.”
Bianca still dreamed of getting into a ballet company. While busking, she kept training and auditioning. One company that seemed interested in her asked, “Why don’t you . . . perform on Sunday, and then go to church?” With Bianca’s insistence that Sabbath observance was more than just going to church, that opportunity fell through.
“I wanted so much to dance professionally,” Bianca reflects. In her prayers she even told Heavenly Father how inspiring it would be to all the little dancers if she got into a ballet company without working on Sundays. “Looking back, I now laugh at trying to tell Heavenly Father what was best.”
Bianca ponders a lesson taught by Elder D. Todd Christofferson: “We ought not to think of God’s plan as a cosmic vending machine where we (1) select a desired blessing, (2) insert the required sum of good works, and (3) the order is promptly delivered.”1
“I knew Heavenly Father wanted me to dance,” she says. “I knew He wanted me to strive towards getting into a ballet company, but as the years went by it became very apparent that He never promised me I would actually get into one.”
Pursuing her dream to work for a company has made Bianca an exceptionally skilled performer, but as of March 2022, she has supported herself completely on busking—a path that has had unexpected outcomes.
While she was dancing one day, she recalls, “I happened to see the glowing face of a 13-year-old girl . . . I’ve been that girl before, and I know that feeling. I can make people smile and cry; I wouldn’t change that for anything . . . I always wanted to serve others . . . now Heavenly Father has provided me with the opportunity to serve in the most unique way!”
“Getting into a company would be inspiring,” she continues, “but I think it is so much more inspiring that I would keep His commandment.”
President Russell M. Nelson once said, “Obedience brings success; exact obedience brings miracles.”2
Echoing his words, Bianca proclaims: “Heavenly Father has told me, ‘If you keep my commandments, I will show you miracles’.
“Do I trust Him? Yes!”

The warm December sun was about to set as Papá, ten-year-old Juan, and Juan’s burro, Paco, made their way down the winding Mexican road toward the hacienda. Juan was riding Paco, and Papá walked alongside.
As they came to a turn in the road, the burro stumbled a little but soon regained his footing. “Whoa,” said Papá, looking at Paco in surprise. “Our little friend has not lost his footing since he was a small colt.”
Juan brought Paco to a stop, and Papá stepped in front of them and looked into Paco’s big brown eyes. He looked at Paco’s nose and mouth. He stepped back and tugged at his shiny black mustache with his thumb and first finger. Then he looked up at Juan and gave him a funny little smile. Juan had seen his father make this funny little smile before—it meant that something was wrong!
“I do not wish to alarm you, my son—I know how much you love Paco. But I’m afraid that he is very ill.” Papá looked again at the burro, then back at Juan. “Climb down from his back. He does not need to carry a load when he is sick.”
Juan’s heart beat fast as he slid gently to the ground. Paco was not just another burro. Paco was a friend. Juan had raised him from a tiny, newborn colt, and they were inseparable. “How sick is he, Papá? Will he be all right?”
“We must lead him home slowly,” was all that Papá said.
Juan looked at Paco’s face. His nose was very dry, his eyes were very wet, and he drooled a little at the mouth. His head swayed back and forth a little, and he grunted softly. “It is true,” Juan said quietly to himself. “Paco is very ill.”
As soon as they reached the hacienda stable, Juan led Paco to his stall. The burro lay on his side on the straw with a little thud.
“Can we call the veterinarian from Santa Cruz?” Juan asked. Even before he asked, he knew what Papá’s answer would have to be.
“I wish we could, but we cannot afford to pay his fee.”
Papá and Juan entered the kitchen of the hacienda. Mamá was preparing Juan’s favorite food, tostadas. She was heating the corn tortillas while the refried beans simmered on the stove. The green tomato salsa was already on the table.
Juan did not feel hungry. He ate only one tostada instead of his usual four or five, then went to his room. He got into bed and closed his eyes but could not sleep. He was worried about poor Paco lying on the straw in the stable.
After a time, Mamá came to the door. Seeing Juan awake, she came in and sat on the edge of his bed. She stroked his hair as she had when he was little.
In past years, Juan had participated in the local Posada procession. Each night for nine nights, the children of the village and the hacienda reenacted the story of Mary and Joseph’s looking for a place to stay in Bethlehem and being turned away because the inns were all full. This year Juan and his eight-year-old sister, Rosita, had been assigned by the Posada officials to play the parts of Joseph and Mary, with Rosita riding Paco.
But then the missionaries had come to the hacienda and taught God’s plan to Juan’s family. Papá, Mamá, Juan, his twelve-year-old brother, José, and Rosita had listened carefully to Elder Mendoza and Elder Smith and had become baptized members of the Church. And though Juan was very happy to be a Latter-day Saint, he couldn’t help being a little sad when the officials said he could no longer be in the Posada. A Christmas party was planned at the LDS meetinghouse, and Juan and Rosita were invited to play the parts of Joseph and Mary—but the Christmas story was to be put on inside the building, and Paco was not allowed there.
“Are you sad because Paco can’t be in the Christmas play?” Mamá asked now.
“No, Mamá. That is a little thing. That he is so sick is a big thing. I just want Paco to get better. I love him very much. He is my friend.”
“I will pray for him tonight,” Mamá said.
As she left the room, José entered and got into bed. “I’m sorry that your burro is ill,” he said.
“I am, too, but Mamá reminded me of what I can do to help poor Paco. I will say a special prayer for him so that he will not suffer.”
“But, Juan, Paco is only an animal. Prayers such as that are for people.”
“No, José,” Juan said, “my Primary teacher, Sister Martinez, told us that Amulek, a great leader in the Book of Mormon, taught that we should pray for our animals.* Surely God does not want Paco to suffer. If I go to the stable and say a special prayer, he will recover or he will die in peace.”
With this, Juan arose from his bed and put on his best blue jeans, the white shirt he wore to church on Sundays, and his sandals.
José said, “Wait, Juan. I’ll go with you.” He got up and dressed and followed Juan out into the hall.
Rosita poked her head out of her bedroom. “What’s the matter?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“We’re going to the stable to say a special prayer for Paco,” Juan told her.
“May I go too?”
“Of course,” Juan said. “Paco will like that.”
Juan entered the stable first. He flipped on the light switch that lit a dim bulb hanging from a long cord, then knelt by the little burro’s head and gave Paco a pat on the neck. All three children folded their arms and bowed their heads. Juan prayed, “Father in heaven, we thank Thee that we have had Paco since he was small. He has given us much joy. Now he is very sick. If it be Thy will, bless him that he will grow strong and healthy again. But if Thou art in need of a fine burro, please take him in peace so that he will not suffer anymore. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Crying softly, no one spoke as they went back to bed, but all three children felt much better for having talked to Heavenly Father about Paco.
As the morning light came through the window and Juan awoke, his first thoughts were of Paco. A few minutes later he was hurrying through the stable doors. How delighted he was to see Paco standing! His hair was matted and dirty; he would not eat and would only drink water—but he was standing!
By Christmas Eve day, when the elders made a return visit to the hacienda, Paco was as well as ever and Juan and Rosita were taking turns riding him in the front yard.
That evening everyone went to the meetinghouse. Juan wore a bathrobe and a towel tied around his head to look like Joseph. Rosita braided her long hair and wore Mamá’s shawl when she played the part of Mary. After the acting out of the Christmas story, Elder Mendoza talked about the meaning of God’s gift of His Son to each of them. Then there was a wonderful party with many good things to eat, lots of colored balloons, and some special treats taken outside to the little brown burro named Paco.

