Gospel Story Finder

I guess I should start out by saying that I’m just a regular, ordinary, ten year old who lives on a very ordinary street—North Maple. I’ve been going to Primary since I was little, and, of course, I’ve been planning on going on a mission as long as I can remember. But practicing being a missionary is something I haven’t done much—that is, until about a month ago. And that’s where my being a regular, ordinary boy is so amazing. I mean, if I can do it, anybody can!
You probably should know that I’m the only member of the Church in my whole school, except for my little sister. A lot of people know we’re Latter-day Saints. It isn’t hard to figure out, since my family doesn’t go to the local sport club’s Sunday soccer games, we have family home evening every Monday night, and we read the Book of Mormon every day. Sometimes my friends tease me about all the things Latter-day Saints can’t do. One time Nick even wanted to know if Church members could drink milk—and he was serious!
Anyway, when my best friend’s family moved, I resigned myself to living out my days never having any members my own age in my school class. There were two other people in my Primary class, but they didn’t go to my school.
About a month ago, the Millers moved into our neighborhood. Right away Mom took over some of her homemade enchiladas, and Dad helped Mr. Miller carry in their furniture. I was pretty excited to find out that they had an eleven-year-old son who likes baseball cards.
Jeff invited me up to his room a few days later. There were still boxes and stuff all over the place. I was busy admiring his coin collection, when I noticed that he had a picture of Jesus Christ on his nightstand. Whoa! My thoughts started spinning. The whole rest of the room was pretty much a mess, but this picture looked like something he had unpacked right away. I knew he wasn’t a Mormon—I’d already found that out—so I asked him about the picture.
Jeff wasn’t embarrassed or anything. He said that his whole family had prayed a lot before they moved to decide whether his dad should take a job in Chicago or come here. They had felt very good about their decision. He said they didn’t know why they were supposed to move here, but they knew that Jesus Christ loved them and they were sure that He would bless them to know why someday.
Well, I started getting pretty tingly all over, and then I did a very scary thing for a regular, ordinary, ten year old. I told him that my whole family loved Jesus Christ, too, and that we prayed every day. I said I knew that someday his family would know why they had moved to this neighborhood.
Well, since then, Jeff and I have become good friends. He came with me to Primary Activity Day two weeks ago and asked a lot of questions about the Church. Some of the answers were easy, and others I had to find out from Mom and Dad. Even Mr. and Mrs. Miller are starting to ask about the Church. We’re having them over to our house next Friday to hear a missionary discussion with the elders. Who knows? Maybe I will live to see another member family live on North Maple Street.

Many years ago, I observed a heartbreak—which became a tragedy. A young couple was nearing the delivery of their first child. Their lives were filled with the anticipation and excitement of this monumental experience. During the delivery, complications arose and the baby died. Heartbreak turned to grief, grief turned to anger, anger turned to blame, and blame turned to revenge toward the doctor, whom they held fully responsible. Parents and other family members became heavily involved, together seeking to ruin the reputation and the career of the physician. As weeks and then months of acrimony consumed the family, their bitterness was extended to the Lord. “How could He allow this horrible thing to occur?” They rejected the repeated efforts of Church leaders and members to spiritually and emotionally comfort them and, in time, disassociated themselves from the Church. Four generations of the family have now been affected. Where once there were faith and devotion to the Lord and His Church, there has been no spiritual activity by any family member for decades.

