Gospel Story Finder

As soon as sacrament meeting ended, I headed straight for my Sunday School class. I couldn’t wait to see the guys.
Matt, Tom, Brendan, and I had been friends since before I could remember. We liked the same sports teams, music, clothes, and food. That was why our Sunday School class was so fun. We stuck together—we always had.
As we settled into our seats, our teachers, Brother and Sister Weston, came in. Before he sat down, Brother Weston asked, “Did you boys know someone is missing from our class?”
“No way,” I said. “We’re all here!”
“It’s great that you four always come to Sunday School,” Sister Weston said. “But there is one boy on our class roll who hasn’t ever come. His dad told me he’s coming next week. We’d like your help welcoming him.”
“Great! What’s his name?” Matt asked.
“Do any of you know a boy named Ronny Saunders?”
“That kid is bad news,” Tom said. “I’ve seen him around my school. He gets into fights all the time.”
The room was quiet. Ronny didn’t sound like someone who’d fit into our Sunday School class.
“Well, even if that’s true,” Sister Weston said, “he still deserves the blessings from coming to Sunday School. I want all of you to think of something you can do to welcome Ronny next week.”
Nobody said anything.
“Just think about it,” Brother Weston said. “Pray about it too.”
After church my friends and I hung around to talk about welcoming Ronny.
“We can at least be nice to him,” I said. It was hard to imagine someone else in our class. We already got along great. But maybe Ronny liked some of the same things we did.
“I don’t know,” Tom said. “I don’t think Ronny will let us be nice to him. He’ll probably just get mad—like I said, he’s bad news.”
“We should pray about it, like Brother Weston said,” Brendan suggested.
I nodded. “Good idea.”
The next week, I went to Sunday School. I’d prayed about Ronny joining our class. I knew no matter how he acted, I should be kind and welcoming. I waved at my friends, who smiled back nervously.
I’d barely sat down when Brother Weston said, “Boys, meet your new classmate.”
Ronny stood frowning in the doorway. His dark hair fell over his face. His gray pants were closed at the waist with a safety pin. The buttons on his shirt pulled apart, and his black plastic jacket was torn at the shoulder.
I braced myself. “Welcome to Sunday School,” I squeaked, hoping he wasn’t going to beat me up for it.
To my surprise, Ronny’s frown disappeared. He gave a small smile. “Thanks,” he muttered.
Tom shocked everyone by walking up to Ronny and giving him a huge bear hug. Ronny was the most surprised of all, but his smile grew even bigger.
“Hey, Ronny,” Matt said. “Sit next to me.” He offered the empty chair next to him.
Ronny didn’t seem like bad news at all. Brendan gave the opening prayer, and Brother Weston started our lesson. Our classroom felt better than ever. Ronny was going to fit right in.

Now I hadn’t had time to think of what to do to earn a living in a strange land with a strange language. On Friday morning, July 26, 1872, there came a man to the house of Mons Andersen who wanted a boy to help him in the field. His name was Peter Petersen. My wages were $8.00 a month. I worked with him 20 months. I must now tell a little that happened in that time. It was customary at that time that newcomers should be rebaptized. So Peter Petersen’s wife, Karen Larsen Petersen, told me, “There will be baptisms today. So you must hitch up the horses and take these people down to the mill pond to be baptized. And you must be baptized too.” I told her I would be glad to take them down, but I was not ready for baptism yet.
That coming winter I started to go to school so I could learn a little English. I had also gone with Mons Andersen’s boys to Sunday School. Eischa Pack was the teacher at that time. They were reading in turns out of the Bible; but when it came my turn to read, Brother Pack would read my verse, and there was not even a moment wasted. I was glad although I could not understand what they said. Yet I got to enjoying Sunday School. Sister Karen Larsen Petersen became sick and died on February 7, 1873, and that ended my schooling at that time. But I learned enough so I got into the Third Reader.
Now I had been studying the gospel and praying about it. I knew Jesus’s answer to Nicodemus as we find recorded in the third chapter of John: “Except a man is born of water and of the Spirit he cannot enter into the kingdom of Heaven.” [John 3:5] So on August 30, 1873, I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by Mons Andersen and confirmed by Abraham Lossee in Lehi.