I was sitting on a crowded bus one morning, on the way to my typing class at our local education center, when suddenly I heard a voice within me say, There is no typing class today; it’s the half-term holiday. Get off the bus and go see Sister Benson.
I looked about in amazement. Slowly I realized that it really was the half-term holiday, and that the bus was fast approaching the stop near Sister Benson’s home. The voice had been quiet yet clear and unmistakable, so just before the bus pulled away from the stop, I arose and stepped off.
Feeling rather bewildered, I stood on the street corner in front of a grocery store. “What now?” I wondered. Then the impression came: Buy some groceries and take them to Sister Benson.
I looked into my purse. There wasn’t much there. Then I looked up and down the road, wondering if I should just catch the next bus home. But the spiritual direction I had received urged me on: I entered the shop, considered the fact that I was short on money that week and couldn’t do the impossible, and decided that I could buy small amounts of the basic foods—a packet of sugar, a pot of honey, bread, butter, cheese, and one or two other things. These would do. “Do for what?” I wondered. I paid at the cash desk and once again stood outside on the street corner.
Looking in my purse again, I found I had just enough money to get home on the bus. I also remembered that my own kitchen wasn’t too well stocked with food at the moment. “Maybe I’ll just go straight home and have these things for myself,” I thought. But again the Spirit whispered: Take those groceries to Sister Benson. So I walked up the street to her house.
Sister Benson smiled wearily as she opened the door for me. When I told her that I had brought her a few groceries, her eyes filled with tears. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. But as we talked, I learned that after paying her tithing that week, she had no money left for food at all. How humble I felt!
The experience taught me once again that the Lord is very much aware of our needs. I also learned that he is continually working through his children to provide assistance to those in need, and we never know the moment when he may call on us to do just that.

