Gospel Story Finder

James McCloy has told us about his easily distracted hunting dog. While hunting rabbits the dog would chase the rabbit until another rabbit ran across the path going in another direction. The dog would then leave the chase of the first and follow after the second rabbit, until a third rabbit crossed the path, going in still another direction and so on with the fourth and fifth and sixth rabbits being chased as each went in different directions. At the end of a fruitless day chasing many rabbits, but catching none, the dog was exhausted and his owner empty-handed.

Jacqueline’s family talked and laughed as they walked through the snow-dusted woods. But behind them, Jacqueline quietly trudged with the speed of a melting snowman.
She had waited all year for her family’s Christmas-tree hunt. She had dreamed about crunching through the frosty forest, sipping hot cocoa, and decorating the perfect tree until every branch sparkled with lights.
But now the frost she had waited for was freezing her toes, and the hot cocoa in her thermos didn’t taste as sweet as usual. She kept thinking about Travis.
Travis was Jacqueline’s best friend. He used to have a house near hers, but this winter his family had to move into a small trailer. The move had been really hard for Travis. There wasn’t even enough room for a Christmas tree in their new place. And Travis loved Christmas trees!
Suddenly Jacqueline stopped. Popping up from the snow in front of her was a tiny pine sapling. Maybe it would fit in Travis’s new home! Jacqueline’s eyes lit up as she reached for it—
“Whoa!” Dad said, putting a mittened hand on her shoulder. “We can’t cut down the little trees. They need to grow for next year.”
As Dad continued through the forest, Jacqueline looked back at the sapling and smiled. She had an idea.
Hours later Jacqueline was walking through the snow again—but this time in her own backyard. From where she stood, she could just glimpse her family’s Christmas tree twinkling through the windows of their house. Their tree hunt was over, but hers wasn’t quite finished.
She walked next to the towering trees that marked the edge of her yard until she saw a pine branch growing low enough to reach. It was just the right size for Travis’s trailer. Dad had told her that taking one small branch wouldn’t hurt the tree too much.
With a grunt Jacqueline broke off the branch. But it didn’t look at all like the Christmas tree twinkling inside. Making Travis’s tree was going to be harder than she thought!
The next day Jacqueline sat in the car and watched the forest rush by in a blur of brown and green.
“Aren’t you excited to give Travis his tree?” Mom asked.
Jacqueline shrugged. She had spent all day trying to make the little tree look just right, but it didn’t end up nearly as nice as she wanted.
They parked in front of Travis’s trailer, and Jacqueline opened the trunk. When she saw the tree, her heart sank. It was lopsided, with needles drooping from its branches. Even the ribbons Jacqueline had tied around it were crumpled. Hot tears stung at the corner of Jacqueline’s eyes. It looked nothing like a real Christmas tree. It would probably just make Travis’s Christmas worse!
The door to the trailer swung open, and Travis bounded down the steps. With a deep breath, Jacqueline held out the tree. “Merry Christmas!” she said shakily.
When Travis saw the tree, a grin spread across his face. “Wow! It’s perfect!” he cried out. “Thank you!”
Jacqueline felt a warm feeling grow inside her, melting away the sad and worried feelings she’d had before. She realized that her gift wasn’t really the tree or the ribbons—so it didn’t matter if those were perfect or not. What she had really given Travis was love. Like Jesus would have done.
And she couldn’t wait to give it again.

We visited Granddad’s farm most summers. The summer I was 14, however, Stu decided he was too old and too cool to come on a family vacation with us. Stu had stopped coming to church and had started going with a new crowd of friends. Most nights he came home late, and I could smell the cigarette smoke and beer on his clothes.

But after a few days camping at Granddad’s farm without Stu, I began to feel very alone and very bored. Early one morning I was kicking a football (soccer ball) against our caravan (trailer) when Granddad passed by carting a big paper bag.

“Fancy sum’ mushrooms?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, not very happy with the world.

“Aye. Good ‘enough. I’ll just have to try and find ‘em by myself,” he said, and shuffled off across his green pasture. I shrugged my shoulders and ran after him. Mushroom hunting was something to do. And, anyway, Granddad was old and might need my help.

“Thought we might find sum’ by town,” he said as he stepped onto a low stone fence and bounded over. I scrambled over the rocks and had to run to catch up with Granddad. In fact, I soon found myself running a lot to keep up with his breezy pace. Obviously he was not going to need my help.