Mara buttoned her skirt and looked in the mirror. It felt funny to wear church clothes on a Saturday, but this was a special Saturday. It was general conference!
“Are you excited for the women’s session?” Mak (Mom) asked. She brushed Mara’s hair with quick, gentle strokes. “I want you to try to listen as much as you can.”
“Yes! I hope they tell pioneer stories!” Mara liked those best.
“Maybe they will,” Mak said. “Did you know your dad is a pioneer?”
Mara was confused. Her dad had never pulled a handcart.
“How is he a pioneer?” she asked.
Mak nodded toward the window, toward the river. “He was fishing there when he met the missionaries. He was the first one in his family to get baptized,” Mak said. “That makes him a pioneer! Now let’s go find your grandmother.”
Yiay (Grandma) was waiting for them in the front room. Mara’s family and her grandparents all lived together. Yiay helped take care of Mara after school while her parents worked. Now Yiay stood by the moped, the big motorized scooter that carried them around the city.
“The Church has only been in Cambodia for 25 years,” Mak told Mara as she opened the door and pushed the moped onto the street. “So we’re all pioneers. Even you!”
“How am I a pioneer?” Mara wondered as she got on the moped. Mak drove the moped, with Yiay in back and Mara in the middle. Mara held on tight as they zigged down the crowded street.
As they passed a café, the smell of tea wafted over them. Almost everyone here drank tea. But Mara didn’t. She followed the Word of Wisdom. Mara grinned. That’s one way she was a pioneer!
As the moped turned a corner, Mara saw a wat, a Buddhist temple. The red pointed roof rose above the other buildings. Monks with shaved heads and orange robes sat studying in the courtyard.
Mara knew that most people in Cambodia were Buddhist. They didn’t believe in Jesus Christ. But Mara did. “That’s another way I’m a pioneer,” thought Mara. And today she would get to listen to the prophet!
As the moped turned into the church parking lot, Mara saw lots of women arriving. Some had walked or ridden mopeds. Others arrived in tuk tuks, small carriages pulled by a motorbike. Many of the women wore dresses or plain skirts, like Mara did. And some wore sampots, beautiful long skirts made of colorful patterned fabrics.
Mara, Mak, and Yiay sat down in the chapel with the other women. Conference had actually happened a whole week ago in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. But now the people in Cambodia would be able to watch the broadcast in Khmer. Mara spoke both English and Khmer at home, and she also learned French in school. But many Cambodians just spoke Khmer.
The first speaker didn’t tell any stories about pioneers. But then the second speaker told a story about walking up a steep dirt path on her way home from school. It was called the “boys’ trail,” and sometimes she would take off her shoes and walk barefoot. She wanted to do hard things so she could be like a pioneer! Mara smiled as she thought about all the ways she was a pioneer.
The last speaker was the prophet. He stood tall. Mara listened extra closely. “I invite you to read the Book of Mormon between now and the end of the year,” he said. “The heavens will open for you. The Lord will bless you.”
Mara knew it wouldn’t be easy to read the whole Book of Mormon. She looked at the women around her. All of them had chosen to follow Jesus Christ. All of them had come tonight to listen to the prophet. She would follow the prophet, just as they did. She would be a pioneer!

In his autobiography, Parley P. Pratt gave us a description of a real man. In his account of his imprisonment in Liberty Jail with Joseph Smith and others, he told of one of those awful nights in which they had to listen to the guards brag of their deeds of rape, murder, robbery, and other crimes committed against the Mormons.

When the Prophet Joseph could bear it no more, Elder Pratt wrote, he rose to his feet, and spoke with a voice of thunder: “SILENCE, ye fiends of the infernal pit. In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still; I will not live another minute and bear such language. Cease such talk, or you or I die THIS INSTANT!”

Said Elder Pratt: “I have seen the ministers of justice, clothed in magisterial robes … in the Courts of England; I have witnessed a Congress in solemn session … : I have tried to conceive of kings … : and of emperors assembled to decide the fate of kingdoms; but dignity and majesty have I seen but once, as it stood in chains, at midnight, in a dungeon in an obscure village of Missouri.”

On April 29, 2019, my father-in-law, who was 95 years old, was baptized. It was truly a miracle for his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. We had waited for his baptism for a long time. What a gift for our family!
What changed him? Why did he commit to be baptized?
A few months before his baptism, he had a stroke and was hospitalized. My wife, Tazuko, returned home to see him. He was very pleased to see her. He had been afraid that he wouldn’t see her before he died. He started to tell her many things that he was worried about. He was thinking about his funeral.
But Tazuko told him, “Father, if you trust in God and leave everything to Him, your mind will be at ease and you will feel peace.” She explained about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness and what the Savior Jesus Christ has done for us. They talked about the spirit world, where my father-in-law’s wife, his oldest son, and his parents already are. “The next world will be amazing,” she said.
She also told him that it is better to be able to go there without sin. She said that thanks to the Atonement of Jesus Christ and thanks to baptism, he could be spotless before God. He thought a little and said, “I want to be baptized.”
Then he said, “It has been wonderful to see your children establish their own faith and continue to go to church, keep the commandments, and rely on God. I am so impressed with them.” And softly and with emotion, he said, “Family is really important! It is wonderful that our family can be one.”
After he joined the Church, I asked my father-in-law why he finally committed to be baptized. He replied without any hesitation, “I chose the right.”