1832–1919
“She took me in and was a mother to me.”
She and her husband joined the Church in Hawaii.
She cared for Joseph F. Smith when he was sick as a young missionary.
When Joseph F. Smith was the prophet, he promised her she would live to see the temple in Hawaii.
When the temple in Hawaii was finished,she was able to go inside and be sealed.
Joseph F. Smith, as quoted by Charles W. Nibley in Gospel Doctrine, 5th ed. (1939), 520.

When Jeff woke up on Monday morning, everything went wrong. He could not find his favorite bear, and his socks did not match. His cornflakes got mushy, and he spilled orange juice all over his shirt.
“I’m having a bad day,” Jeff told Mom.
“You need some of my ‘magic,’” Mom said, smiling. “It can change your bad day into a happy one.”
“What kind of magic?” Jeff asked.
“Close your eyes,” Mom said.
Jeff shut his eyes and waited. A second later, Mom gave him a giant hug. It felt warm and soft.
“Did it work?” Mom asked.
“It sure did!” Jeff declared.
Then Mom said, “I need some of your magic.”
Jeff smiled and gave Mom a great big hug too!

Most doctors would be stunned to see Maria Turman at the encampment. As a matter of fact, they would be surprised to see her alive and smiling at all. Just a few short weeks ago, they were sure she was dying of brain cancer.
“I could barely stand the thought of what she would have to endure through whatever time she had left,” said her mother. “So we went home and called everyone we knew and asked them to pray for her. People of every faith joined us in prayer, and her name was in many of the temples.”
People fasted for her. People prayed for her. And they supported her in other ways too—like those who stood by her in the hospital, and the friend who told her that if she had to shave off her beautiful hair, he would shave his head too and, who knows, maybe they’d start a fad.
After a grueling two weeks of treatment and testing, her doctor came to her in total shock. “There’s been a miracle,” he said. “This girl does not have brain cancer. She does have another disease, but it is not fatal.”
Through all this Maria and everyone involved developed an incredible amount of faith—faith in the power of prayer, faith in the power of the priesthood from which blessings came that said she would be restored, and faith in the power and love of Heavenly Father.
Maria adds a sparkling, pure white to the rainbow.

After listening to the missionaries, Mother and I were soon baptized. But the gospel was still very puzzling to my father, and he was not baptized. However, in the months to come, Father began to notice a change in Mother. One day he said to her, “How come you’re so kind and happy and so good to me lately?”
Mother answered, “Because I have the gospel. If you want that feeling you can have it too.” And several months after that my father was also baptized.

I felt so behind in everything. I had been having trouble with my algebra class. I wasn’t turning in my homework, and I was doing poorly on tests. I was not used to failing at anything, so I didn’t understand why I just couldn’t get the hang of math. My discouragement was affecting my attitude in my other classes as well. I was starting to become really lazy, which was a total change in me. Just the year before, I was attentive in all my classes, and I asked for help if I didn’t understand.
I finally decided I needed to do something about it, so I did something I had never done before: I sat down without any distractions and said a heartfelt prayer to my Heavenly Father. I asked Him to help me understand the work and to help me feel the Spirit as well. I then went into my brother’s old room, put on some Church music, and started to do my homework.
The easier problems went quickly, but when they got harder and harder, I was still able to answer them. I felt as if I were on a cloud. I was so relieved and overjoyed. I had never said a prayer for something and received the answer so quickly. From then on I started doing better in all of my classes.
When fast and testimony meeting came on Sunday, I felt my heart try to leap out of my chest, and my hands became clammy. I finally got the courage to share my testimony. For the first time, I said the Church was true and really meant it in my heart. I still have a lot to learn about the Church—and about math—but I will gladly take anything that comes my way. Although it took a lot of time and effort, that one class taught me a lot about prayer and helped strengthen my testimony.