“You must walk a lot,” I said to him, half out of breath.

He looked down at me and laughed. “I walk these hills every day. But a young ‘un like you should be able to out-walk me. Living in the city makes you soft.”

I dropped my gaze to the path.

“You have something on your mind, lad?” he asked.

“No, just bored.”

“Aye, probably.”

It seemed like we crossed most of the Yorkshire glens before we reached the top of a hill that overlooked town. Granddad led me down the hillside, past at least a dozen bent-over people searching for white mushrooms amid the waving grass. I noticed most of their bags were empty.

“I don’t think there are many mushrooms around here,” I confided to Granddad.

He looked back at the mushroom hunters and chuckled. “Oh, I think we might find one or two.”

He stepped off the trail, and I followed him as we rounded a small rock outcropping and were suddenly alone in a shady clearing with more mushrooms than I’d ever seen. They were everywhere! Big, white, fluffy mushrooms.

It only took us a few minutes to fill our bag. Then we started back up the hill, past the scattered mushroom hunters.

A man with wire-rimmed glasses stood up when we passed and wiped his forehead. “Find any?” he asked.

“Just enough,” Granddad answered. Then he winked at me and whispered, “You have to know where to look, lad.”

I laughed and put my hand on Granddad’s shoulder.

But as we walked away, Granddad looked back at the man and said, “You might want to try behind those rocks.”

“I just might,” came the reply.

We reached the top of the hill and rested on a big, flat rock, perched with a grand view of the gray and green town below.

“That was nice of you, telling that man where to look,” I said.

“Sumtimes people just need a little hint,” he answered.

John Taylor loved to sing. While in Carthage Jail, Joseph Smith asked Elder Taylor to sing “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” (Hymns, no. 29). The song comforted the Prophet before his death. John Taylor was present at the Martyrdom, and even though he was shot four times, his life was spared. He carried a pocket watch that broke during the Martyrdom. While serving in the Church, President Taylor edited many Church publications and dedicated the Logan Utah Temple.

Bennette, who works as a reporter for a local television station, said that her family helps her cope with the pressures of her employment.

“I go around with a cameraman and shoot the important and significant things in the community,” she said. She has interviewed the mayor and other local officials. “But I often see things like fires, holdups, or robberies, and you see a lot of people who aren’t happy with what they’re doing.

“When you can come home and find as nice an atmosphere as this family has,” she continued, “it makes you very thankful to the Lord. I know that if there are problems or difficulties, I can come home and talk with my family about them. My parents and my brothers and sisters help me solve the problems. I also get a lot of support from them in other ways. We do many things together as a family, such as going to church on Sunday or going to other Church-sponsored activities during the week.”

She said she gets questions at work about being LDS, usually because she is offered coffee by those she is interviewing and they want to know why she turns it down. “That often leads to discussions about the Word of Wisdom,” she said. She also noted that “in broadcasting some people have an especially hard time with ‘colorful language,’ like the director who shouts at you in not-so-nice language. Aside from being a correspondent, I also direct some of the shows, and usually when I’m directing, someone will say, ‘Why don’t you get mad and swear like the others?’ But I can get mad without saying nasty things. I can be just as forceful in a nice sort of way.”

Carl swept back the curtain of his bedroom window and squinted out into the day. This was going to be great! Lots of sun. Lots of snow. And lots and lots of skiing.

Carl slipped out of bed, and his feet hit the floor with a thump. Pulling a pair of wool socks out of his dresser drawer, he imagined the exciting day ahead at a ski hill called Bear Gulch. Funny name, he thought as he slipped the socks over his feet and slid awkwardly across the hardwood floor, pretending to ski.

Whoosh! He could almost feel the snow under his skis, packed firm and cold in some places, fine and bouncy in others. And he loved the smell of the mountain air, cold from snowfall and scented with pine and fir. He loved the way the crisp wind whispered past his ears as he glided down the slope.

Carl’s family did not have a lot of money for things like skiing, and it had taken Carl three weeks of extra chores to earn enough for his ski pass. For three dollars, he could buy an all-day ticket for the rope-tow, a heavy motor-driven rope that pulled skiers to the top of the snowy hill. It seemed like a lot of money, but it sure beat hiking up with his skis.