Years ago I presided over a mission headquartered in the Midwest. One day, with a handful of our missionaries, I spoke with an esteemed representative of another Christian faith. This gentle soul spoke of his own religion’s history and doctrine, eventually repeating the familiar words: “By grace ye are saved. Every man and woman must exercise faith in Christ in order to become a saved being.”
Among those present was a new missionary. He was altogether unfamiliar with other religions. He had to ask the question, “But, sir, what happens to the little baby who dies before he is old enough to understand and exercise faith in Christ?” The learned man bowed his head, looked at the floor, and said, “There ought to be an exception. There ought to be a loophole. There ought to be a way, but there isn’t.”
The missionary looked at me and, with tears in his eyes, said, “Goodness, President, we do have the truth, don’t we!”

Mary Carmen said, “I first learned about the Church when two missionaries came tracting through our block. We were very active in another church, but we couldn’t feel the Spirit of the Lord the way we can feel it now. The day before the missionaries came, my mother had been praying that the gospel might enter our home more fully, but she certainly didn’t expect it to be delivered by two Mormon missionaries! I know that the Church is true. I have no doubts. I feel I am the happiest person in the world. I love every person here today because I know that you are all my brothers and sisters. I want the whole world to be happy.”

For several years, I have worked as a special education teacher for children between the ages of five and eight. My students struggle with many disabilities—from traumatic brain injuries and autism to learning disabilities.
Many of my students lack fine motor skills and are unable to tie their own shoes. I applaud parents who buy shoes for their children with Velcro straps, but I grumble about parents who buy laced shoes for their children.
Illustration by Enya Todd; photograph courtesy of the author
To have properly tied shoes is a safety issue for the children. So, multiple times each day, I can be found kneeling and tying the shoes of my little students. During the school day, this is both time-consuming and inconvenient.
Recently, as I knelt impatiently on the playground to tie yet another pair of shoes, a beautiful thought came to my mind. I pictured the Savior kneeling by His disciples to offer kind service by caring for their feet. Then the Savior’s words came to my mind: “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).
I felt the Savior’s love for the little child I was kneeling beside to serve. I also felt the Lord’s love for me. I felt seen and appreciated by Him for the tireless hours I spend each week trying to serve His little, most vulnerable ones.
This sweet experience gave me much-needed peace, strength, and assurance that I am where I am supposed to be, doing what I am supposed to be doing. I am grateful for the Lord and His tender mercies in my life. And now I am grateful for daily opportunities to kneel and tie shoes.

Farid says the biggest blessing he’s received since joining the Church is the knowledge that families can be together forever. A year after Farid joined the Church, his grandpa passed away. “I loved him so much,” Farid says. “He was one of my biggest examples. I felt really uncertain about where he would go in the next life.”
One of his friends at church talked with him about the plan of salvation and how he could do the temple work for his grandpa. Farid started working on his family history, and he went to the temple and was baptized for his grandpa.
“I have faith that when I die and pass through the veil, he will be waiting for me,” says Farid. “The Lord’s work doesn’t end in this life. I know now if my grandparents or parents pass away, we have the chance to see each other again in the life to come. We will be an eternal family.”
“I have faith that when I die and pass through the veil, he will be waiting for me.”

One time we went to watch a couple of movies at somebody’s house. My friends and I picked out one movie that was fine, and they also picked out another movie I knew was inappropriate. I mentioned something about not wanting to watch it, but everyone went ahead and rented it anyway. Will noticed I was quiet as we were driving away from the rental place.
“Hey, Jacob, is it really bothering you that we got that other movie?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “But it’s OK. I’ll just leave for that movie.”
Will didn’t think it was OK. He turned the car around and drove back to where we got the movie. Will and I went back and exchanged the inappropriate movie for something better that everybody still wanted to watch. I was always glad to have friends who helped me live my standards.

Walnetta Broederlow McCall was only nine years old when a missionary asked if anyone could play piano for their fledgling congregation. “I gingerly put up my hand!” she recalls. The missionary, Elder Charles W. Ashman, was not deterred by her age or inexperience. He gave Walnetta hymns to practice, and the following week, she became the pianist for their meetings.
Over the years, Walnetta has served in many other callings and enjoyed those experiences too. Today, she feels just as privileged to provide prelude music in her current Taupo Ward, to invite the Holy Spirit and set a reverent tone for their sacrament meetings. Reflecting on her love for her calling, she is so grateful for the gift that Elder Ashman gave her all those years ago when he asked for a volunteer pianist. “His invitation to play for our meetings and [his] confidence in me has blessed my life,” she says.