In March of 2003, one of my good friends, Bret, invited me to help with his Eagle Scout project. After school the next day we drove in his truck with another friend of ours, Camden, to where the project would be. Inspired by the Spirit, Bret directed Camden to a Book of Mormon situated in a holder in the passenger-side door. He told him to open to a verse he had recently read in the Book of Alma. My interest was sparked, and for the first time, I saw the book I wanted so very badly. However, I was too scared to say anything right then. Upon returning that evening, I worked up the confidence to ask Bret for the book. He happily gave it to me and told me to read it. That night I read nine chapters. From the moment I picked up the book, I fell in love with its message.

My grandmother was also at the temple that day. I recall her excitement at seeing the temple lights as we had arrived in Cardston. Years later, after retiring from her job in Calgary, she moved to Cardston and gave many hours of service in the temple. She loved to play the organ and help inspire reverence there. Her testimony and love for the Savior was evidenced through her kindness to everyone around her. She is to me an example of a strong Latter-day Saint woman.

A little while ago my family and I moved to Kentucky. I was really upset because I was leaving all my friends and extended family behind. Kentucky was very different from what I was used to. The first time we went to church, I saw that there weren’t very many people there. When I realized how small my branch was, I decided that instead of thinking bad about it, I would do something about it.
The next day, my mom and I went to the store. Before we left the house, I grabbed a stack of pass-along cards. When we got to the store, I got a candy bar and went to check out. The cashier scanned the candy, then handed it to me. I handed it back. She looked confused and said, “You just paid for this, ma’am.”
I said, “I know, but I’m giving this to you as a gift.” Then I put a pass-along card with the candy. She smiled and thanked me. She looked at the back of the pass-along card, where I had written, “Everyone is a child of God.” I walked away with happiness, knowing that even if she didn’t join the Church, I still did something good.
Later that day, I remembered that I left the rest of the pass-along cards by the cash register! The next time we went to the store, I went to ask if they were still there. Then I saw something, and I stopped in my steps. About five of the cash registers had pass-along cards that said, “Everyone is a child of God.” The cashier had passed them out! I felt so happy because of what I did.

I think of Elder Neal A. Maxwell and some of the challenges he faced during his teenage years. His parents were very poor. It was embarrassing to him that early on, they did not have indoor bathroom facilities like so many of his friends. His 4-H project was raising pigs, and that didn’t gain him a lot of popularity at high school either. He suffered from severe acne that challenged his confidence and self-esteem. He wondered if he would ever be socially acceptable to others.
He was intensely interested in athletics—particularly basketball—and was good enough to be able to play on the team as a freshman. But in later years, he was cut from the team and the sport he loved. Consequently, as he described it, “I turned to the world of words.” That became an immense blessing for him in his political, university, and educational executive assignments, and to all of us he now serves as one of the Lord’s prophets, seers, and revelators.

Sister Sondra Jones of Utah, USA, was called to serve in the Marshall Islands with her husband, Neldon. “I was scared to death about what I was getting into. I have never felt comfortable trying to teach the gospel,” she says. After initially feeling that she had nothing to contribute, she decided to focus on her talents and skills. She learned to love the Marshallese people and served them by cutting hair and teaching them to sew.
After 18 months she estimated having done around 700 haircuts. Eagerly sharing her talents allowed her to serve and build relationships with hundreds of people, including members of the Church, investigators, and other members of the community.

About the time she entered school, our daughter Anissa, who is nick-named Niss, began greeting each day with a negative attitude that affected the entire family. So I started calling her “Happy Niss.” That may seem strange, but it wasn’t a lie because I knew that happiness was and is an innate quality of her spirit.
“Good morning, Happy Niss,” I’d call in my most cheerful voice; and she’d call back, “I’m not happy. I’m just Niss.”
But I persisted in calling her Happy Niss. Things began to ease, but she still had grumpy mornings. Then one night as I tucked her into bed I said, “Do you know what I love, Happy Niss?”
“What?” she asked.
“I love to see that beautiful, bright, big smile of yours first thing in the morning. My whole day goes better when your smile is the first thing I see.”
She didn’t say a word. The next morning I was preparing breakfast when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see straggly haired, sleepy-eyed Anissa with the strangest forced grin stretched across her face.
“What is the matt—” I started, then stopped, remembering my words of the night before. “Oh, that smile!” I cried, and threw my arms around her. “I just know it’s going to be a good day now!” And it was.
The real climax to that experience came in a recent home evening when each of us was asked to describe one trait that made us unique or special. Anissa’s immediate response was, “I’m always happy.” The idea had now become part of her self-image.