His mother set a bowl of hot cereal in front of him, and Carl started on it hungrily.

“Are we in a hurry today?” she asked with a smile.

“You know, Mom—today’s the day I go with Joe and Marty to Bear Gulch. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember. What about your morning chores?”

“They’re finished. I worked on them last night so I would be ready.”

“All right, all right, Champ. I’ll pack you a lunch.”

Carl sat down and buckled on his old boots. They were hand-me-downs—an old pair his uncle had worn when he was a boy—but they were oiled up and in pretty good condition. Next, Carl picked up the wooden skis his father made for him and leaned them by the kitchen door. Let’s see, he thought. Hat, yes; mittens, yes. Everything was ready except for checking his money. Carl pulled a small leather pouch out of his pocket and carefully dumped the coins onto the kitchen table. He counted each coin. Three dollars—just enough for one ticket.

At that moment, Carl’s father walked into the room. “Son, did you remember to pay your tithing last Sunday?”

Carl hesitated. A long moment passed. “No,” he said sadly.

“Well,” said his father, “you choose what you want to do.”

Of course, Carl wanted to ski. He sat down at the table and stared at the coins. There weren’t that many of them. Did his father really expect him to pass up this opportunity after waiting and working and saving so long? Did the Lord really need these few meager coins for a tithe? His father had said to choose what he wanted to do. Carl wished it were that simple. It would be easy to do what he wanted to do. Then he thought about what his Heavenly Father might want him to do.

The two red-cheeked faces of Joe and Marty appeared in the front window. They were so close that their breath steamed the pane instantly and their faces were lost in the fog on the glass. Carl walked to the front door and opened it slowly.

“Hi, fellas. I can’t go.”

Joe and Marty exchanged glances. “But don’t you want to go?” asked Marty.

“Sure,” said Carl. “But I also want to do the right thing.”

He returned to the table and with one finger drew three dimes away from the rest of the pile. He stayed home that day and paid his tithing to the bishop the next day.

The following week, the ski resort lowered its ticket price to two dollars and fifty cents.

On the next Saturday morning, the sun was not shining, but the snow was crisp and bright. Carl’s wooden skis and his oiled leather boots were ready to go. His wool cap was pulled down snug over his ears. It was going to be a cold day, but a special excitement warmed him all over because he had done what Heavenly Father wanted him to do. As he handed his money over for the ski ticket, he thought about how glad he was that he had chosen to pay his tithing and how good he felt now, because he had.

There was to be one great final lesson before his mortal life ended. He was incarcerated in Carthage Jail with his brother Hyrum, with John Taylor, and with Willard Richards. The angry mob stormed the jail; they came up the stairway, blasphemous in their cursing, heavily armed, and began to fire at will. Hyrum was hit and died. John Taylor took several balls of fire within his bosom. The Prophet Joseph, with his pistol in hand, was attempting to defend his life and that of his brethren, and yet he could tell from the pounding on the door that this mob would storm that door and would kill John Taylor and Willard Richards in an attempt to kill him.
And so his last great act here upon the earth was to leave the door and lead Willard Richards to safety, throw the gun on the floor, and go to the window, that they might see him, that the attention of this ruthless mob might be focused upon him rather than the others. Joseph Smith gave his life. Willard Richards was spared, and John Taylor recovered from his wounds. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). The Prophet Joseph Smith taught us love—by example.