Sometimes we don’t understand the reason for heavenly instructions. God will occasionally send us instructions that we do not expect. I remember sitting in a sacrament meeting when an impression came clearly to my mind. The instruction was not a voice or a whisper but a clear thought indicating something I should do. I did not expect to receive such instruction during sacrament meeting.
I turned to my wife and told her the prompting I had just received. She indicated that I should obey the prompting, even though we did not understand the reason behind it.
As we obeyed that instruction, and as time went by, we had several witnesses that the direction we received brought us greater peace and ensured we remained on our path of growth.

I hated collecting fast offerings. The very idea of doing it made me shiver. Collecting fast offerings was a chore and one I thought was a waste of time, though I never really understood why I had to do it. I didn’t even know what fast offerings were used for.
As a deacon in my ward, I had the “route” which took me by my house and up an adjoining street, full of various houses. There was one home I always noticed. In this house resided a man I knew only as Brother Nichols. As a Blazer in Primary, I was once assigned to visit his house along with the rest of my group to bring him cookies and talk. But other than that, I never saw him.
Brother Nichols was an older fellow, a widower whose wife had died a couple of years earlier, who now lived in secrecy. His yard had decayed, and his home seemed to have died as well. The inside was filled with old black-and-white photographs of him and his wife. Brother Nichols had been a skier in Utah for many years, and he had plenty of what I considered boring stories to tell.
I never saw him at church, and every time I came to his house during my fast offering route, I would either pass his house completely or ring the bell once and hope he didn’t answer.
One Sunday, I felt particularly good. I decided that I would visit every house I was assigned to visit so that everyone would have a chance to donate fast offerings—even Brother Nichols.
When I got to Brother Nichols’s home, I rang the doorbell. No response. I tried at least three or four times, but nobody answered. As I started to walk away, I heard the door open. There was Brother Nichols.
I greeted him with a warm smile and began an attempt to converse with him.
“Hello, Brother Nichols. I’m here to collect fast offerings.”
“Why, hello young man,” he responded. “Nice of you to stop by.”
I wondered if he knew I had skipped his house on occasion and not cared to see if he was home. I decided that I would repent and become friends with him.
Brother Nichols placed a meager amount of money in the envelope, and I thanked him, giving him a smile and telling him to have a nice day.
This continued for two more months. During each visit with him, the conversations were longer, and I soon felt I could ask him to come to church with no trouble.
“Brother Nichols, you know, I haven’t ever seen you at church.”
“Ah, well, I haven’t ever had the interest …”
“Brother Nichols,” I interrupted, “please come once or you’ll regret it.”
He agreed, and sure enough, the following week, Brother Nichols came to church. He was smiling and he looked great. I thanked him for coming, and he thanked me for the invitation. I could tell by the look in his eyes that the Spirit was with him and his warm hand-shake filled me with the Holy Ghost as well. Throughout the entire meeting he smiled, and the messages from the speakers were fantastic. I was proud that I had brought this man to church, and I knew God was proud of me.
I never knew why I felt so good until a few days later when I found out that Brother Nichols had died. He was now with his wife and with the truth of the gospel which he had experienced.
I felt the Spirit strongly for the next few weeks, and I knew what it meant to be a deacon, to hold the Aaronic Priesthood and act in the name of the Lord. I also learned to not treat the responsibility of collecting fast offerings as a burden. Most importantly, I learned a bit more about the power of the truth of the gospel.