But getting to Palmyra took more money and effort than Lucy had planned. When there were only two cents left she began trading material and household goods and clothing to pay for food and lodging along the way.
“I wish we’d never decided to move to Palmyra!” Sophronia cried. “We’ve had nothing but trouble all the way.”
Young Joseph thought about what his big sister had said. It was true about the trouble. It had been dogging their heels ever since they left Sharon, Vermont. But this was the last day of their journey. Palmyra was almost at hand.
Outside, the sky was overcast. The woods were breathing deeply in the wintry wind. Joseph shivered as a blast whipped his coat and trousers against his body.
When the wagon was reloaded, Joseph noticed his brothers, Alvin and Hyrum, talking to Mr. Gates whose family had been traveling in sleighs along with the Smiths.
Alvin called to Joseph, “I’ll lead out with our wagon. Mother and Sophronia and the littlest children will ride with me. Mr. Gates and his boys will follow with their sleighs. He says you can ride in the last sleigh, Joseph.”
After Joseph climbed into the sleigh, the Gates boy clucked to the team and they pulled off down the road. Joseph was too excited about seeing his father in Palmyra that night to notice the frown on the boy’s face.
Joseph was aware of how much this boy and Mr. Howard had enjoyed tormenting him throughout the trip. However, with Mr. Howard gone, Joseph had hoped the meanness would stop.
“I’m glad to be able to ride. I had an operation on my leg and it’s still a little weak,” Joseph explained.
“I heard about that,” the boy answered, scornfully. “I think you use it for an excuse.”
Joseph gazed steadily at the boy. “It’s the truth.”
The boy threw a long, hard look at his companion, then with a quick glance ahead to make sure no one could see, he knocked Joseph off the moving sleigh into the road.
When Joseph regained consciousness, he raised up on one elbow, and tried to get up, but a sharp pain knifed through his side. He eased back into the snow, red-stained with his blood. What will I do? Joseph wondered, looking up into the branches of a tall maple tree, dried and frayed as a brush broom. It swept the sky and sent a dusting of snowflakes down upon his face. He gulped back the fullness that pained his throat. No tears would drown his hopes of their promised land.
Joseph wasn’t sure how long he lay in the rutted road before help came. But when he opened his eyes again he was looking into a bearded face.
“What happened to you, boy?”
“I fell off a sleigh. Can you take me to Palmyra?”
“That’s just where I’m heading.”
“My father is there … Joseph Smith … and my family.”
“Say, I know him. I can take you right there!”
After checking Joseph over, the man carefully lifted the boy into his wagon and covered him with a quilt.
“After your ma fixes that cut and you have a chance to warm up a bit, you’ll feel good as new.”
He was right. They met Joseph’s mother and father on the road, anxiously looking for him. Then it didn’t matter that the journey had been long and painful or that they had arrived with only two cents in cash. All was forgotten in the joy of reunion with his father.

One of the most cherished relationships we developed was with the Ahmadiyya Muslim Association. Without a building of their own, they have used our meetinghouse for several events and have become close friends of our members. A highlight was a youth evening where their young people met with ours to talk about our respective beliefs, share experiences and enjoy sports and games together. The unity and joy felt that evening were so powerful that we plan to make it a regular event.

“I caught it I caught it!” I screamed.
“It’s mine,” Sam said. “I saw it first.”
The lizard’s tail poked out between my fingers, and its feet scratched at my hands. It tickled, but I held the slimy reptile tight. “I don’t care. I’m the one who caught it,” I argued.
“Okay, we’ll share it,” Sam said. He was a smart brother. He knew when he had lost, but he also knew how to keep some of the winning prize.
We colored an old lunch sack with our crayons. Sam plopped the frightened lizard inside with some grass for food. “Happy Mother’s Day!” we shouted together as we held out the sack.
Mom peeked in the bag and then quickly closed it. “Where did you ever find it?” she laughed. “It’s just what I’ve been looking for.”
I smiled at the memory. A lizard was so right at four years old. What would be right this year? I checked my watch and hurried out of the shop.
“Can I help you?” asked the clerk in the stationery store.
“No, just looking,” I mumbled. I lifted a piece of fine embossed stationery from a box. It felt smooth and cold in my hand.
“Your mother will be pleased with that,” echoed Mr. Moss, my fifth-grade teacher as he looked over my shoulder. I reread the poem one more time to make certain it was faultless before I signed my name to it.
To Mom,
For the one I love the most.
For the one that burnt the toast.
For the one that cooks so great.
For the one I clean my plate.
For the one with lips so warm.
For the one with hands so torn.
For the one with great big feet.
For the one I love to meet.
I love you. I love you. I love you so true.
I want to express it in everything I do.
I folded it carefully. “Happy Mother’s Day,” I said, proudly holding out a homemade envelope.
Mom read it slowly. “It’s beautiful.” She smiled through a mist of tears. “Thank you very much.”
“Should I wrap that up for you?” the sales clerk asked.
“No,” I said shaking my head.
“It’s not quite what I’m looking for.”
Each shop I passed revived another memory. The music shop reminded me of the year we pooled all of our money as a family and bought Mom a banjo. She loves country music and often said she would like to play the banjo. We discovered later that the painful arthritis in her hands made her desire an impossible feat.
The women’s clothes store brought back the time I gave Mom money to buy a girdle. The next day she came home very excited. “Come out and see what I got with your money,” she called. It was a Mother’s Day surprise for me when I saw a dwarf oriental tree. From that day we all called that little red tree, “Mom’s girdle tree.”
The jewelry shop recalled the memory of a very special gold watch. I purchased it for Mom with the first paycheck I had ever earned. I wanted the engraver to put on the case, “To Mom, I think you are the greatest. With all my love, Jill.” Because of the lack of space, he wrote, “To Mom, Love Jill.”
As Mom received each gift, her bright face and sweet words of gratitude made me feel absolutely confident that I had picked out the perfect present.
“The mall is now closing,” announced the voice over the loud speaker. Slowly, I walked out to the car. My hands were empty. The evening was gone, and still I had not purchased a gift for my mother.
“What is wrong with me? Why doesn’t anything seem right? What is it that Mom really wants?” I asked myself. Then suddenly I had the answers, and I knew the gift I would give to my mother this last year that I would be living at home. It didn’t have to be written down, nor did it have to be wrapped up. It wouldn’t take as much effort to get as the lizard nor cost as much money as the gold watch. But still it was the perfect gift.
This year I would give to my mother my sacred promise to always love the Lord and keep all his commandments and serve him by staying active in his Church, all the days of my life. Peace and happiness filled my soul as I pictured my mother’s joyful expression when she received this gift. In my heart I knew she would say, “It’s just what I have always wanted.”