The vast snow-covered plains loomed against a frozen blue-white sky. For as far as the eye could see, there were no signs of life, and the sun was a mere sliver of white in a frozen dome of sky.
Sentar shivered, then followed Bratsk from the pine-covered lean-to. He stood and brushed the snow from his knees. “Put your eye shield on, or the snow will blind you!” Bratsk growled irritably. “It is bad enough that I have to cross these mountains—but to drag a youth like you along makes it even worse!”
Obediently Sentar did as he was told, then pulled his cap snugly down around his ears. “Yes, that is better,” he agreed as he breathed puffs of frozen air.
Bratsk attached his snowshoes to the bottom of his fur boots. “We will have to follow that trail,” he grumbled, pointing, “up through the high pass and beyond to the village of your grandmother. We must reach our destination before nightfall, for there is little shelter for anyone who tarries on the mountains after dark. Use your energy wisely, lad, for you will surely need every bit of it to get to your grandmother’s village.”
Sentar nodded. He followed Bratsk through the unbroken snow. For hours they trudged across the vast snow-covered mountain, struggling step by weary step. Each peak looked like the one before it. Sentar felt as if they were moving across a very narrow trail over the very top of the world, as if one careless step in either direction could send him sliding down the side of a hundred icy ravines to his death. At a stand of rocks, Sentar finally paused to catch his breath. As he stood panting, he heard a small noise and looked down. There, on a narrow ledge, was a boy half-buried in the snow.
“Look, Bratsk! Someone has fallen over the cliff!”
Bratsk turned and looked over his shoulder. “That is nothing to us! We need all our energy just to reach our destination. It would seem that he has already reached his!” With a gesture, he turned back along the trail, anxious to continue.
“Wait, Bratsk,” Sentar pleaded. “It will be no danger to you—I will climb down and see if I can help!” He knelt and swung his legs over the side of the ledge. “Hello!” he shouted hopefully. His words reached out in all directions and bounced back hollowly. Still, he thought he saw the boy’s hands move ever so slightly. “He is alive!” he shouted. “I saw him move!” Again his words echoed from every frozen surface. Quickly Sentar slipped his pack from his shoulders and crawled carefully but eagerly over the side.
Bratsk stopped on the trail above. “Do not do this thing!” he warned angrily. “If you do, you do it alone!”
Sentar looked up into Bratsk’s face. “We cannot pass him by and leave him here to die!”
Bratsk’s eyes narrowed. “You do not know the way of the mountains!” he thundered. “You are young and do not understand. The boy is as good as dead already! If you attempt to rescue him, two bodies will freeze in the snow instead of one! Then what will I tell your grandmother? Save your strength for yourself!”
Sentar then looked down again and shook his head. He knew that if he left the boy to die, part of him would die too. He had to do what he knew was right. “I cannot leave him.”
Bratsk scowled. “Then good-bye, Sentar. I will tell your grandmother that wolves ate your hide!”
“Bratsk!”
But the guide had already turned his back on Sentar and was continuing silently through the snow.
With a sinking heart, Sentar watched Bratsk disappear along the ridge. Then the youth uncoiled his rope and tied it to a rock. Slowly he lowered himself onto the ledge. Carefully he turned the boy onto his side. The boy moaned softly, and Sentar was encouraged. “You will be all right,” he promised as he gently rubbed the boy’s hands together. “I will help you.”
Sentar strapped the boy to his back and struggled back up to the trail. Gasping, he collapsed on the snow and rested. As soon as he had caught his breath, he staggered to his feet again and, carrying the boy on his back, trudged along the trail. As nightfall came, the snow began again, driving in blinding waves. Sentar stopped and lowered the boy to the ground, for he could no longer see the way. Desperate, he hollowed an opening in the snow and crawled inside it, dragging the boy with him.
The next morning, Sentar moved on with his burden. As he traveled, he spoke reassuring words, not only to the unconscious boy but also to himself. “I can do it,” he mumbled wearily. “I know that I can do it! If I do not try, I would not be able to live with myself. Even if we do not make it, well, at least we tried.”
Finally Sentar stood gasping on a slope. He could see his destination below, where smoke spiraled from stone chimneys. “We’ve made it, my friend,” he exulted. “Soon you will have hot food and the shelter you need. You will be cared for properly.”
The people greeted Sentar joyously, and his grandmother quickly took them into her home. Later, as Sentar sat by the fire, his grandmother came from the other room. “The boy will live?” he asked.
Grandmother nodded and smiled. “Yes, he is young and will be fine.”
“But what was he doing on the mountain?” Sentar wondered.
“We will have to ask him when he is well enough to talk,” Grandmother replied. “Perhaps he was lost. Bratsk, however, was not as fortunate as you.”
Sentar’s forehead creased. “What of Bratsk?”
Grandmother shook her head slowly. “His feet were badly frostbitten, and he is in much pain.”
Sentar frowned. “How can that be? Bratsk knows the mountains far better than I, and I reached my destination even without his guidance and with a burden he would not share.
She nodded. “When you cared enough to carry an unknown boy over the snow-covered mountains, you drew warmth from your efforts, and the boy you carried drew warmth from you. You helped each other live. You see, many times a burden is also a blessing. Always remember, my son, reaching your destination is rarely more important than what you do along the way.