At age 23, I thought I had everything a young man in México City could want. I was independent, had a good job, and was almost finished with my higher education. Life had given me much—parents who taught me good principles, instilling in me the ability to work hard and a desire to improve myself. And now I was dating a pretty young woman. The only real problem I had was a few differences between us on the topic of religion. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I was not.
I had already met the missionaries, who “by coincidence” were often at her house when I went to visit. I listened to the first discussion a few times, but the missionaries could not get me to read or pray. We never got to the second discussion. I knew they wanted me to join the Church, but I wasn’t interested. Although I was impressed with many of the members I had already met, I wasn’t willing to spend Sundays in church. I preferred to play soccer or go to the movies.
One day after a series of arguments, my girlfriend and I stopped seeing each other. I missed her and began to think about her integrity, virtue, and maturity. Her standards were much higher than those of anyone else I knew. So one night I went to see her again. After we talked I realized she had missed me, too. As soon as I realized she really did want to be with me, I asked her to go out with me again.
I was quite surprised to hear a firm no come from her lips. At the same moment, tears began running down her cheeks.
I thought, What would cause her to say no when she wants to say yes? When I recovered from my surprise and asked her why, she said, between sobs, “I want to be married in the temple—I want an eternal family.”
An unfamiliar feeling swept over me, and then I, too, started to cry. For some reason, there began to grow in me a desire to do anything I could to have the same feeling about an eternal family.
I started the missionary discussions again, this time in earnest. Three weeks later I was baptized.
Now I understand what I felt that night. It was the Holy Ghost prompting me. I’m 25 now and serving full time in the México Guadalajara Mission. My girlfriend is serving a full-time mission, too.
I’m very grateful to my Heavenly Father for the powerful change in my heart and for the opportunity to share the fulness of the gospel. I’m also grateful to my friend for her faithfulness. Her desire for an eternal family has caused me to share the message of eternal families with other people—people who are now seeking that blessing for themselves.

The United States Navy’s Officer Candidate School (OCS) is an intense 13 weeks of training for college graduates who want to become naval officers. The first week is especially difficult—seven days with a Marine drill instructor whose job it is to indoctrinate his new class with military discipline and attention to detail. During the training, the Navy’s core values of honor, courage, and commitment are taught and emphasized.
My class drill instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Cagle, stressed to us the importance of honesty and integrity. The consequence of making a mistake was a powerful chewing out—packed with choice words—by Cagle and a “mashing session” consisting of extra push-ups, jumping jacks, leg lifts, and eight-count bodybuilders. Often he would test us by putting us in situations in which we would have to stand up and admit that we had made a mistake just to see how we would act. If someone confessed, his punishment was usually reduced significantly. Still, no one wanted to stand out and draw more attention to themselves than was necessary.
Having been forewarned about what to expect at OCS, I was a little worried about being able to mentally and emotionally handle it. And knowing that many of my classmates probably would not have the same standards as mine regarding drinking, entertainment, and other distractions, I worried that I would not have the strength to stand up for my beliefs under pressure. So, as part of my preparation to enter OCS, I prayed and fasted for strength and asked for a blessing that everything would work out okay. I determined how I would react and what I would do if I found myself in a situation where I would have to defend my beliefs. Still, those drill instructors sounded pretty intimidating.
An opportunity to stand up soon came. Gunnery Sergeant Cagle had all my classmates packed into one of our rooms to show us how we were to fold our clothes and store them in our wall lockers for an upcoming inspection. He started his explanation, mixing it with a few colorful metaphors. At one point he stopped and asked if there were any of us who had not seen an R-rated movie. I almost didn’t raise my hand for fear of standing out, but I remembered what he had said about being honest as well as the commitment I had made to myself to stand up for what I believed. Much to the disbelief of Cagle and the rest of my class, I raised my hand. He stared at me for a minute then asked if I really hadn’t seen an R-rated movie. I answered again that I hadn’t. He told me he would talk to me later, then continued to justify his language to the class.
After he dismissed us for the evening, he pulled me aside and again asked me, in disbelief, if I really had never seen an R-rated movie. For the third time I told him, “No.” He then asked me if I found his language offensive. Taking a deep breath, I told him that, yes, I did find it offensive—a bold answer to my drill sergeant, but one worth any retribution I might receive.
My response caused him to pause again. He asked if I minded if he used that language as long as it was never specifically aimed at me. Again I told him, “Sir, I do mind, and I would prefer it if you would not use that kind of language. However, it is your choice, and I understand that some of it may come with your job.”
I guess he was taken aback, but he let me go. Later that night, and even for a couple of days after, my classmates would ask me what had happened. They told me they didn’t really like Cagle’s language either. They told me I was brave, then asked why I didn’t watch R-rated movies. Their curiosity gave me the chance to tell them about what I believed and about the Church.
Later in the course, we were reminiscing with Cagle, and someone asked him if anybody had ever answered his R-rated question like I had. He looked at me and replied that I was the first, and that I had totally taken him by surprise.
By the end of OCS, my classmates humorously dubbed me “rated-R.” Many of them were even more cautious about swearing in front of me. Because I stood up for my beliefs, I feel I earned the respect of not only my classmates but also my drill instructor.
I am grateful for the strength I felt from the Lord. I am also grateful I decided ahead of time what I would do if I had the choice to say nothing or stand up for my beliefs. I do know the Lord watches out for us and even turns sticky situations into missionary opportunities.