Photograph from Getty Images
My brother left home as a 14-year-old to attend an elite math and science academy boarding school. Although he came from a big family, he felt easily lost in the crowd. He saw all his older siblings go and live their lives, some in the Church and some not. Living away from home as a teenager, he found it easy to just not go to church. He didn’t interact with a quorum or have weekly youth nights to attend. And so my family and I watched him finding his own way for a few years.
He went to a university, and serving a mission just didn’t enter his mind. I’d still try to find ways to stay in contact with him, whether it was discussing the philosophical differences in Star Wars: Episode VII vs. the Prequels or geeking out on our mutual admiration for Brandon Sanderson novels. Of all the ways we tried connecting with each other, talking about the gospel together never led to a strong bond between us.
Then one morning he texted me.
7:42 AM txt msg: “Hey man, can we talk?”
When you get a text like that early on a Sunday morning, yeah, you forget everything else that’s going on and you talk.
He told me he’d just gotten a new apartment and a new roommate. He said, “Ben, I don’t know any other way to explain this, but I got something like an impression in my heart that I needed to be both careful and helpful with this new guy … like I could be a light to him somehow, like I could somehow support him in his life. And I don’t get it. I don’t get those kinds of feelings.”
I could read between the lines of what he was telling me. Heavenly Father was talking to him. I told him that sometimes when we use things like cell phones or laptops or radios, we may get weird little signals from places we weren’t meaning to tune in to. Sometimes folks with ordinary terrestrial radios have picked up snippets of broadcasts from the International Space Station even though they weren’t trying to. Sometimes people with baby monitors can hear phone conversations in neighboring apartments.
And sometimes God will send impressions to people who aren’t used to talking to Him. Such impressions won’t always be very strong and they won’t override the agency we have. But sometimes we just may get a little pulse of a signal or a quiet whisper from Him trying to talk to us.
Photo illustrations by Leslie Nilsson
His experience reminds me of the beautiful, sublime truth: there is a God in heaven who loves us. And He can find ways to talk to us through little tiny promptings of the Spirit. And then we have the choice as to how we’re going to respond.
So that’s what I told him. “Are you going to find ways to maybe tune in a little bit more, seeing if you can get closer to His signal, shut out the noise, and hear His voice a little bit stronger? Are you going to actually act on what you feel? Or are you going to just let it wash over you and fade away?”
He said “Well, I think I know what I need to do.”
We talked for a few more minutes, and I felt a prompting. And the irony wasn’t lost on me; there I was, trying to help him have the courage to follow the Spirit, while I was simultaneously welling up my own courage to do the same.
I said a silent prayer, took a breath and big gulp and said, “You know, I think God is trying to call you back.”
And what wonderful joy as I could hear him smile over the phone as his tension melted away.
He said, “I think He is too.”
This may be the first time he realized on his own what God could really be. He felt that throughout his whole life people had talked to him about the Church, the gospel, and what he should do.
And now he could say he knew for himself. It was only small, candle-sized knowledge, but he knew that if he would take steps to get closer to the source of that signal, then he would get a stronger signal and the light would grow brighter.
There is a God who lives and knows each one of us. He’s there. And if we tune in to His signals, get out of the spiritual dead spaces, eliminate the noises, and do what we can to truly listen, He’ll speak to us in the ways we need to hear.