Happy music played as Jaechan and Mom got up from their seats in the school gym. Bunches of bright balloons floated along the walls as the other kids and their parents talked excitedly.
Tomorrow was the first day of school, and in South Korea new students always went to a special program to celebrate the start of school. As he listened to the songs and speakers, Jaechan felt excited. He couldn’t wait to start learning!
After the program, Mom and Jaechan walked down the school halls. When they got to his classroom, Jaechan met his teacher. She seemed really nice.
Later Mom and Jaechan walked outside into the warm spring sunshine. Even the sun and the sky seemed happy for school to start.
The next morning, Mom walked Jaechan to the school gate. She hugged him tight. “I love you,” she said. “Have a good first day.”
“I will,” Jaechan said. “I love you too!” He waved goodbye and turned to walk to his classroom, just like they had practiced.
As Jaechan walked down the hall, he started to worry. Is this the right way? Jaechan stopped and looked around. He turned and walked down a different hall. Soon everything felt all mixed up.
Jaechan took a deep breath. He knew he had been in this hallway yesterday. He kept walking and went through a big set of doors.
But Jaechan didn’t see his classroom, with desks and friends and his nice teacher. He saw the gym. And now there were no people or balloons. It was just a big empty room.
Tears filled Jaechan’s eyes. He tried not to panic, but he was scared. He didn’t know how to find his classroom. He knelt to pray. “Heavenly Father, I’m lost. Please help Mom to come find me and help me get to my class.”
Jaechan stood up. He took a few more deep breaths. Then he waited.
A few minutes later, Mom came around the corner. “Jaechan!” She ran to him and held him close. “What happened?”
Jaechan burst into tears. He was so relieved to see Mom. “I couldn’t find my classroom,” he said. “So I prayed that you would come find me.”
Mom wiped the tears from his cheeks. “I’m glad you said a prayer,” she said. “I was on my way home. Then I had a feeling that I should turn around and make sure you found your classroom. When you weren’t there, I looked all over. Then I found you!”
Jaechan held Mom’s hand as they walked down the right hallway. Jaechan had stopped crying. He knew Heavenly Father had answered his prayer, and everything was OK. When they got to the classroom, he heard the other kids inside laughing and having fun.
“Jaechan! We are so happy to see you,” Jaechan’s teacher said as he walked in.
“Thanks,” Jaechan said with a small bow. He gave Mom one more hug. It was going to be a good first day of school after all.

Tonight, I’d like to tell you a story from my family history—you may have a story like it in your family history, too. Or your experience may be the source of stories that your posterity will tell.
My story is from the life of my second great-grandmother, Anthonette (Nettie) Marie Olsen. Nettie was born in 1845 in Oslo, Norway, the first child of Christian and Christine Olsen. Nettie and her parents joined the Church when Nettie was about 10 years old. As a result, Nettie and her family were shunned and ridiculed for their new faith. She worked as weaver in a factory to save enough money to immigrate to Salt Lake City, Utah, to be with other Latter-day Saints.
When she was 20 years old, she was ready to undertake the journey. Her father made her a travel bag, which contained a few pieces of underwear and a second dress. She wore the only pair of shoes she owned. Neither she nor her parents understood the nature of the journey ahead.
Nettie sailed across the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean and landed in Boston. From Boston, she took a train to a point near Florence, Nebraska. From Florence, she walked to Salt Lake City, a distance of 1000 miles. Before she walked 300 miles, her shoes wore off her feet. Nettie offered a fellow traveler her spare dress for a pair of shoes. The woman to whom she made this appeal had several pairs of shoes in her possession, but she refused, saying that she would need the shoes later on.
So, Nettie walked in her stocking feet. She mended her stockings each night by the campfire to be ready for the next day’s walk. Nettie later said, “This wasn’t so bad through the deep sand for miles and miles, but oh, the cactus patches.”
On November 8, 1865, Nettie arrived “afoot and alone” in Salt Lake City. She knew only a few words of English. She had met Christian Fredrick Bernhard Lybbert on the trail, and he helped her find work as a weaver and to learn English. She later married CFB (as the family calls him) and bore 11 children. She and her family eventually settled in Ashley Valley, Uintah County, Utah, where she died in 1932.
I have frequently thought of the sacrifices that Nettie made for her faith. She sacrificed personal comfort, her homeland, and the company of her friends and family in Norway. She sacrificed everything she had ever known for the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ. You may wonder if she thought her commitment to the restored church of Jesus Christ was worth her sacrifice—she knew it was. She had a deep testimony of the prophet Joseph Smith though she never met him. She lived her life consistent with principles of truth and served the Lord, her family, and neighbors. She had faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and in the promises He makes to the faithful. Her sacrifices built her faith, and she was faithful to the end.

Mary Hobson, the eighth of nine children born in Farmington, Utah, in 1853, kept house for her older brother Alma. He had a store in Richmond, Utah, and was the first telegraph operator there. He taught Mary, age 15, telegraphy and sent her to a special school for this in Logan. She helped him and was the first woman telegrapher in Richmond. Then Alma moved to Franklin, the oldest town in Idaho, and kept a store, post office, and telegraph office there. Mary helped him and thus became the first woman telegrapher in Idaho. When Alma moved back to Richmond, Mary stayed in Franklin and managed the store, post office, and telegraph office for several years.