I turned the wheel and guided the car around the corner, resisting the urge to glance at my driving instructor’s face to see how I was doing. If I passed this test, I would finally get my driver’s license.
A parked truck caught my eye on the road ahead. Immediately, I felt uncomfortable and slowed down. My instructor said, “The speed limit here is 35 miles an hour.” I didn’t know how to respond—I couldn’t tell my teacher I just had a bad feeling. The girls in back shifted, and I felt my face getting red. I decided to drive faster. But then I looked at the truck again and changed my mind.
“What are you doing?” my instructor asked, confused. I had slowed the car to 10 miles per hour, and I didn’t know how to explain why. As I got closer to where the truck was, the feeling grew stronger. I hovered over the brake, holding my breath. If I wasn’t watching so closely, I would never have seen a basketball bounce from behind the truck. I slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt. The front bumper was just inches from a four-year-old boy who had run after the ball.
I couldn’t breathe, and it took a moment before I could relax enough to keep driving. My instructor and the other girls didn’t say a word. I finished the test in silence, trying not to notice the stares from the backseat.
I passed the driving test, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. The focus of my whole summer had shifted the second that boy ran in front of my car. I know that the most important test for me was listening to the Spirit and obeying His counsel.

Between December 23 and 24 1993, our Oshodi Branch missionaries asked me to go to Sister Patience Ojukwu’s farm to buy old layer chickens for Christmas dinner. When I returned with one, the other companion asked me to get another for them. Arriving at the farm on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Sister Ojukwu informed me that she had lost more than two hundred old layer chicken which had been stolen the previous night. I was only a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, but I was the only priesthood holder on the farm that very day. I asked that we all join hands together and pray to God to reveal to us what action to take. I got the answers immediately and asked Sister Ojukwu to inform the police. When the detectives arrived, the farm security guard was arrested and confessed that the farm supervisor transferred and sold the birds to a small neighboring farmer.

Over 90 percent of the birds were recovered. The activities at the farm that day lasted until nightfall. Sister Ojukwu pleaded that I spend the night with her family. Very early on Christmas morning, I returned to the missionary apartment at Oshodi with crates of eggs as a gift from Sister Ojukwu.

After many promptings during his young adult years, Elder Larry S. Kacher began to recognize a greater power guiding him in his life. At age 19, sensitivity to the Spirit led him to the gospel of Jesus Christ—a change that has made all the difference.
After high school he went to Europe to ski, and after more than six months there he felt he needed to return home. Once home, he felt like he needed to go somewhere else but didn’t know where. A childhood friend planned to move to Utah, and Elder Kacher decided to move with him. While in Utah, Elder Kacher enrolled at Brigham Young University, learned about the Church, and was baptized.
“As the missionaries taught us, I felt it was true,” he says. “As I prayed, I felt that the Church was true.”

Illustration by Julia Yellow
It was a calm day at my job as a volunteer firefighter, so I decided to read the Book of Mormon. When one of my co-workers saw me reading, he asked if I knew how we could put on the armor of God in modern times. As we were talking, the alarm sounded. There was a fire in a nearby store.
We quickly put on our firefighting gear and went straight there. The flames were huge, and as we approached the store, something exploded in our direction. The flames engulfed us. The explosion disoriented my co-worker and me for a few seconds. But thanks to our equipment and protective clothing, we suffered no injury.
When we returned to the station after fighting the fire, I asked my co-worker if he remembered his question about the armor of God. He said he did, and I explained that the armor of God is like our protective firefighting gear. We must always wear it so we can withstand the powerful attacks of the adversary. If we keep the commandments, we will be blessed with the protective power of the armor of God, and the Holy Ghost will be our guide.
Fernando de la Rosa Marrón, Mexico

A few months ago I was having trouble keeping the commandments. One morning as I was reading my scriptures, I read 1 Nephi 10:18: “And the way is prepared for all men from the foundation of the world, if it so be that they repent and come unto him.”
That verse gave me the courage I needed to speak to my bishop. Because of my example one of my closest friends, who also was struggling, spoke to her bishop, as well. Then we were able to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead.
I know that our Heavenly Father loves us and that His Son Jesus Christ atoned for our sins. I’m grateful for this knowledge.