On the evening of October 26, 1973, two missionaries in Kanazawa, Japan, felt an unusual spirit of warmth and peace as they went from house-to-house. They walked into a small garden and rang the buzzer at the Aburantani home.
Two children, Yuka and Tadakatsu, opened the sliding door. They were surprised to see two tall young men there. Tadakatsu ran back into the dining room. “There are strangers at the door,” he cried.
His older sister, Yuka, said quietly, “I think they are Americans.”
The children’s mother went to the door. The missionaries explained they were representing The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and asked if they could tell her family about it. She talked with her husband, and the missionaries were invited to return.
Yuka and Tadakatsu were eager to help their family prepare for baptism.
The wonderful night of baptism finally arrived. Tadakatsu’s dark eyes shone with happiness as he watched his mother and father and sister. Now he is counting the days until he is old enough to be baptized too!

When I was called as a General Authority by President Russell M. Nelson, I was flooded with emotions. It was overwhelming. My wife, Julie, and I anxiously awaited the Saturday afternoon session of general conference. It was humbling to be sustained. I carefully counted the steps to my designated seat so as not to fall in my first assignment.
At the conclusion of that session, something happened that had a profound effect on me. The quorum members formed a line and greeted the new General Authorities one by one. Each one shared their love and support. With a hearty abrazo they said, “Don’t worry—you belong.”
In our relationship with the Savior, He looks on the heart and is “no respecter of persons.” Consider how He chose His Apostles. He didn’t pay attention to status or wealth. He invites us to follow Him, and I believe He reassures us that we belong with Him.
This message especially applies to the youth of the Church. I see in you what President Nelson sees in you. He said that “there is something undeniably special about this generation of youth. Your Heavenly Father must have great confidence in you to send you to earth at this time. You were born for greatness!”
I am grateful for what I learn from the youth. I am grateful for what my children teach me, for what our missionaries teach me, and for what my nieces and nephews teach me.
Not too long ago, I was working on our farm with my nephew Nash. He is six and has a pure heart. He is my favorite nephew named Nash, and I believe I am his favorite uncle speaking in conference today.
As he helped me come up with a solution for our project, I said, “Nash, that is a great idea. How did you get so smart?” He looked at me with an expression in his eyes that said, “Uncle Ryan, how do you not know the answer to this question?”
He simply shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and confidently said, “Jesus.”
Nash reminded me that day of this simple and yet profound teaching. The answer to the simplest questions and to the most complex problems is always the same. The answer is Jesus Christ. Every solution is found in Him.

I went through a time when I began to wonder if the Church was really the only true church on the earth. My friends all seemed to believe that their churches were true, and they are good people with high standards.

I set a goal to gain a testimony. I knew it would take time. I prayed, studied the scriptures, and made sure I attended all my Church meetings and activities. I really listened and asked questions, and I thought about all my parents had taught me. After I truly understood the gospel, I began to learn more about my friends’ churches. As I talked with my friends, I realized how fulfilling the gospel is in my life. As I shared with them my beliefs, I realized that I did know that the Church is true. A feeling came over me that was so great.