After living for twenty years in the same ward, I married and moved to a distant city, where my husband continued his schooling. The people were friendly, but I was shy by nature and struggled to feel comfortable. One Sunday morning as I stood up from the bench at the back of the chapel and turned to go to Sunday School, a member of the bishopric greeted me with a smile and a handshake. Brother Goates was one of many who had extended themselves in becoming acquainted with us. As he shook my hand, he said, “Virginia, get off the back row and quit thinking about yourself!” All at once I saw with a new perspective. He was right, but I didn’t quite know how to quit thinking about myself. However, as the weeks moved on, the acceptance of a calling automatically moved me off the back row, demanding that I think about someone besides myself. My comfort and confidence grew proportionately. Callings and assignments are easy ways to become involved in the lives of others. Paradoxically, as we concentrate on the needs of others, our own needs become less controlling.

Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

Fifteen hundred LDS a youth met together in a Birmingham to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the Church in Great Britain. The crowd poured into the city’s ice rink for a morning of skating, followed by lunch and an afternoon of dancing.
Youth from at least 30 stakes from Scotland to Cornwall, from Wales to the East Coast met new friends and renewed old acquaintances.
Nicola Bunting of Wolverhampton commented, “I met so many friends. It was a lovely day. We’d certainly enjoy getting together like this more often.” Her dad, John, who acted as master of ceremonies throughout the day said, “With the majority of youth in this country coming from small wards and branches that are limited in teenagers and young adults, it’s marvellous for them to feel there are many other Latter-day Saints around.”
Birmingham police who were supervising the crossing of busy roads reported they’ve never seen a crowd of youngsters behave so well. Bishop Robin Gray of Sutton Coldfield said, “Unfortunately, British youth groups in excess of 400 have a bad name for trouble. Our young people excel in good manners and orderly behavior.”
After lunch, with energy levels still high, the youth headed for the dance floor, where the entertainment was provided by Church members. Liz Wilkins’ group and David Shepard’s Where’s the Beach (an appropriate name for singers from central England) raised roars of approval from the audience.
As the day drew to a close, final messages echoed across Birmingham streets, “Don’t forget to write. … It’s been great meeting you. … Hope you can come again.”

Let me share with you a rather private but joyful example from my own experience.
As a bishop, I worried about any members who were inactive, not attending, not serving. Such was my thought one day as I drove down the street where Ben and Emily Fullmer lived. Aches and pains of advancing years caused them to withdraw from activity to the shelter of their home—isolated, detached, shut out from the mainstream of daily life and association. Ben and Emily had not been in our sacrament meeting for many years. Ben, a former bishop, would sit constantly in his front room reading and memorizing the New Testament.
I was en route from my uptown sales office to our plant on Industrial Road. For some reason I had driven down First West, a street which I never had traveled before to reach the destination of our plant. Then I felt the unmistakable prompting to park my car and visit Ben and Emily, even though I was on my way to a meeting. I did not heed the impression at first but drove on for two more blocks; however, when the impression came again, I returned to their home.
It was a sunny weekday afternoon. I approached the door to their home and knocked. I heard the tiny fox terrier dog bark at my approach. Emily welcomed me in. Upon seeing me, she exclaimed, “All day long I have waited for my phone to ring. It has been silent. I hoped the postman would deliver a letter. He brought only bills. Bishop, how did you know today is my birthday?”
I answered, “God knows, Emily, for He loves you.”
In the quiet of their living room, I said to Ben and Emily, “I really don’t know why I was directed here today, but I was. Our Heavenly Father knows. Let’s kneel in prayer and ask Him why.” This we did, and the answer came. As we arose from our knees, I said to Brother Fullmer, “Ben, would you come to priesthood meeting when we meet with all the priesthood and relate to our Aaronic Priesthood boys the story you once told me when I was a boy, how you and a group of boys were en route to the Jordan River to swim one Sunday, but you felt the Spirit direct you to attend Sunday School. And you did. One of the boys who failed to respond to that Spirit drowned that Sunday. Our boys would like to hear your testimony.”
“I’ll do it,” he responded.
I then said to Sister Fullmer, “Emily, I know you have a beautiful voice. My mother has told me so. Our ward conference is a few weeks away, and our choir will sing. Would you join the choir and attend our ward conference and perhaps sing a solo?”
“What will the number be?” she inquired.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’d like you to sing it.”
She sang. He spoke to the Aaronic Priesthood. Hearts were gladdened by the return to activity of Ben and Emily. They rarely missed a sacrament meeting from that day forward. The language of the Spirit had been spoken. It had been heard. It had been understood. Hearts were touched and souls saved. Ben and Emily Fullmer had come home.