Don’t ever give up. A desire to gain a testimony is a sign that you are building one already. “And they did pray for that which they most desired … that the Holy Ghost should be given unto them” (3 Ne. 19:9).
Kerianna Copeland, 14Franklin, Pennsylvania

When I went to Russia as a volunteer English teacher, I knew very little Russian. But as I lived among the Russian people, I began to have the desire to serve them and share the gospel with them. So I started working harder to learn the language.
I started by reading a children’s version of the Book of Mormon in Russian. Armed with a Russian/English dictionary, I struggled through a chapter a day, looking up nearly every word. Then I taught myself to pray in Russian, feeling foolish as the foreign words stumbled off my tongue. Finally, I started learning to bear my testimony. To practice, I would write it in Russian in my journal. It didn’t take long for me to decide that it was hard to learn Russian.
Nearly three months into my stay in Ufa, Russia, another English teacher and I planned a trip to a faraway city called Saratov. We were met at the train station by a wonderful Latter-day Saint family who opened their hearts and their home to us. Our time there was soon over, and we were once again on the train, ready for the 20-hour train ride back to Ufa.
We shared our small compartment with two businessmen who made us a little nervous. They were extremely polite though, so we soon felt safe. When we had left Saratov, the family we had stayed with had explained the importance of being an example: “Don’t forget that everyone is watching you. Everyone.” They gave us a few missionary pamphlets and challenged us to give them away before we got home.
Dubiously, I eyed the two men across from us. I sighed and decided they probably wouldn’t be interested.
But when I got out my scriptures to read, the men were curious and started asking questions. We gave them the pamphlets, which they read.
Later on the trip I started writing in my journal. The men asked why I wasn’t writing in Russian, so I showed them that I often did. The pages I happened to show them contained my testimony. They asked to read it, and I willingly obliged. They also eagerly started reading the Russian copy of the Book of Mormon I gave to them. As they asked questions, I felt as if the room would burst from the Spirit that filled it. One of the men asked if I could feel in my heart “the fire” that was in his and asked if I knew what it was. In my broken Russian I explained it was the Holy Ghost.
I had him read 3 Nephi 11. As we read of the Savior’s ministry among the people on the American continent, tears came to his eyes. He stopped reading and quietly asked, “Does Jesus Christ love me like He loved those people?”
With tears in my eyes I answered, “Yes, He knows you, and He loves you. That is why He wants you to know the truth about His gospel.” He looked at me for another moment and then dropped his eyes to read further. When we arrived in Ufa, we gave him the missionaries’ phone number.
It took a special 20-hour train ride to teach me that I don’t need to be on a full-time mission to serve the Lord and share the gospel. I don’t know if the little seeds that were planted that night have grown. But I do know that miracles occurred. I was converted, even if those men were not.

“No one ever believes it will happen to them, and neither did we,” says Kim Dohm, 17. Hurricane warnings come so often here they seem routine. “We evacuated, but we didn’t think much about what we took with us, because we expected to be back in a few days. We thought it was just another false alarm.” It wasn’t. The storm smashed through Kim’s hometown of Slidell, Louisiana. Winds tore roofs from buildings and snapped trees like toothpicks. Rapidly rising water flooded major portions of the city.

“The damage seemed so random,” Kim says. “In the same neighborhood some houses were torn apart, while others were mostly undamaged. The main thing I learned was to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. If you have to evacuate, leave early and plan to be gone for a while.” Her family had to stay away not just for days, but for weeks.

“Turn on your lights”—Sister Sharon Eubank’s message for October 2017—was the theme of our stake Relief Society activity for this year 2018.
The purpose was to unite sisters, increase their self-­worth, and enlighten their minds toward ministering and temple preparation.
All were excited. The preparations from the stake activity committee began. They started planning, organizing, and assigning sisters for the activity.
We were five wards and one branch, which was a big number to coordinate. Each ward’s sisters were assigned with a topic to present on the day of activity with a skit or presentation.
And these were the topics covered:
Being righteous
Being articulate/different/distinct
Being happy
Preparing for the temple
Being self-reliant
Ministering/the worth of souls
Each ward started preparing for their presentation on the activity day. The long wait came to an end.
?It was a beautiful morning. When the activity began, there were not as many sisters as was expected. However, they began with an opening hymn and prayer. And slowly more sisters started coming in. There was a message from the stake Relief Society president. She displayed different kinds of lights and explained about each light, comparing it with the qualities of the sisters. It was a beautiful message.
Then the actual part of the sisters came. It was time for them to showcase or present their topics.
Each group of sisters came forward and presented their topics in the form of skits. Every one of them had put in a lot of effort to convey the message in a spiritual way and with a little bit of humor.
We all laughed and enjoyed ourselves, but in the end of each presentation, we were touched by the Spirit for the messages they carried about how to be happy always, how to be articulate and different, how to be self-reliant, and how to prepare for the temple.
It was amazing to see how the sisters joined hands together, both young and old, in acting it out. Lastly it was concluded by the testimonies of a few sisters who strengthened ours for their commitment to the gospel.