Several years later I was working in the commercial department of a large company. One day our manager introduced me to a new employee. He was a tall young man with gorgeous blue eyes, an easy smile, and a great sense of fashion.
I could hardly believe it when he later began to flirt with me. I felt on top of the world! On our first date, I was excited to find out that he was a drummer in a band that was experiencing some success. I also discovered that he smoked and drank, but I reasoned that, since he was not a member of the Church, it was not wrong for him.
That night when I arrived home, my thoughts were full of that beautiful young man. But as I knelt to pray, I saw my picture of the temple, and a strange feeling came over me. I ignored it and went to sleep.
The next day, when we went out together, the fact that he drank and smoked gave me a bad feeling. I was ashamed to be seated at a table with drinks, even though I hadn’t touched any of them. I felt first excited and then frustrated when he tried to kiss me. When I smelled the cigarettes and alcohol on his breath, that kiss didn’t make it past an attempt!
I knelt beside my bed to pray that night, looking at the picture of the temple. I reflected that this young man was not the type of person who could take me to the temple for an eternal marriage.
I lay down and slept, but not before happily thinking about my goal of marrying a worthy young man with whom I could establish an eternal family.
Even though the drummer was still attractive, his romantic look no longer impressed me. I knew the type of marriage I wanted.
A year later I was married in the São Paulo Temple to a worthy priesthood holder whom I love. It was worth waiting for a faithful young man who could receive with me that wonderful blessing from the Lord.

I needed an answer. And not just any answer—I needed to know whether my boyfriend was the man I should marry.
To be clear, I wasn’t looking for a soulmate, or that one perfect person who was destined to be with me. As my boyfriend and I dated, we had become good partners through love, patience, forgiveness, and sacrifice. So, I believed that we could create a happy and successful marriage together. But at 33 years old, I was afraid of making such a significant change—I had worked hard to build a life that I loved, and I wanted to be sure that I was making the right choice.
As we continued to date and started talking seriously about marriage, I had received positive impressions about moving forward with my boyfriend. I tried to trust in those feelings since “all things which are good cometh of God” (Moroni 7:12). However, the biggest feeling I had was that God was letting me make this decision on my own and that He’d support me either way.
This wasn’t exactly surprising—when I have big choices to make, I think God is sometimes intentionally quiet. I consider this to be His way of saying that He trusts me to use my agency. But this was marriage; this could impact me and my boyfriend not only now but into eternity. And so I wondered why I hadn’t received a more obvious confirmation from Him—and if I should be concerned that I hadn’t.
As time progressed, I felt more and more positive about getting married, although the steps I was taking in that direction were still relatively small.
And then one day, I came across a quote that had profound impact on me. It was from a September 2001 devotional by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He said: “Many of us typically assume we will receive an answer or a prompting to our earnest prayers and pleadings. And we also frequently expect that such an answer or a prompting will come immediately and all at once. Thus, we tend to believe the Lord will give us a big answer quickly and all at one time. However, the pattern repeatedly described in the scriptures suggests we receive ‘line upon line, precept upon precept’ [2 Nephi 28:30], or in other words, many small answers over a period of time.”
I had heard the phrase “line upon line, precept upon precept” many times. But in the past, I had interpreted it to mean that God gives us part of an answer here or there until we finally obtain the answer we need. The idea of Him giving me many small answers was different because to me it meant that when I had a positive feeling or impression, I wasn’t just getting a piece of knowledge—each answer was complete in and of itself. They were just small, subtle answers rather than one large, obvious one.
Those small answers came in a number of ways: a feeling of peace after a special fast, a moment of contentment with my boyfriend in the temple, or some needed advice from a friend or family member at just the right time. In isolation, these experiences might not look like much. But together, they became proof of revelation—a big answer that had formed over a period of time.
Even though my many small answers amounted to one big answer, my fear of change remained. This was confusing. I had thought that revelation would erase my fears. So why were they still there?
This story reminds me of my own experience in seeking revelation about marriage. It wasn’t quick or easy. My fears and trials didn’t just disappear because I had an answer. But revelation gave me the strength and courage to move forward in spite of my worries because I knew that the Lord would light our way. And with His help and continued guidance, I could trust that He would lead us safely to shore.
If there were one thing I could tell my past self, it would be not to stress so much about the process of revelation. Yes, marriage is a big decision, and it’s important to seek God’s guidance when choosing whom to marry. But it doesn’t have to be overly complicated.
Elder Bednar taught: “If you are honoring your covenants, repenting, and pressing forward with faith in the Savior, then you are living in revelation. It does not just come once in a while. You continually are being influenced by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
So I would tell my past self to keep looking for that influence. Because gradually, as you press forward with faith, it will become clear how the Lord is guiding you—one small answer at a time.
Editors’ note: As of summer 2025, the author and her boyfriend were working toward marriage.

We make things for each other too. Mommy made me a brand-new dress, and I made her a birthday card. I colored a picture with my crayons, and Mommy taped it on the wall. When Grandma came over, she saw it and said, “What a lovely picture!”

“I wondered how this new program would bring sisters together if we met in smaller groups, but I was willing to try it,” writes Richelle Pearce of the Shadowbrook Ward, Kaysville Utah South Stake. “I make bread a couple of times a week, so after making the proper arrangements, the Relief Society leaders invited anyone who was interested to come to my home for an activity.
“The next Thursday five sisters showed up at my door. They were from all different stages of life: one new mother, one working mom, one senior sister, and two with large families like mine. What happened over the next two hours was a testimony to me of the inspiration of this program. The sisters not only learned how to grind wheat and make bread, but they also talked, laughed, shared ideas, and really connected. By the time they left with their bread and wheat flour, I knew this program could bring sisters together in a wonderful way.”

I received my blessing at 13 years old because I was struggling with some big challenges and I wanted to better connect with Heavenly Father.
And while it did bring me the connection to Him and peace I needed at that time of life, it also continues to do so today.
I have read these sacred words more times than I can count. Strangely, although the words have never changed, they have comforted and inspired my soul in different ways. Without fail, this blessing from heaven seems to say exactly what I need to hear at any moment in time.

The Liahona magazine helps me become a better person. Every time I read the articles, I feel the love of God and am reminded of the covenant I’ve made with God. The Latter-day Saint Voices section helps me realize that all of us must be tried and tested. I am learning how to be patient in all things. I feel stronger, and I am working on enduring to the end.Christine Torres Lagunbay, Philippines

A faithful couple accepts Heavenly Father’s will when their baby dies.

Nearly one year ago, our daughter Alisa died. She had struggled with cancer for almost eight years, with several surgeries, many different treatments, exciting miracles, and deep disappointments. We watched her physical condition deteriorate as she came to the close of her mortal life. It was excruciating to see that happen to our precious daughter—that bright-eyed little baby who had grown up to be a talented, wonderful woman, wife, and mother. I thought my heart would break.
Last year at Easter time, a little over a month before she passed away, Alisa wrote: “Easter is a reminder of all that I hope for myself. That someday I will be healed and someday I will be whole. Someday I won’t have any metal or plastic inside of me. Someday my heart will be free of fear and my mind free of anxieties. I am not praying that this happens soon, but I am so glad I truly believe in a beautiful afterlife.”1
Each of us has physical, mental, and emotional limitations and weaknesses. These challenges, some of which seem so intractable now, will eventually be resolved. None of these problems will plague us after we are resurrected. Alisa researched survival rates for persons with the type of cancer she had, and the numbers were not encouraging. She wrote: “But there is a cure, so I’m not scared. Jesus has already cured my cancer, and yours. … I will be better. I’m glad I know this.”10
I long to see my mother again and feel her gentle touch and look into her loving eyes. I want to see my father’s smile and hear his laugh and see him as a resurrected, perfect being. With an eye of faith, I picture Alisa completely beyond the reach of any earthly troubles or any sting of death—a resurrected, perfected Alisa, victorious and with a fulness of joy.
A few Easters ago, she wrote simply: “Life through His name. So much hope. Always. Through everything. I love Easter to remind me.”23