I am so grateful for the ongoing building of temples in this “dispensation of the fulness of times” (Doctrine and Covenants 128:18). Since the early days of the Restoration, faithful Saints have made many sacrifices to receive temple ordinances and covenants. Following their great example, in 1975, after many economic sacrifices to travel from Mexico City, my dear wife, Evelia, and I, being accompanied by our dear parents, were sealed as an eternal husband and wife in the Mesa Arizona Temple. That day, as we were united by the authority of the priesthood in the house of the Lord, we truly experienced a glimpse of heaven.

Over time we brought in more friends, including Cameron, a member of the Church from California who joined the group a few months after we started. Cameron and Josh clicked immediately, which accelerated Josh’s interest in the Church. By summer, there was no question he would join the Church. That only strengthened our dedication to meet week after week, as we understood intuitively what Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles would say in general conference less than a year later: “By sharing our positive experiences in the gospel with others, we take part in fulfilling the Savior’s great commission [to ‘teach all nations’ (Matthew 28:19)].”2
By July, Josh had set a baptism date, so Cameron flew across the country to Massachusetts to baptize a man he had only previously met on Zoom. It was also wonderful to see Eddie and Jack show up to witness the ordinance. “Of course I’m coming,” Jack had said earlier in the week when I asked him if he planned to go. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Jack, a college kid with lots of other things on his mind in the waning days of summer, left home in southern Connecticut by 7:00 a.m. to support his new friend in an adventure neither of them could have described a year earlier.
Eighteen months after his baptism, Josh—now Elder Keaton—is proudly serving a mission in Sacramento, California.

I share with you tonight two experiences from my life—one which took place when I was a boy and the other pertaining to a friend of mine who was a husband and father of children.

Not long after my ordination as a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, I was called to serve as president of the quorum. Our adviser, Harold, was interested in us, and we knew it. One day he said to me, "Tom, you enjoy raising pigeons, don’t you?"

I responded with a warm, "Yes."

Then he proffered, "How would you like me to give you a pair of purebred Birmingham Roller pigeons?"

This time I answered, "Yes, Sir!" You see, the pigeons I had were just the common variety, trapped on the roof of the Grant Elementary School.

He invited me to come to his home the next evening. The following day was one of the longest in my young life. I was awaiting my adviser’s return from work an hour before he arrived home. He took me to his pigeon loft, which was in the upper area of a small barn located at the rear of his yard. As I looked at the most beautiful pigeons I had yet seen, he said, "Select any male, and I will give you a female which is different from any other pigeon in the world." I made my selection. He then placed in my hand a tiny hen pigeon. I asked what made her so different. He responded, "Look carefully, and you’ll notice that she has but one eye." Sure enough, one eye was missing, a cat having done the damage. "Take them home to your loft," he counseled. "Keep them in for about 10 days, and then turn them out to see if they will remain at your place."

I followed Harold’s instructions. Upon his release, the male pigeon strutted about the roof of the loft, then returned inside to eat. But the one-eyed female was gone in an instant. I called Harold and asked, "Did that one-eyed pigeon return to your loft?"

"Come on over," he said, "and we’ll have a look."

As we walked from his kitchen door to the loft, my adviser commented, "Tom, you are the president of the teachers quorum." This, of course, I already knew. Then he added, "What are you going to do to activate Bob, who is a member of your quorum?"

I answered, "I’ll have him at quorum meeting this week."

Then he reached up to a special nest and handed me the one-eyed pigeon. "Keep her in a few more days and try again." This I did, and once more she disappeared. Again the experience: "Come on over, and we’ll see if she returned home." Came the comment as we walked to the loft: "Congratulations on getting Bob to priesthood meeting. Now what are you and Bob going to do to activate Bill?"

"We’ll have him there next week," I volunteered.

This experience was repeated over and over again. I was a grown man before I fully realized that indeed Harold, my adviser, had given me a special pigeon, the only pigeon in his loft he knew would return every time she was released. It was his inspired way of having an ideal personal priesthood interview with the president of the teachers quorum every two weeks. I owe a lot to that one-eyed pigeon. I owe more to that quorum adviser. He had the patience and the skill to help me prepare for responsibilities which lay ahead.